A dark figure is advancing toward her. Through the growing twilight it seems abnormally large and black, and Joyce stares at it anxiously. Not Freddy--not one of the laborers--they would be all clad in flannel jackets of a light color.

"Oh, is it you?" says Dysart, coming closer to her. He had, however, known it was she from the first moment his eyes rested upon her. No mist, no twilight could have deceived him, for--

Lovers' eyes are sharp to see And lovers' ears in hearing."

"Yes," says she, advancing a little toward him and giving him her hand.

A cold little hand, and reluctant.

"I was coming down to Mrs. Monkton with a message--a letter--from Lady Baltimore."

"This is a very long way round from the Court, isn't it?" says she.

"Yes. But I like this calm little corner. I have come often to it lately."

Miss Kavanagh lets her eyes wander to the stream down below. To this little spot of all places! Her favorite nook! Had he hoped to meet her there? Oh, no; impossible! And besides she had given it up for a long, long time until this evening. It seems weeks to her now since last she was here.

"You will find Barbara at home," says she gently.

"I don't suppose it is of very much consequence," says he, alluding to the message. He is looking at her, though her averted face leaves him little to study.

"You are cold," says he abruptly.

"Am I?" turning to him with a little smile. "I don't feel cold. I feel dull, perhaps, but nothing else."

And in truth if she had used the word "unhappy" instead of "dull" she would have been nearer the mark. The coming of Dysart thus suddenly into the midst of her mournful reverie has but served to accentuate the reality of it. A terrible sense of loneliness is oppressing her. All things have their place in this world, yet where is hers? Of what account is she to anyone? Barbara loves, her; yes, but not so well as Freddy and the children! Oh, to be first with someone!

"I find no spring, while spring is well-nigh blown; I find no nest, while nests are in the grove; Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone-- My heart that breaketh for a little love."

Christina Rosetti's mournful words seem to suit her. Involuntarily she lifts her heavy eyes, tired of the day's weeping, and looks at Dysart.

"You have been crying," says he abruptly.

CHAPTER LII.

"My love has sworn with sealing kiss With me to live--to die; I have at last my nameless bliss-- As I love, loved am I."

There is a pause: it threatens to be an everlasting one, as Miss Kavanagh plainly doesn't know what to say. He can see this; what he cannot see is that she is afraid of her own voice. Those troublesome tears that all day have been so close to her seem closer than ever now.

"Beauclerk came down to see you to-day," says he presently. This remark is so unexpected that it steadies her.

"Yes," she says, calmly enough, but without raising the tell-tale eyes.

"You expected him?"

"No." Monosyllables alone seem possible to her. So great is her fear that she will give way and finally disgrace herself, that she forgets to resent the magisterial tone be has adopted.

"He asked you to marry him, however?" There is something almost threatening in his tone now, as if he is defying her to deny his a.s.sertion. It overwhelms her.

"Yes," she says again, and for the first time is struck by the wretched meagreness of her replies.

"Well?" says Dysart, roughly. But this time not even the desolate monosyllable rewards the keenness of his examination.

"Well?" says he again, going closer to her and resting his hand on the wooden rail against which she, too, was leaning. He is So close to her now that it is impossible to escape his scrutiny. "What am I to understand by that? Tell me how you have decided." Getting no answer to this either, he says, impatiently, "Tell me, Joyce."

"I refused him," says she at last in a low tone, and in a dull sort of way, as if the matter is one of indifference to her.

"Ah!" He draws a long breath. "It is true?" he says, laying his hand on hers as it lies on the top of the woodwork.

"Quite true."

"And yet--you have been crying?"

"You can see that," says she, petulantly. "You have taken pains to see and to tell me of it. Do you think it is a pleasant thing to be told?

Most people," glancing angrily toward him--"everyone, I think--makes it a point now-a-days not to see when one has been making a fool of oneself; but you seem to take a delight in torturing me."

"Did it," says he bitterly, ignoring--perhaps not even hearing--her outburst. "Did it cost you so much to refuse him?"

"It cost me nothing!" with a sudden effort, and a flash from her beautiful eyes.

"Nothing?"

"I have said so! Nothing at all. It was mere nervousness, and because--it reminded me of other things."

"Did he see you cry?" asks Dysart, tightening unconsciously his grasp upon her hand.

"No. He was gone a long time, quite a long time, before it occurred to me that I should like to cry. I," with a frugal smile, "indulged myself very freely then, as you have seen."

Dysart draws a long breath of relief. It would have been intolerable to him that Beauclerk should have known of her tears. He would not have understood them. He would have taken possession of them, as it were.

They would have merely helped to pamper his self-conceit and smooth down his ruffled pride. He would inevitably have placed such and such a construction on them, one entirely to his own glorification.

"I shall leave you now with a lighter heart," says Felix presently--"now that I know you are not going to marry that fellow."

"You are going, then?" says she, sharply, checking the monotonous little tattoo she has been playing on the bridge rail, as though suddenly smitten into stone. She had heard he was going, she had been told of it by several people, but somehow she had never believed it. It had never, come home to her until now.

"Yes. We are under orders for India. We sail in about a month. I shall have to leave here almost immediately."

"So soon?" says she, vaguely. She has begun that absurd tattoo again, but bridge, and restless little fingers, and sky and earth, and all things seem blotted out. He is going, really going, and for ever! How far is India away?

"It is always rather hurried at last. For my part I am glad I am going."

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Monkton will--at least I am sure she will--let me have a line now and then to let me know how you--how you are all getting on. I was going to ask her about it this evening. You think she will be good enough?"

"Barbara is always kind."