What consolation that a million such telegrams had been read and sorrowed over these last two years! What comfort that the sun was daily blotted dim for hundreds of bright eyes; the joy of life poured out and sopped up by the sands of desolation!
“How long have we got, Cyril?”
“I've engaged a car from the Inn, so I needn't leave till midnight. I've packed already, to have more time.”
“Let's have it to ourselves, then. Let's go off somewhere. I've got some chocolate.”
Morland answered miserably:
“I can send the car up here for my things, and have it pick me up at the Inn, if you'll say goodbye to them for me, afterwards. We'll walk down the line, then we shan't meet anyone.”
And in the bright sunlight they walked hand in hand on each side of a shining rail. About six they reached the Abbey.
“Let's get a boat,” said Noel. “We can come back here when it's moonlight. I know a way of getting in, after the gate's shut.”
They hired a boat, rowed over to the far bank, and sat on the stern seat, side by side under the trees where the water was stained deep green by the high woods. If they talked, it was but a word of love now and then, or to draw each other's attention to a fish, a bird, a dragon-fly. What use making plans—for lovers the chief theme? Longing paralysed their brains. They could do nothing but press close to each other, their hands enlaced, their lips meeting now and then. On Noel's face was a strange fixed stillness, as if she were waiting—expecting! They ate their chocolates. The sun set, dew began to fall; the river changed, and grew whiter; the sky paled to the colour of an amethyst; shadows lengthened, dissolved slowly. It was past nine already; a water-rat came out, a white owl flew over the river, towards the Abbey. The moon had come up, but shed no light as yet. They saw no beauty in all this—too young, too passionate, too unhappy.
Noel said: “When she's over those trees, Cyril, let's go. It'll be half dark.”