The close of a hot summer’s day.
A charming little hollow, fringed with hazels and ferns, on a green hillside overlooking the shining sea. A long stretch of bay lies in the mellow light, curved like a crescent moon, while behind rise hills that are somewhat low but steep, scalloped by dells clad in silver birches, hazels, graceful ferns, and golden gorse. Nearly at the centre of this picturesque amphitheatre of green slopes and rocky buttresses snugly nestles a quaint old-world village, a community of pretty cottages clustered around the ancient church, and deeply set in the verdure of the hillside like a handful of snow-white shells in a green dell of the sea.
Not only the crimson-tinted ocean, but the land also, is strangely transfigured in the glow of twilight. The long stretches of cliff, with the precipitous Raven’s Crag towering high above the rocks on either side, which, in the fierce glare of noonday, stood out like bastions, centres of strength and power, and now rounded by the softening shadows of the gloaming hour. The mantling grass with which they are crowned has lost its emerald colour, and assumes a subdued preternatural tint, while the softened sea in its violet light comes up to the deep shadows of the overhanging crags, lustrous, pure, serene.
Hugh had driven with his visitors from Coombe, and they had left the carriage at the village inn, and set out on foot to explore the beauties of the district. Dolly and he had wandered away from Egerton and Gabrielle, and walked upon the top of the cliffs towards the great perpendicular Crag.
While they had been strolling along, she had been telling him of the vile plot to keep them apart while Valérie exerted her irresistible charms upon him. She showed him the dark red scar upon her throat, now concealed by a narrow band of black velvet, and explained how she had made the discovery while imprisoned in the strange house near Twickenham, her escape, her visit to the church on the morning of his marriage, and her denunciation of Holt. To all this he listened with incredulous amazement.
When, on their return, they arrived at the stile at the entrance of the wooded hollow through which they had to pass to reach the village, they both paused. Hugh stood leaning with his back against the rails, thoughtfully puffing his cigarette. The manner in which Dolly had told the story puzzled him. True, they were still friends, and since her arrival at Coombe had often spoken confidentially; nevertheless, he did not forget that on the last occasion they strolled together alone on the Cornish cliffs, he ridiculed her warning, and openly professed his preference for Valérie.
He glanced at her handsome face. Her head was turned seaward; her soft brown eyes wore a thoughtful, serious look, and a ray of fading sunlight tinted her hair. The cool, flimsy blue dress fitted her lithesome figure with scarcely a wrinkle, and the wide-brimmed hat set off to advantage the fair countenance beneath.
“Dolly,” he said earnestly, after a short silence, taking her gloved hand in his at the same time, “all this you have just told me adds increased horror to Valérie’s terrible crimes. I now understand the reason you wrote that warning—it was because you entertained some sort of affection for me. Ah, had I fully understood you before I allied myself with that woman—had I seen her in her true light as an adventuress, and summoned sufficient strength to cast her off—I should not have been instrumental in bringing such a calamity upon you. I alone am to blame for all the misery that has fallen upon you, and must ask your forgiveness.”
“There is nothing to forgive, for I consider you are in no way to blame, Hugh—I mean, Mr Trethowen.”
“No, no; call me Hugh, as you did in the old days. Why need there be any formalities?”