"Not at all."
With a long troubled look at the girl's downcast face he turned away and hurried down the slope toward Swayne's. His own dream-castle was in ruins, too; for a month past he had begun to picture Olivia's tall charming figure in the castle entrance. She had all that he could possibly have desired in a woman: beauty, grace, humor, wealth—and she had seemed to like him—and now she was going blind! It was too bad—too bad. He felt very hard hit. He stopped to light his pipe, and then strode on, discontentedly.
Olivia threw herself face downward upon the soft, sun-warmed pine-needles, and lay there sobbing. It was hard to give him up; harder still to feel that he had never loved her at all. She had simply been mistaken. Childlike, she had fancied it was the sea-shell that was singing, when in reality the music was only the echo from her own pulse-beats. Wave after wave of maidenly shame throbbed to her cheeks and throat. She had wanted to be loved, before that pall was flung over her life, and while she could still be to her lover as other women were to theirs. But she had had no right—no right!
Moment by moment her girlhood seemed to slip away from her, like some bright vision that flees at day-break. She felt already the terrible helplessness of her doom, the loneliness of a blind woman who is growing old. High overhead the solitary, mateless white blackbird smoothed his creamy wings and settled himself to rest among the soughing branches. Morraway Mountain grew gray and distant. The mist began to rise from the swarthy lake. Between the trunks of the ancient pines the sunset glowed more and more faintly. The wind began to whisper solemnly in the woods. And still the girl lay prostrate between the roots of the great pine, praying to be forgiven for her selfishness.
It was quite dusk when she arose. With some difficulty she found the path and hurried downward, stumbling often and once falling. But her courage rose with the very play of her muscles. She had to grope with her hands to find the canoe, so thickly hung the mist already above the lake. There were lights moving at old Felix's boat-house, but Olivia could not see them. She seated herself in the Water-Witch, took her bearing from the vague masses of mountain shadow, and began to paddle with long, firm strokes. As the canoe shot into deep water, she was conscious that something scraped its frail side. In another moment the water was pouring over her ankles and knees. She stopped paddling to feel for the leak, and instantly the canoe began to settle.
With a powerful effort the girl freed herself from it as it sank, although she went under once and lost her hold upon the paddle. But she was a practised swimmer, and though the water chilled her through and through she struck out in what she fancied was the right direction. After a dozen strokes the shore seemed farther away, and she swam back in growing fear to the spot where she thought the canoe had sunk, in the hope of picking up the paddle. Round and round she swam, with a slow side-stroke, trying to find it, but it had drifted away.
She was getting bewildered in the mist, and the huge shadows that loomed above the lake seemed all alike. She called once or twice, and then remembered that Felix had probably gone home, and that no one could possibly hear her at the hotel. She turned on her back and floated awhile, to collect herself, and then, keeping her eyes on a certain shadowy outline in the fog, she struck out again with desperate coolness. Even if she were quite wrong, the lake was only half a mile wide here, and she had made a half mile so often.
If only her clothing did not pull her down so terribly! She had to turn over and float, in order to rest, and in so doing she lost her wavering landmark. A cry of terror escaped her, and with that the water slapped over her face for the first time. She shook it out of her nostrils and began to swim in a circle, peering vainly through the curtain of fog. The shadows had all melted again into one vast shadow. Her strength was going now; every stroke was an agony. She called—not knowing that she did so—all the life-passion of youth vibrating in the clear voice; then she turned on her back to float once more, making a gallant, lonely, losing fight of it to the very last....
She felt quite warm now, and all of a sudden she ceased to have any fear. This was the way God was taking to keep her from growing blind; she had been as brave as she could, but now that nightmare of life-long helplessness was over. It was not to be Blindness, after all. Death, beautiful, silent-footed, soft-voiced Death had outstripped Blindness, and was enfolding her—murmuring to her—murmuring——
And as she closed her eyes contentedly, old Felix, swearing tremulously, leaned out of his boat and drew her in.