Durrance, indeed, had already
looked over the wall, was looking over it with amazed eyes at this
instant, but that Ethne did not know, and to hinder him from knowing it
she had fled. The moonlight slept in silver upon the creek; the tall
trees stood dreaming to the stars; the lapping of the tide against the
bank was no louder than the music of a river. She sat down upon the
bench and strove to gather some of the quietude of that summer night
into her heart, and to learn from the growing things of nature about her
something of their patience and their extraordinary perseverance.
But the occurrences of the day had overtaxed her, and she could not.
Only this morning, and in this very garden, the good news had come and
she had regained Harry Feversham. For in that way she thought of
Willoughby's message. This morning she had regained him, and this
evening the bad news had come and she had lost him, and most likely
right to the very end of mortal life. Harry Feversham meant to pay for
his fault to the uttermost scruple, and Ethne cried out against his
thoroughness, which he had learned from no other than herself. "Surely,"
she thought, "he might have been content.
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