Lillian went hastily to her own room. She took a large black
shawl and drew it closely round her, hiding the pretty evening
dress and the rich pearls. Then, with the letter in her hand,
she went down the staircase that led from her rooms to the
garden.
The night was dark; heavy clouds sailed swiftly across the sky,
the wind moaned fitfully, bending the tall trees as it were in
anger, then whispering round them as though suing for pardon.
Lillian had never been out at night alone before, and her first
sensation was one of fear. She crossed the gardens where the
autumn flowers were fading; the lights shone gayly from the Hall
windows; the shrubbery looked dark and mysterious. She was
frightened at the silence and darkness, but went bravely on. He
was there. By the gate she saw a tall figure wrapped in a
traveling cloak; as she crossed the path, he stepped hastily
forward, crying with a voice she never forgot:
"Beatrice, at last you have come!"
"It is not Beatrice," she said, shrinking from the outstretched
arms. "I am Lillian Earle. My sister is ill, and has sent you
this.
Pages:
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402