His mind, held all day to his work, now flew to her—memories of her face with the down-bent lids as he had asked her, and the look in her eyes as they met his. Brave beautiful eyes with her soul in them. It had been no light acceptance for her, it meant the surrendering of her whole being, her life given over to him. He heard her voice again, and his face sank into his hands, his heart trembling in the passion of its dedication to her service. Anne, whom he had coveted and yearned for and thought so far beyond his reach—his! He would be worthy of her, and he would take such care of her, gird her round with his two arms, a buckler against every ill that life might bring. She’d had such a hard time of it, struggling up by herself with Joe hung round her neck like a millstone.
At the memory of Joe he came to earth with a jarring impact. He dropped his hands and stared at the papers, his brows bent in harassed thought. Joe had broken the charm, obstructed the way to the paradise of dreams like the angel with the flaming sword—though angel was not exactly the word. Bassett had heard something that morning from Sybil which must be looked into—something he could hardly believe. But Joe being what he was you never could tell. It had been a mistake to bring him, with Sybil a bunch of nerves and Stokes shunted unexpectedly into their midst. And now he felt responsible, he’d have it out with Joe before he left. One more disagreeable scene before they separated to-morrow, and Bassett, like Mrs. Cornell, felt he’d thank Providence when they were all on the train in the morning. Meantime he’d go over his papers while he waited for the boy who had gone to his room to dress. The door was open and he could hear him as he came down the stairs.
Anne was approaching the house, a slender crimson figure, her hair in the sunset light shining like black lacquer. She was smiling to herself—everything was so beautiful, not only Gull Island and this hour of tranquil glory, but the mere fact of existing. Then she saw Flora Stokes sitting on the balcony and realized that in this golden world there were people to whom life was a dark and troublous affair. She wanted to comfort Flora, let some of the happiness in her own heart spill over into that burdened one. But she knew no way of doing it, could only smile at the haggard face the woman lifted from her book.
“Oh, Mrs. Stokes, reading,” she cried as she ran up the steps. “How can you read on such an evening as this?”
Flora Stokes said she had been walking about till she was tired, and then glanced at the distant rock:
“You’ve left Sybil out there.”
There was no comfort or consolation that could penetrate Mrs. Stokes’ obsession. Anne could only reassure:
“She’s coming in soon. She just wanted to see the end of the sunset.”
She passed into the hall, sorry—oh, so sorry! But the library door was open and she halted, poised birdlike for one glance. The man at the desk had his back to her and she said nothing, yet he turned, gave a smothered sound and jumped up. She shut her eyes as she felt his arms go about her and his kisses on her hair, her senses blurred in a strange ineffably sweet confusion of timidity and delight.
“Oh, Anne,” she heard his voice between the kisses. “I was waiting for you.”