They walked on without speaking, a strange mysterious consciousness that each was in the other's thoughts standing in place of converse between them. At length, stopping suddenly in front of a little rocky cavern, over which aquatic plants were drooped, she said, “Do you remember calling that 'Calypso's grotto'? It bears no other name still.”
“I remember more,” said he; and then stopped in some confusion.
“Some girlish folly of mine, perhaps,” broke she in hurriedly; “but once for all, let me ask forgiveness for many a thoughtless word, many a childish wrong. You, who know all tempers and moods of men as few know them, can well make allowances for natures spoiled as ours were,—pampered and flattered by those about us, living in a little world of our own here. And yet, do not think me silly when I own that I would it were all back again. The childish wrong. You, who know all tempers and moods of men as few know them, can well make allowances for natures spoiled as ours were—pampered and nattered by those about us, living in a little world of our own here. And yet, do not think me silly when I own that I would it were all back again. The childhood and the lessons, ay, the dreary Telemachus, that gave me many a headache, and the tiresome hours at the piano, and the rest of it.” She glanced a covert glance at Dunn, and saw that his features were a shade darker and gloomier than before. “Mind,” said she, quickly, “I don't ask you to join in this wish. You have lived to achieve great successes—to be courted, and sought after, and caressed. I don't expect you to care to live over again hours which perhaps you look back to with a sort of horror.”
“I dare not well tell you how I look back to them,” said he, in a half-irresolute manner.
Had there been any to mark it, he would have seen that her cheek flushed and her dark eyes grew darker as he spoke these words. She was far too skilful a tactician to disturb, even by a syllable, the thoughts she knew his words indicated; and again they sauntered along in silence, till they found themselves standing on the shore of the sea.
“How is it that the sea, like the sky, seems ever to inspire the wish that says, 'What lies beyond that?'” said Dunn, dreamily.
“It comes of that longing, perhaps, for some imaginary existence out of the life of daily care and struggle—”
“I believe so,” said he, interrupting. “One is so apt to forget that another horizon is sure to rise to view,—another bourne to be passed!” Then suddenly, as if with a rapid change of thought, he said, “What a charming spot this is to pass one's days in,—so calm, so peaceful, so undisturbed!”
“I love it!” said she, in a low, murmuring voice, as though speaking to herself.
“And I could love it too,” said he, ardently, “if fortune would but leave me to a life of repose and quiet.”