Audrey

Audrey, finding the two men in conversation beneath the apple-tree, passed

on to the ragged garden, where clumps of hardy, bright-colored flowers

played hide-and-seek with currant and gooseberry bushes. Haward saw her

go, and broke the thread of his discourse. Darden looked up, and the eyes

of the two men met; those of the younger were cold and steady. A moment,

and his glance had fallen to his watch which he had pulled out. "'Tis

early yet," he said coolly, "and I dare say not quite your dinner

time,--which I beg that Mistress Deborah will not advance on my account.

Is it not your reverence's habit to rest within doors after your sermon?

Pray do not let me detain you. I will go talk awhile with Audrey."

He put up his watch and rose to his feet. Darden cleared his throat. "I

have, indeed, a letter to write to Mr. Commissary, and it may be half an

hour before Deborah has dinner ready. I will send your servant to fetch

you in."

Haward broke the larkspur and gilliflowers, and Audrey gathered up her

apron and filled it with the vivid blooms. The child that had thus brought

loaves of bread to a governor's table spread beneath a sugar-tree, with

mountains round about, had been no purer of heart, no more innocent of

rustic coquetry. When her apron was filled she would have returned to the

house, but Haward would not have it so. "They will call when dinner is

ready," he said. "I wish to talk to you, little maid. Let us go sit in the

shade of the willow yonder."

It was almost a twilight behind the cool green rain of the willow boughs.

Through that verdant mist Haward and Audrey saw the outer world but dimly.

"I had a fearful dream last night," said Audrey. "I think that that must

have been why I was to glad to see you come into church to-day. I dreamed

that you had never come home again, overseas, in the Golden Rose. Hugon

was beside me, in the dream, telling me that you were dead in England: and

suddenly I knew that I had never really seen you; that there was no

garden, no terrace, no roses, no you. It was all so cold and sad, and

the sun kept growing smaller and smaller. The woods, too, were black, and

the wind cried in them so that I was afraid. And then I was in Hugon's

house, holding the door,--there was a wolf without,--and through the

window I saw the mountains; only they were so high that my heart ached to

look upon them, and the wind cried down the cleft in the hills. The wolf

went away, and then, somehow, I was upon the hilltop.... There was a dead

man lying in the grass, but it was too dark to see. Hugon came up behind

me, stooped, and lifted the hand.... Upon the finger was that ring you

wear, burning in the moonlight.... Oh me!"