Olive laughed almost nervously. She had been in a state of suspense all the day. She had expected him soon after breakfast, and she wondered, with many fears in her heart, why he had not come. If she had known all that had been in Leicester's mind that day, she would have feared still more. More than once she had felt angry. To say the least, it was strange that after she had promised to be his wife in the evening, he should fail to come to her in the morning, and she realised more than ever that strange dread of her promised husband. Besides, the thought of Leicester had come back to her again. She remembered how, after they were engaged, he spent every moment he could tear himself away from his affairs at her side. This man, on the other hand, had spent the whole day away from her, while only a narrow valley lay between them. All sorts of strange questions haunted her, and especially was she anxious when her father asked her why he had not come according to his promise. Every hour of the day she had expected him, and when, after the storm had passed, John Castlemaine drove away to dine at a neighbouring house, a feeling of utter loneliness fell upon her.
But he had come now, and she hurried towards him. When she entered the room, she saw him only dimly. He was standing in a part of the room where dark shadows fell. She went towards him timidly, her heart beating wildly. She no longer thought of Leicester now; this man filled the whole horizon of her life. When she was within a few feet of him, she stopped. Her heart became as heavy as lead. Why did he not come to meet her? Why did he stand there in the shadow, without moving a step towards her, after he had been away all the day?
"You are come at last," she said.
"Yes. Will you come and sit by me?"
Almost fearfully she did as she was bidden. The sofa on which they sat was so much in the darkness that she could not see his face plainly; only the dim outline of his form was visible. He acted in a most unlover-like fashion. He did not even offer to take her hand. She almost feared to sit by his side.
"Aren't you—you very late?" she stammered. "Is anything the matter?" She hardly knew what she was saying, and the silence had become oppressive.
"Yes," he replied, "something is the matter."
"You—you are not ill, are you?"
"I don't know—oh, no, certainly not—not in the way you think."
"Why did you not come earlier—this morning, as you promised?" she asked. It was not a bit what she meant to say, but she had lost control over herself.