CHAPTER XXXII
SUNLIGHT AND HAPPINESS
Sleep, they say, brings counsel. Most certainly it brought counsel to Trix, and really such simple counsel she marvelled that she had not thought of it before.
After all, the question as to whether she should or should not disclose Antony Gray’s identity to Pia, and thereby run the risk either of untruth or of breaking a promise, was purely a question of conscience. Now, in a question of conscience, if you cannot decide for yourself, it is always safe to consult a priest. She would therefore walk over to Byestry after breakfast—after she had told Pia her own particular and wonderful news—and consult Father Dormer. It would be quite easy to explain matters to him without mentioning names.
Trix began formulating her query in her mind as she dressed. By the time this process was completed, however, she had come to the conclusion that she was not altogether sure whether it would be so easy. She found herself getting wound up into rather extraordinary knots. Well, anyhow she would explain somehow, and no doubt words would come when she was actually confronted with him. Besides, it was never the smallest use arranging conversations beforehand, like a French conversation book, because people never gave the right answers to your questions, and never put the questions to which you had the answers ready.
Trix crossed slowly to the window. There had been a frost in the night, and the lower part of the window-pane was covered with magic fern fronds, while lawn and shrubs were clothed with a light white veil.
Suddenly the sun came up behind the distant hills, a glowing ball of fire, sending forth his ruddy beams till they struck clean through the window, turning the fern fronds to ruby jewels, and making of the frost veil without a web of diamonds.
“That,” breathed Trix softly, “is what happened to us yesterday.”