CHAPTER XVII
PART OF THE TRUTH
For a moment the lovers stared at one another in the luminous twilight. The meeting was so strange, the place where it took place so significant of the trouble that had parted them, that both were overcome with emotion. Anne was as white as the marble tombstone, and looked at him with appealing eyes that beseeched him to go away. But having found her Giles was determined not to lose her again, and was the first to find his tongue.
"Anne!" said he, and stepped towards her with open arms.
His voice broke the spell which held her chained to the ill-omened spot, and she turned to fly, only to find herself on his breast and his dear voice sounding entreatingly in her ears.
"Anne," he said in a hoarse whisper, "you will not leave me now?"
After a brief struggle she surrendered herself. There was no danger of any one coming to the churchyard at this hour, and since they had met so unexpectedly, she—like the tender, sweet woman she was—snatched at the blissful moment. "Giles," she murmured, and it was the first time he had heard her lips frame his name. "Giles!"
Again there was a silence between them, but one of pure joy and transcendental happiness. Come what might, nothing could banish the memory of that moment. They were heart to heart and each knew that the other loved. There was no need of words. Giles felt that here was the one woman for him; and Anne nestled in those beloved arms like a wild bird sheltering from storm.
But the storm which buffeted her wings would tear her from this refuge. The passionate delight of that second of Eden passed like a shadow on the sun dial. From heaven they dropped to earth, and parted once more by a hand-breath, stared with haggard looks at one another. The revulsion was so great that Anne could have wept; but her sorrow was so deep that her eyes were dry. For the gift of the world she could not have wept at that hour.