But the moth would go to the candle, and while avoiding Chilcote he often rode over to the Grange, where, however, he never had yet an opportunity of seeing Alison quite alone, for, if no one else was present, she had always little Netty Trelawney hovering about her or hanging on to her skirts.
When he did fail, as sometimes happened, to see Alison, he was almost glad and yet sorry, for her pale and thoughtful face haunted him and filled his heart with a great longing to comfort her, for somehow he thought she wanted comfort, and to tell her of his love, though the matter should end there, and she tell him to go—go—and never address her again, as he too surely feared that the story of his love was one she dared not, must not, listen to.
One day—he never forgot it—he was leaving the Grange, walking slowly, with the bridle of his horse over his arm, when he came suddenly upon her of whom his thoughts were full, about to enter the gate from the roadway.
'Alison!'
The name, all softly uttered, and with infinite tenderness, seemed to escape him unconsciously as he lifted his hat.
'Captain Goring,' said Alison, looking up, her pleasure blending with alarm in her face, 'you must not call me thus. What would people think?'
'Pardon me,' said he, as he took her hand, while colouring nearly as deep as herself. To resist improving the unexpected opportunity, however, was impossible, so after a little pause, he said—
'It seems an age since I saw you last.'
'Don't exaggerate, Captain Goring. We met at Laura's only four days ago.'
'Four centuries they have seemed to me. I suppose you walk often in these beautiful woods of Chilcote?'