“The morning is almost here,” said Dallington.
“Would you not like to meet the year outside? It is a glorious night.”
The scene in the garden was so beautiful that few words were spoken. It was as if the very world held its breath and listened. A silence fell on every one, for every heart was full of prayer. Margaret forgot all her guests for a few minutes, and slipped her hand within the arm of her husband. Miss Whitwell stood a little apart from the rest, thinking her own thoughts. Dr. Stapleton whispered to Miss Wythburn an old wish from Shakespeare—
“God give thee many days of happy years.”
Arthur Knight repeated his own words:
“Give pardon to-night, O God of the light!”
Then the silence was so deep that it seemed almost as if their thoughts could be heard. Perhaps they were! Miss Whitwell softly whispered hers—“The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble, the name of the God of Jacob defend thee; send thee help from the sanctuary, and strengthen thee out of Zion; remember all thy offerings, and accept thy burnt sacrifice; grant thee thy heart’s desire, and fulfil all thy mind.” Some irresistible power drew her eyes to where Arthur Knight was standing, looking perhaps the most sorrowfully of any of the party. He met her look, and a thought flashed into his mind that electrified him.
“Can it be possible! Did she really only care for Dallington as a cousin! What does it mean? Can it be?——”
With a sudden impulse of hope he stepped to her side.
“Grace,” he said, “the old house in London is very solitary; and so is the heart of its owner, in Craighelbyl as well as in London.”