‘Quite content. I have had everything, and—and nothing. The heart of it has always been stolen from me, all the lights put out; but the dark is sweet too; it is only dim, dim, not discernible—don’t call it dark.’
‘Carry! whatever you please, dear.’
‘Edward, do you know what this means—the peace that passeth understanding?’
‘Carry, my darling, you break my heart. No—how should I know?’
I think I do,’ she said softly. ‘It lies upon your heart like the dew, yet nothing to bring it, no cause, a thing that is without reason, what you would call irrational altogether—that passeth understanding. Edward, if ever you think afterwards, remember that I told you. I think that I have got it—I wanted other things, but they were not given me. I begin to think that this—is the best.’
‘My dearest, let me carry you in; it is getting quite dark and chilly.’
‘You are tired of my little sermon, Edward,’ she said, with the faint tender smile which he divined rather than saw.
‘I—tired? of anything you may say or do! But you must not be longer out in the night air. Come, Carry, let me lift you.’
Whether her mind had begun to wander, or if it was a prevision, or what moved her, no one could ever tell. She resisted a little, putting her hands on his arm. ‘You must not forget,’ she said, ‘to give my love to Tom.’
Beaufort called loudly to her maid, who was waiting. ‘It is too late, too late for her to be out! Come and take the cushions,’ he said in the sudden panic that had moved him.