“No, you can’t,”—he answered smiling. “When I undertake to do anything I like to do it in my own fashion, or not at all. Sleep well, and rise early.”
He nodded, and sauntered slowly away over the dewy grass. I watched his dark tall figure receding till he had entered the house; then, lighting a fresh cigar, I wandered on alone through the grounds, noting here and there flowery arbours and dainty silk pavilions erected in picturesque nooks and corners for the morrow. I looked up at the sky; it was clear and bright,—there would be no rain. Presently I opened the wicket-gate that led into the outer by-road, and walking on slowly, almost unconsciously, I found myself in a few minutes opposite ‘Lily Cottage.’ Approaching the gate I looked in,—the pretty old house was dark, silent and deserted. I knew Mavis Clare was away,—and it was not strange that the aspect of her home-nest emphasized the fact of her absence. A cluster of climbing [p 258] roses hanging from the wall, looked as if they were listening for the first sound of her returning footsteps; across the green breadth of the lawn where I had seen her playing with her dogs, a tall sheaf of St John’s lilies stood up white against the sky, their pure hearts opened to the star-light and the breeze. The scent of honey-suckle and sweet-briar filled the air with delicate suggestions,—and as I leaned over the low fence, gazing vaguely at the long shadows of the trees on the grass, a nightingale began to sing. The sweet yet dolorous warble of the ‘little brown lover of the moon,’ palpitated on the silence in silver-toned drops of melody; and I listened, till my eyes smarted with a sudden moisture as of tears. Strangely enough, I never thought of my betrothed bride Sibyl then, as surely, by all the precedents of passion, I should have done at such a moment of dreamful ecstasy. It was another woman’s face that floated before my memory;—a face not beautiful,—but merely sweet,—and made radiant by the light of two tender, wistful, wonderfully innocent eyes,—a face like that of some new Daphne with the mystic laurel springing from her brows. The nightingale sang on and on,—the tall lilies swayed in the faint wind as though nodding wise approval of the bird’s wild music,—and, gathering one briar-rose from the hedge, I turned away with a curious heaviness at my heart,—a trouble I could not analyse or account for. I explained my feeling partly to myself as one of regret that I had ever taken up my pen to assault, with sneer and flippant jest, the gentle and brilliantly endowed owner of this little home where peace and pure content dwelt happily in student-like seclusion;—but this was not all. There was something else in my mind,—something inexplicable and sad,—which then I had no skill to define. I know now what it was,—but the knowledge comes too late!
Returning to my own domains, I saw through the trees a vivid red light in one of the upper windows of Willowsmere. It twinkled like a lurid star, and I guided my steps by its brilliancy as I made my way across the winding garden-paths and terraces back to the house. Entering the hall, the page [p 259] in scarlet and gold met me, and with a respectful obeisance, escorted me to my room where Amiel was in waiting.
“Has the prince retired?” I asked him.
“Yes, sir.”
“He has a red lamp in his window has he not?”
Amiel looked deferentially meditative. Yet I fancied I saw him smile.
“I think——yes,—I believe he has, sir.”
I asked no more questions, but allowed him to perform his duties as valet in silence.
“Good-night sir!” he said at last, his ferret eyes fastened upon me with an expressionless look.