She caught up a shawl and flung it carelessly over her head, quite
unconscious that the fleecy, rose-coloured wool made an exquisite frame
for the girlish loveliness of her face, and opening the door, went
slowly down the broken, lichen-covered steps, the two dogs following at
her heels.
She drew in the keen but balmy air with a long breath, and looked up at
the moon, now a yellow crescent in the starry sky; and something in the
beauty of the night, something subtly novel thrilled her with a strange
sense of throbbing, pulsing joy and happiness, underneath which lurked
as subtle a fear and dread, the fear and dread of those who stand upon
the threshold of the unknown; who, in passing that threshold, enter a
world of strange things which they never more may leave.
Love: what was it? Did she feel it? Oh, if she could only tell! What
should she say to him when she met him; and when should she meet him?
Perhaps he had come to regret his avowal to her, had been wearied and
disappointed by her coldness, and would not come again! At the thought
her heart contracted as if at the touch of an icy hand. But the next
moment it leapt with a suffocating sense of mystery, of half-fearful
joy, for she saw him coming across the lawn to her, and heard her name,
spoken as it had never yet been spoken excepting by him; and she stood,
still as a statue, as he held out his hand and, looking into her eyes,
murmured her name again.
"Ida!"