Heavens, over which the films of the forenoon had thickened into dun cloud-curtains, stretching above and enwrapping the world; a wild, dreary expanse of troubled waters, whose horizon line was lost in the misty blending of sea and sky, ever hurrying and heaving to moan out their unrest upon the barren beach. In the distance was a solitary sail; nearer to the land, a large sea-bird flew heavily against the wind. In such mateless, weary night must her life be passed; that lone, frail craft was not so hopelessly forlorn upon a gloomy sea, beneath a sky that gloomed yet more darkly—as was her heart, torn suddenly from its moorings—anchor and rudder and compass gone. Yet who could syllable the mighty sorrow of the complaining sea? And were there words in human language that could tell the anguish of the swelling flood beating within her breast?
"Going away! To-morrow!" For a little space this was all the lament she kept repeating over to herself. Pregnant with woe she knew it to be, yet it was not until she was allowed to meditate in silence upon the meaning of the words that she realized what had truly come upon her. She had thrown away all her hope of earthly happiness—risked it as madly, lost it as surely, as if she had tossed it—a tangible pearl—into the yawning ocean. Her instinct assured her that, were it otherwise, the tidings of Philip's intended departure, his suddenly formed resolution to leave her, would have been conveyed to her in a far different manner. Her keen backward glance penetrated Aunt Sarah's simple wiles; his obvious annoyance thereat; his determination to save himself from suspicion; his honorable fear lest she, too, should imagine him loving, where he was only civil and kind. Yes, it was all over! The best thing she could hope to do, the brightest prospect life had now for her, was that her secret should remain hers alone, until the troubled heart moaned itself into rest which knows no waking. She was used to concealment. All her existence, excepting the sweet delusive dream of the past three weeks, had been a stern preparation for this trial. But she was already weary and faint—fit to lie down and die, so intense had been the throe of this one struggle.
"How long is this to last? How long?"
The exclamation actually broke, in an inarticulate murmur, from her lips.
"Did you speak?" inquired Philip.
"I think not. I am not sure. I did not intend to do so."
"Grant me credit for my forebearance in not obtruding my prosaic talk upon your musings," he went on, playfully. "It was a powerful temptation—for I remember, constantly, that this is our last opportunity for a genuine heart and head confabulation, such as I shall often linger for after I leave you—and sincerity! You have done me good, Miss Sarah; taught me Faith, Hope, Charity—a blessed sisterhood!"
"May they ever attend you!"
"Amen! and thank you! And what wish shall I make in return for your beautiful benediction?"
"Whatever you like. My desires are not many or extravagant."