Only the faintest whisper of air came through the open window,—a faint, cool sigh of relief after the heat of the day. Below, in the garden, were golden splotches of colour—beds of great African marigolds, a vivid contrast to the cool green of the close-dipped grass. Through the silence came the musical dripping of a fountain.
Overhead a door opened. She heard a child’s voice, and then a little burst of laughter. Again there was silence. And slowly the rose-colour faded in the sky, till only a pale lavender-grey haze covered land and water.
The gold of the marigolds became softly blurred; the green of the grass lost its colour.
A little haunting melody came suddenly into her mind,—one she had often played in childhood. It was a melody by Heller. There is a footnote at the bottom of the page on which it is written, which designates it “Twilight,” or “Le crépuscule.” The latter word came into her mind at the moment. It held greater significance to her than the English word. It represented more clearly the onward stealing of the grey shadows, the soft sweet evening sadness, the slow passing of the day’s glory.
And then, once more, overhead a door opened. There was a pattering of footsteps along the corridor, a child’s voice, clear, demanding:
“Granny, prayers!”
Lady Mary got up from her chair. If there was something of the evening shadows in her eyes, I fancy there was also the aftermath of the sunset’s glory.
“Tomorrow I must tell Antony,” she said.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE CACHE
John was walking over the moorland. He had been walking for the last hour and more. It was nearing five o’clock. He had made a great circle, and was now somewhere near the place where he had first had sight of a fair lady and her two attendant knights.