'It's very good of you to have met me, Ambrose.'

'But very unnecessary?'

Mr. Severn laughed consciously, but re-covered himself by spreading his broad palm below his nostrils, and smoothing, with a slow downward movement, the close-cut moustache and beard that concealed his lips and chin. It was a new habit, but the growth also was new, and Ambrose was surprised to find that it took ten years from his age.

'Well, you know I told you not to meet me.' 'You did, and you don't say for civility's sake what you don't mean. There are some folk who believe in a system of formal introductions in Heaven itself. If you'd wished for company to St. Brelade's you would have left the point to my notions of propriety. However, I'll reassure you. I am going into town with the returning train.'

'I'll wait and see you off.'

'And do as you please about driving. If you prefer to walk, the dog-cart will wait for me.'

'Thanks, I should prefer to walk,' said Mr. Severn.

They had reached the end of the platform and now turned back towards the bay. Its waves were tossing with spray-crested edges into which gulls with the sun on their wings were dipping. In the distance a vista of sun-rays streamed over St. Helier's, lying low along the shore with its fortified heights in shadow against the blackness of a storm sweeping up from the West. It was high tide, and Elizabeth Castle was surrounded by a rolling sea. A curve of yellow sand, with here and there a martello tower, marked the coast-line. The air was full of the rush of the waves and the sough of a rising wind.

'If ever I marry, I don't think I shall act on your experience of the previous forty hours,' said Ambrose Piton, as they strolled back to the train with a few more leisurely people. 'A drive of five miles from your Yorkshire moors at Old Lafer to the nearest station, Wonston, I suppose—a rush down England to Southampton, ten hours' pitching in a dirty sea, by our caterpillar of a train to St. Aubin's here, and finally a three miles' walk. By Jove, you must be feeling rather done up.'

'Oh no, I'm accustomed to such journeys. I did precisely the same with the exception of this final walk when I came out to Jersey five months ago and had the good fortune to fall in with Miss Hugo. You'll probably not be a man of fifty, overwhelmed with other people's business, when you marry, Ambrose. It's this walk to Rocozanne that amuses you,' he added, with a genial smile. 'You think it inconsistent with a lover's ardour that I should not go as fast as your good mare would take me. The truth is, I want an hour's leisure. When one marries a second time and is my age, and it is a young girl who is good enough to take one, the responsibilities are much greater than when two young people marry; one has more misgiving, you know, about one's wife being happy. Since I won Clothilde I have scarcely had time to realise my good fortune. Through this journey I've struggled with correspondence that would be arrears of work if left over next week. And now a walk will freshen me up and adjust my thoughts to a proper balance, since to-morrow, please God, I shall be married. My age must be the excuse for what yours takes for lukewarmness.'

'I don't think you lukewarm,' said Piton bluntly. 'But I'll tell you what, sir, you at fifty are more simple-minded than I at twenty-five.'

'Simple-minded? How? I don't understand.'

'You call a spade a spade and you think it is one,' said Piton lamely, yet with a desperate resolution that showed a serious undercurrent of thought.

'Of course, being straightforward. You would yourself.'

'Oh, certainly,' said Piton with trepidation. 'Here comes the engine,' he added with awkward haste as he jumped on to the train.

'One moment—how is she?'

'Clothilde? Very well.'

'And Anna? It's very good of you and Mr. Piton to let us carry little Anna off.'

'Yes it is,' said Piton. 'But they've never been separated though they're only half-sisters. And though Anna's my father's niece and Clothilde is not, and we should like to have her at Rocozanne, we know she'll be better with a woman; and as we've only servants about, it seems right that she should go with Clothilde. But my father has explained all this,' he added, smiling. 'It's a bit of a sore point, we begrudge her to you.'

'She must come often to Rocozanne.'

'Of course. Now we're off. Don't miss your road.'

'I know the short cuts,' said Mr. Severn, as he turned away. Piton laughed and waved his hand. Then as he leant forward and watched him walk up the platform, his face became serious. He was a good-looking young fellow. Judging from his usual expression of easy good-nature, the lines of his life had fallen in pleasant places. But now he wore a look that passed from pain to disgust and resentment.

