"Whatever you wish, Gyp--always!"
He pressed her hand against his cheek, then let it go, and, folding his
arms tight, resumed his meaningless stare at the sea. Gyp turned away.
She crossed back to the other side of the stream, but did not go in for
a long time, sitting in the pine wood till the evening gathered and the
stars crept out in a sky of that mauve-blue which the psychic say is the
soul-garment colour of the good.
Late that night, when she had finished brushing her hair, she opened her
window and stepped out on to the verandah. How warm! How still! Not a
sound from the sleeping house--not a breath of wind! Her face, framed
in her hair, her hands, and all her body, felt as if on fire. The moon
behind the pine-tree branches was filling every cranny of her brain with
wakefulness. The soft shiver of the wellnigh surfless sea on a rising
tide, rose, fell, rose, fell. The sand cliff shone like a bank of snow.
And all was inhabited, as a moonlit night is wont to be, by a magical
Presence. A big moth went past her face, so close that she felt the
flutter of its wings. A little night beast somewhere was scruttling in
bushes or the sand. Suddenly, across the wan grass the shadow of the
pine-trunk moved. It moved--ever so little--moved! And, petrified--Gyp
stared. There, joined to the trunk, Summerhay was standing, his face
just visible against the stem, the moonlight on one cheek, a hand
shading his eyes.
Pages:
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305