Frida obeyed. She left the drawing-room, crossed the terrace, and descended into the garden. Slowly she walked through the beautiful park-like grounds, which stretched down to the shore, and on which the whole skill of the landscape gardener had been spent; but the spot she sought, lay in the most distant part of the garden. It was a simple bench, shaded by two mighty trees; it afforded an unlimited view over the sea, and from the first day, had become the favourite retreat of the young stranger. The fresh sea wind cooled Frida's heated cheeks, and swept the traces of tears from her face, but the shade on her brow defied all its efforts. This shade grew only darker and deeper, while she, lost in distant dreams, watched the play of the waves which broke upon the beach.
The garden was not so deserted as it seemed, for at no great distance voices might be heard. Just by the iron railing which enclosed the domain of the villa, stood Sandow with the gardener, and inspected the addition, which in the last few days, had been made to the grounds.
The gardener directed, with ill-concealed pride, his attention to the work, which was really planned and carried out with great taste and skill, but the master of the house did not display much interest in it. He cast a careless glance over it, with a few cool words expressed his satisfaction, and went again on his way towards the house. Thus he passed the bench where Frida sat.
"Is that you, Miss Palm? You have chosen the most retired spot in the whole garden for your retreat."
"But also the most beautiful! The view of the sea is so magnificent?"
"That is a matter of taste," said Sandow. "For me that eternal rolling up and down has a deadly monotony. I could not long endure it."
He said this in passing, and was on the point of leaving her. She would probably have left his remark unanswered, and the conversation would have ended there, but Gustave's warning bore fruit. She did not preserve that shy silence as usual, but replied in a tone of which the deep emotion forced a recognition.
"I love the sea so dearly--and--even if you ridicule me, Mr. Sandow,--I cannot forget that my home lies there, beyond those waves."
Sandow did not appear disposed for ridicule. He stood still, his eyes followed involuntarily the direction she pointed out, and then rested earnestly and musingly on Frida's face, as if he sought something there.
It was a misty and rather gloomy afternoon. The clouds hung heavy with rain over the scene, and the usually unbounded view over the sunny blue waves, was to-day, confined and veiled. One could scarcely see a hundred steps away; farther out lay thick fog on the sea, and the restlessly moving flood enlightened by no ray of sunshine, showed a dark grey tint, which gave it an almost oppressive air of gloom.