CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH.
IN SCOTLAND.
“An empty sky and a world of heather.”
Such was the scene that met Monica’s eye as she stepped out into the clear morning sunshine, and gazed out over the wide expanse of moorland that lay in a kind of purple glory all around her.
Randolph’s shooting-box was situated in a very lonely, yet wonderfully picturesque spot. It seemed as if it had just been dropped down upon its little craggy eminence amid this rolling sea of billowy heather, and had anchored itself there without more ado. There was no attempt at park or garden, or enclosed ground of any kind. The moor itself was park and garden in one, and the heather and gorse grew right up to the wide terrace walk upon which the south windows of the little house opened. A plantation of pine and fir behind gave protection from the winter winds, and shade from the summer sun; but save for this little wood—an oasis in a blooming desert—the moor stretched away in its wild freedom on every hand, the white road alone, glimpses of which could be seen here and there, seeming to connect it with the great world beyond.
Trevlyn was lonely and isolated enough, but it almost seemed to Monica, as she gazed over the sunny moorland that glorious summer morning, as if she had never been so utterly remote from the abode of man as she was to-day.
There was a step behind her, and a hand was laid upon her shoulder.
“Well, Monica?”
She turned to him with lips that quivered as they smiled.