'If ever there were a good fellow in this world, it's Severn,' he thought; 'and that's just what makes him fool enough to think himself unworthy of any woman who seems lovable. I wonder when he'll begin to see into Clothilde's genuine moral structure. Thank Heaven, he'll not be marred though he may be maimed; he's made of sterner stuff than he'll know of till the occasion comes, and he's very fond of Anna, and nothing'll spoil Anna, not even Clothilde. If I thought she would, we'd keep her at Rocozanne after all. I longed to blurt out the truth and tell him of Clothilde's engagement to that poor fellow in India. She doesn't care a straw for Severn. What heart she has is in the Punjaub; but because it's given to a poor man she plays it false. And she wrote him a letter only yesterday, in the old style! I wish Severn had heard her tell me so—such confounded coolness! A bird in the hand, et cetera. She'll keep in with Danby until the register's signed with Severn; if there were a slip at the last moment the compromising intelligence would never reach the far East, and if she didn't take up with some one else, she might wait after all. But where would be the use of telling Severn? It would only make him confoundedly miserable and scandalise my father, who thinks she's had an amicable disagreement with the Punjaub, and leave her to cajole some one else. Her beauty would do it. By Jove, she is beautiful, but she'll never look for Severn what she looked for Danby! Heaven knows what might become of her if my father refused to have her here again. She won't work as a music-teacher, not she! She's dilettante, not enthusiast. Those moors Severn talks of will be a safe place for her; her wings'll be clipped and she'll be out of the way of mischief-making. I only hope he'll soon show the master-hand and guide her by sheer force of example into honesty.'

When Mr. Severn left the station he struck up the ravine behind St. Aubin's where the road inland ran. As he passed the tumble-down, crooked old stone houses, whose gloomy dampness made them scarcely fit for cattle, various old crones and children came out to stare at him. There was not so tall a man on the island. They knew nothing of Anakims as personified in Yorkshire dalesmen. His height, his massive limbs and breadth of shoulder, his jet-black hair, fresh colour and gleaming teeth, were a revelation to them. A group of market-people waiting at the station for CorbiÈre pressed up to the railings and made audible remarks. They were in French, however, and he did not understand. Seeing them look interested, he nodded, then raised his hat. He was less interested in them than he had been a little earlier by a water-wheel against the road which imprisoned a silvery stream that shot over the edge of a brambly bank above. A little farther on was a quarry, over whose stone he stood some moments speculating. It struck into the heart of the hill, an ochreous blotch against the dense velvetiness of the furze. A man in a blue blouse was chipping at its base. These touched at once his love of colour, and his instincts as steward for a large estate where earths and rocks were in constant consideration. There was a short cut below the quarry to St. Brelade's, but he did not take it. He and Clothilde Hugo had not taken the short cuts when together, and he remembered a point on the road which she had showed him from whence there was a glimpse of the white houses of St. Helier's gleaming against the amethystine sea in a land-locked setting. He went round by the road and loitered a little, thinking of her.

How good it was of her to take him! What faith she showed in him! He fully realised the isolation of the home to which marriage with him would condemn her. He was not only much older than she but was impressed by the sense of their different social positions. He had risen from small tenant-farmer to the stewardship of Admiral Marlowe's estates, and she was of a good old family that ranked high among the aristocracy of proud Guernsey. He could give her comfort but not luxury. She was beautiful, she was clever. Would she feel herself buried at Old Lafer, or would his affection atone for the loss of social congenialities and throw a glamour over the eeriness of winter storms and the loneliness of summer sunshine? The innate poetry of his nature had enthroned her as a flower among flowers at Rocozanne. He should never forget the wealth of bloom in the garden when he entered it on his first visit, the glow of colour from plants that were tropical compared to the homely herbs and posies of Old Lafer. It had dazzled him. The white house, the blaze of geranium, the scent of heliotrope, the lap of the sea that quivered in the sun like the million facets of diamonds, the heat mists that bathed the cliffs, the mellow mushroom tints of the old church beyond the evergreen oaks whose glossy denseness of foliage threw the whole picture into high relief, had impressed him with the perception of brilliancy and ease and luxury. Clothilde, rising slowly and gracefully from a low chair in the shade of the trees and coming towards him with outstretched hands, gave the touch of human nature which at once subordinated all to itself. Her eyes shone with welcome. Little Anna, running from the gate into the churchyard betwixt whose bars she had been playing with the grave-digger's dog, slid her fingers into his palm and stared at him with an elfish gaze from beneath her breeze-blown hair. Clothilde stooped, smoothed the hair and kissed the child's forehead. The action sealed Mr. Severn's fate.

