"No, no, not yet!" she said breathlessly. "Listen to me."
She moved backwards a step or two, and stood facing him, her hand at her bosom, a color in her cheek, her eyes like stars. "I do not know that I love you, Sir Charles Carew. At times I have thought that I did; at times, not. There is an unrest here," touching her heart, "which has come to me lately. I do not know—it may be the beginning of love. Last night my father had much talk with me. It is his dearest wish that you and I should wed. He has been my very good father always. If you will take me as I am, not loving you yet, but with a heart free to learn, why—" Her voice broke.
Sir Charles flung himself at her feet, and, taking possession of her hands, covered them with kisses. A voice passed the window, singing through the night:—
| "Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blow, |
| And shake the green leaves from the tree; |
| O gentle death, when wilt thou come? |
| For of my life I am weary." |
"Margery again?" said Sir Charles, rising.
"Yes," said Patricia, with a troubled voice.
The voice began the stanza again:—
| "Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blow, |
| And shake the green leaves from the tree?" |
"What is the matter?" cried Sir Charles in alarm.
Patricia stared at him with wide, unseeing eyes. "Martinmas wind," she said in a low, clear, even voice. "Martinmas wind! The leaves drift in clouds, yellow and red, red like blood. Look at the river flowing in the sunshine! And the tall gray crags! Ah!" and she put her hands before her face.