“Yes,” she echoed simply, “we will go in search of it. But first of all we must find someone to light our torch.”
He shook the reins a little impatiently, but they were not yet at the top of the hill, and the pony crawled on, undisturbed.
“Dear Pauline,” he said, “sometimes lately I fancied that you have seemed a little morbid. I have lived longer than you. I have lived long enough to be sure of one thing.”
“And that is?” she asked.
“That all real happiness,” he said, “even the everyday forms of content, is to be found amongst the simple truths of life. Love is the greatest of them. Look at me, Pauline. Don’t you think that even though we live our lives apart, don’t you think that to me the world is a different place when you are near?”
She looked into his face a little wistfully. Then she let her hand rest on his.
“You are so steadfast,” she said—“so strong, and so certain of yourself. Forgive me if I seem a little restless. One loses one’s balance sometimes, thinking and thinking and wondering.”
They were at the top of the hill, and the pony paused. Rochester stepped out.
“Come,” he said, “I will take you for a little walk. We will leave Peter here.”
He unlocked a gate with a key which he took from his pocket, and hand in hand they ascended a steep path which led between a grove of pine trees. Out once more into the open, they crossed a patch of green turf and came to another gate, set in a stone wall. This also Rochester opened. A few more yards, and they climbed up to the masses of tumbled rock which lay about on the summit of the hill.