"We must not stop out long," said Lucia, as they stepped from the terrace on to the path; "Edgar will wonder."
Then the darkness enfolded them, and Edgar's wonder troubled her no more. And neither of them spoke again, they who were so ready with quick speech. In absolute silence they went gently up the walk past the long, lighted house, past the rose-garden on the left, from which there came the heavy fragrance of sleeping flowers, past the lake with its islands of water-lilies, up to the gate at the end which gave on to the fields. Surely there was some excitement abroad that night, the presage of thunder perhaps in the air, for by the gate the cattle were standing huddled together, when they should have been asleep, and stirring uneasily. Both of them noticed that, yet still neither spoke. It was senseless to speak of trivial things, and there was no need, no cause, to speak of anything (for there was only one) which was not trivial. And in the silence and in their speechlessness and proximity the spell worked, growing every moment mightier, the divine and infamous spell that bound them—divine, because love cannot be other than that; infamous, because it implied treachery and deceit to all that to both of them should have been most sacred.
Mightily it worked, and yet no word passed, no hint even of a word, and no caress. Once Lucia gave a great long whisper of a sigh, and to answer it she felt his arm tremble. Yet, though nothing was said, every moment the sequel grew toward inevitability. Force that was potent established itself in hearts that were but too willing to grant that it was inevitable. He, it is true, had struggled to some extent, had known, anyhow, an impulse that was not wholly base. But no such thing had dwelt for even the shortest moment in Lucia's heart.
They stood there at the end of the walk for a few seconds, hearing rather than seeing the agitation and movement of the cattle, and then, as by one will that went through them both, they turned and walked back towards the house. Still no word passed between them; for him the light pressure of her hand on his arm meant more than could be said; for her the sense of the arm beneath his coat was sufficient. It was he; she could not get closer to him by speech.
Again by silent consent they stopped just outside the oblong of light cast through the open French window of the drawing-room on to the path.
"Ah, it has been divine, Charlie," said she. "But—but
