Then, as he went back drearily to the parish in which lay all his duty, his work in the world, but which would be so melancholy with Mount shut up and silent, she went lightly over the frosty grass, which crackled under her feet, to the beeches, to visit them once more and think of her tryst under them. How different they were now! She remembered the soft air of summer, the full greenness of the foliage, the sounds of voices all charmed and sweet with the genial heat of August. How different now! Everything at her feet lay frost-bound; the naked branches overhead were white with rime. Nothing was stirring in the wintry world about save the blue smoke from the house curling lazily far off through the anatomy of the leafless trees. This was where she had sat with Cosmo talking, as if talk would never have an end. As she stood reflecting over this with a certain sadness, not sure, though she should see Cosmo to-morrow, that she ever would talk again as she had talked then pouring forth the whole of her heart—Anne was aware of a step not far off crackling upon a fallen branch. She turned round hastily and saw Heathcote coming towards her. It was not a pleasant surprise.
‘You are saying good-bye,’ he said, ‘and I am an intruder. Pardon me; I strayed this way by accident——’
‘Never mind,’ said Anne; ‘yes, I am saying good-bye.’
‘Which is the last word you should say, with my will.’
‘Thanks, Cousin Heathcote, you are very good. I know how kind you have been. If I seem to be ungrateful,’ said Anne, ‘it is not that I don’t feel it, but only that my heart is full.’
‘I know that,’ he said, ‘very well. I was not asking any gratitude. The only thing that I feel I have a right to do is to grumble, because everything was settled, everything! before I had a chance.’
‘That is your joke,’ said Anne, with a smile; and then, after a time, she added, ‘Will you take me to the spot as far as you remember it, the very spot——’
‘I know,’ he said; and they went away solemnly side by side, away from that spot consecrated to love and all its hopeful memories, crossing together the crisp ice-bound grass. The old house rose up in front of them against the background of earth and sky, amid the clustering darkness of the leafless branches. It was all silent, nothing visible of the life within, except the blue smoke rising faintly through the air, which was so still. They said little as they went along by the great terrace and the lime avenue, avoiding the flower-garden, now so bare and brown. The winter’s chill had paralysed everything. ‘The old house will be still a little more sad to-morrow,’ Heathcote said.
‘I don’t think it ought to be. You have not the affection for it which you might have had, had you known it better: but some time or other it will blossom for you and begin another life.’
He shook his head. ‘May I bring Edward to see you in Park Lane? Edward is my other life,’ he said, ‘and you will see how little strength there is in that.’