“They are all gone,” said she, withdrawing her head and looking up at the Don with a scared look.
Was not that sinking of the heart a presage of sorrow? Would it not have been better for thee, poor child, to have hearkened to the voice of its Cassandra-throbs? Better to have hastened to the Hall, whence thou couldst even now hear issuing the sounds of merry music, and found safety in numbers? Something whispered this in her fluttering heart.
“But of late,” repeated the man of her destiny.
“Let us join our friends in the Hall,” said she, faintly.
Wise words, but spoken too late. Too late; for she felt herself compassed round about by a nameless spell that would not be broken; entwined in cords soft as silk but strong as fate.
“They seem to be getting on famously without us.”
“Yes, but I thought—”
“Thought what?”
“I thought you must be longing to hear Lucy play.” And she gave a hasty glance at his face.
There was a revelation in the look that met hers. The veil that had darkened her vision fell away. Through those glorious eyes of his, so full of tender flame, she saw into his heart of hearts; and no image of Lucy was imprinted thereon; nor had ever been. ’Twas her own, instead, sat enthroned there.