“Oh! Hubert, Hubert!” she said.
She felt herself half carried to a high chair beside the fire-place and set down there; then he re-arranged the logs on the hearth, so that the flames began to leap again, showing his strong hands and keen clear-cut face; then he turned on his knees, seized her two hands in his own, and lifted them to his lips; then laid them down again on her knee, still holding them; and so remained.
“Oh! Isabel,” he said, “why did you not write?”
She was silent as one who stares fascinated down a precipice.
“It is all over,” he went on in a moment, “with the expedition. The Queen’s Grace has finally refused us leave to go—and I have come back to you, Isabel.”
How strong and pleasant he looked in this leaping fire-light! how real! and she was hesitating between this warm human reality and the chilly possibilities of an invisible truth. Her hands tightened instinctively within his, and then relaxed.
“I have been so wretched,” she said piteously.
“Ah! my dear,” and he threw an arm round her neck and drew her face down to his, “but that is over now.” She sat back again; and then an access of purpose poured into her and braced her will to an effort.
“No, no,” she began, “I must tell you. I was afraid to write. Hubert, I must wait a little longer. I—I do not know what I believe.”
He looked at her, puzzled.