It was almost dark when Gil Carr, who had seen the founder go, strolled slowly down towards the Pool-house. He was heartsick and weary, and the soft, balmy, night-air seemed filled with depressing influences. Another disappointment and another, and hope more distant still.
The night mists were rising, and he smiled sadly as he glanced at the dark and dewy banks, and thought of the long-ago, when, with a love of the hidden and secret, he and Mace had held stolen meetings, till she chided him and bade him come no more.
“Hah, but they were happy days,” he sighed, as he walked on and on till he stood beside the wide-spreading Pool, and thought of his narrow escape from death therein. Then a few steps further, and he was by the rushing outlet where the water dashed under the little bridge and onward to the dripping wheel.
“Where are Sir Mark and his fair wife now?” he muttered, as with a faint smile he thought of the knight’s plunge in the rushing stream, and his own to fish him out.
Again a few steps and he was across the bridge, leaning on the garden gate, and gazing sadly at the new casement that had replaced the old.
Yes, it was well done, and he thought of his many meetings, of his waiting that night to carry his love away; then of the fight, the explosion, and his scorching ordeal as he clambered in and bore out her whom he believed to be poor Mace.
Sad thoughts—sweet thoughts—thoughts that almost unmanned him, so that when the moon rose, and he gazed still at the casement, he believed he was deceived, and that it was not Mace there, but some trick of the imagination.
There was the figure at the open window, and he was about to speak, but he checked himself, and stole away.
Hastily recrossing the bridge, he hurried along the lane, stooping gently here and there, and returning in a few minutes to bend over the tall bank facing the broad casement of the Pool-house.
In a moment after, diamond-wise, there shone forth from the dark grass four glowworms’ lamps, the old love-signal of the past, and with beating heart—he knew not why—Gil retraced his steps, crossed the bridge, entered the garden, and, with his hands trembling, made his way towards where he could dimly make out the pale, sweet face in the halo of silver hair.