The November twilight was deepening when he reached the highest point of his walk to-day. A few more steps took him to the edge of the cliffs above St. Brelade's bay. The sun had set, leaving lurid gleams piercing a fringe of cloud that seemed to have been torn from the thicker clouds above, and would soon hide the sky-line in a driving mist of rain. The wind was increasing. Sheets of foam dashed against Noirmont, the bay was a waste of tumbled water driving on to the beach. His gaze travelled across it to the church nestling at the foot of a gorge full of chestnuts and evergreen oaks. He could distinguish the bulk of its tower against the hill. The sea-wall that buttressed the grave-yard was continued along the terrace garden of Rocozanne. But he could not distinguish Rocozanne until suddenly a light flared out from a window, and after a fitful gleam or two, settled there.

His heart leapt at the sight of that light. He pleased himself by imagining that Clothilde had placed it on the sill perhaps to guide him to her side. His thoughts flew to the many nights when she would watch for him at Old Lafer. No more lonely evenings there for him, no more comfortless home-comings to dull and empty rooms. Good God! to think this beloved and beautiful presence was to be his guiding star. But he must hurry now. It was certain Clothilde would be expecting him, pressing her face to the glass and watching the road. Had it been daylight she could have seen him silhouetted on the cliff edge. She might expect he was driving and be growing anxious at the delay. He walked on rapidly, the beat of his heart keeping time with his steps, his thoughts full of vows and resolutions to compass her lifelong happiness so far as was in his power. He remembered that once, on a previous visit he had found her thus looking out when Ambrose and he had walked late one night. The slight anxiety had then given her a pinched whiteness which changed to a blush the moment her eyes lit on them coming up the steps from the beach into the garden. She was at the door before they were. The tide was not yet too high to admit of his going up the steps to-day. Perhaps she would again open the door for him.

He was in the village now, and soon traversing it, went down the sand-bank to the beach, of which a strip was still bare of more sea than the yeasty flakes flying on the wind. Another moment and he had mounted the steps. They were overhung by a mass of chrysanthemums in full bloom. He stepped between two clumps of pampas grass into the garden and faced the low white front of Rocozanne. All was quiet and at the moment dark. He stood motionless, listening. Then he perceived that the front door was wide open. The next moment a glimmer of light fell high upon the walls within and gradually diffused itself as a figure came slowly down the stairs. It was Clothilde Hugo. She was carrying a lamp, and as she reached the lowest step, it illumined her strongly. She was tall and slender. Her face was pale, with exquisitely cut features, and was set above a throat of matchless curves. A loose mass of dark wavy hair was parted above a low white brow. Her sombre eyes gained lustrous depths by the intensity of her unconscious gaze into the outside gloom. She wore a black dress, long, flowing, and plain as the fashion then was. It was cut low, and a ribbon of vividest scarlet velvet was round her throat. Sleeves hanging from the elbow showed beautifully modelled arms, and a scarlet band clasped her waist.

She put the lamp upon the table and stood, half-turned to the door, listening. Oh! if only he could have known the vital fear gnawing at her heart-strings—he was late; had he not come, had he heard anything, was he not coming? Would she have to wait for Lucius Danby after all? Well, she had not dismissed Lucius yet, that letter would only go after she was another man's wife; he need never know——

'Clothilde!'

It was Mr. Severn's voice. He was close to her, so close indeed that his eager eyes, dimmed with happiness, had no time to see a swift convulsive shadow that swept over her face, seeming to recall her from some pleasant dream to a reality that was repugnant to every sense. For a moment she stood motionless as though paralysed. He seized her hands. They were icy-cold.

'Clothilde,' he said again, 'my darling, my——'

She turned. Another instant and she was in his arms and had thrown her arms round his neck. No! no! she had not longed for Lucius! This was what she had wanted. The haunting fear lest it should fail her was gone—a fear she would never have known had she not failed another.

But he did not know this. He thought she truly loved him and him only.