And to-day, when Gabrielle was graciously excused by Sylvia, he determined to stay at home, too. Of course this might mean that Aunt Flora would also stay, David reflected, to walk up and down above the sea, leaning upon his arm in her new feebleness and sadness.
But for once Aunt Flora made no sign of abandoning the trip, and although Sylvia looked at him steadily, she also offered no objections. David could hardly believe that he was actually free, after these crowded weeks, to walk after Gabrielle through the garden, with no prospect of an immediate interruption.
His heart beat with a quite disproportionate emotion. If any one had told David Fleming a few weeks ago that the chance to follow his lonely little cousin down to the shore and to have a few minutes of talk alone with her would have made his temples hammer and his breath come quick with sheer emotion, he might have laughed.
But he was shaking to-day, and there was a drumming in his ears. Since Sylvia’s return he had had no such opportunity for a talk. Gabrielle was down in a favourite cranny of the great rocks; the blue tides swelling at her feet. David saw her black hat first, flung down on the strip of beach, then the slender white-shod feet, braced against a boulder, and then the white figure, with the tawny head bent over a book.
It was shady here, for this particular group of gray water-worn stones faced east, and the cliff was at her back. But there was a soft shimmer of light even in the shadow, and across the rocks above and behind her head the reflected sunshine on the sea ran in little unceasing ripples of brightness. She started as David came across the strand, and put her hand to her heart with a quite simple gesture of surprise.
“David, I thought you went with Sylvia!”
“Too hot,” he answered, briefly, flinging himself down at her feet and falling into contemplation of a weed-fringed pool that was patiently awaiting the tide. The water brimmed it, and grasses opened and moved mysteriously, showing exquisite colours as they spread. The ebb emptied it again, and the ribbons of grass lay lifeless against the wet and twinkling mosaic of life that coated the rocks. A steamer going by like a toy boat on the blue water ten miles away sent out a mild little plume of sound.
“‘Mia sorella ha una casa,’” David stated, with a careless glance at the book. “I had three Italian lessons once, and I know that!”
Gabrielle laughed, a little fluttered laugh, and extended to him a white hand and a stout volume, held title out.
“‘Anna Karenina,’” David read aloud, with a reproachful look. “Oh, you Gay deceiver!”