They talked a little while in whispers, her hands in his, his voice soothing her, his low, hurried words giving her no time to think. But presently she shivered again, though her heart was throbbing hotly.
“Come into the summer-house, Guida; you are cold, you are shivering.” He rose, with his arm round her waist, raising her gently at the same time.
“Oh no, Philip dear,” she said, “I’m not really cold—I don’t know what it is—”
“But indeed you are cold,” he answered. “There’s a stiff south-easter rising, and your hands are like ice. Come into the arbour for a minute. It’s warm there, and then—then we’ll say good-bye, sweetheart.”
His arm round her, he drew her with him to the summer-house, talking to her tenderly all the time. There was reassurance, comfort, loving care in his very tones.
How brightly the stars shone, how clearly the music of the stream came over the hedge! With what lazy restfulness the distant All’s well floated across the mielles from a ship at anchor in the tide-way, how like a slumber-song the wash of the sea rolled drowsily along the wind! How gracious the smell of the earth, drinking up the dew of the affluent air, which the sun, on the morrow, should turn into life-blood for the grass and trees and flowers!
CHAPTER XVII
Philip was gone. Before breakfast was set upon the table, Guida saw the Narcissus sail round Noirmont Point and disappear.
Her face had taken on a new expression since yesterday. An old touch of dreaminess, of vague anticipation was gone—that look which belongs to youth, which feels the confident charm of the unknown future. Life was revealed; but, together with joy, wonder and pain informed the revelation.