She told Gabriel Stanton, she must have convinced Peter Kennedy and herself, that she never knew the danger she ran until it was too late. But the papers she left disproved the tale.
CHAPTER IX
The early letters have already been transcribed. Also the description of when and how I first saw Margaret and Gabriel Stanton together, on the beach when she told him that his coming had been a disappointment.
Recalling the swift and painful writing of the story it would seem I saw them again two days later, and that she was occupied in making amends. They had talked and grown in intimacy, and now it was Sunday evening. They were in the music room at Carbies, and she had been playing to him while he sat spellbound, listening to and adoring her. She was in that grey silk dress with the white muslin fichu finished with a pink rose, her pale hair was parted in the middle and she wore her Saint Cecilia expression. She left off playing presently, came over to him with swift grace and sank on the footstool at his feet.
“What are you thinking about? You are not vexed with me still?”
“Was I ever vexed with you?”
“Yesterday afternoon, when I said I was disappointed in you.”
“Not vexed, surely not vexed, only infinitely grieved, startled.”
“Have you enjoyed your visit, notwithstanding that strange slow beginning? Tell me, have you been happy?”
“Have you?”