“The doctor,” said Moore, maintaining his gravity, “had just read us his latest tract.”
“I regret we missed it.” She turned to Gordon. “We will not linger. Good night, gentlemen. No,”—as Gordon protested—“our carriage and escort are waiting.”
“My dear Lady Melbourne,” interposed Sheridan, “the entire chapter shall escort you. As abbot, I claim my right,”—and he offered her his arm. Gordon followed with her niece.
Annabel’s hand fluttered on his sleeve. “We heard your toast,” she said. “I did not dream it of you.”
On the threshold a tide of rich light met them. The moon had risen and was lifting above the moor beyond a belt of distant beechwood, bathing the golden flanks of the hills, flooding the long lake with soft yellow luster and turning the gray ruins of the priory to dull silver. Lady Melbourne led the way out on to the mole of the drained moat with a cry of delight: “What a perfect lilac night! It is like Venice. All it lacks is a gondola and music.”
Gordon and Annabel had lingered at the turn of the parapet. He put out his hand and touched the letter she held with his forefinger. “You have not opened it.”
“No. Your footman met us coming in the lodge gate.”
“Read it.”
She looked at him a moment hesitatingly. For a long time she had not been ignorant of her interest in George Gordon. She admired him also, as every woman admires talent and achievement, and the excess of worship which the world gave him fed her pride in the special measure of his regard. She saw something new in his look to-night—something more genuine, yet illusive.
“Read it,” he repeated.