And then, suddenly, her eyes widened and stared past him painfully; she writhed out of his arms, and whispered:  “Look!”

Ashurst saw nothing but the brightened stream, the furze faintly gilded, the beech trees glistening, and behind them all the wide loom of the moonlit hill.  Behind him came her frozen whisper:  “The gipsy bogie!”

“Where?”

“There—­by the stone—­under the trees!”

Exasperated, he leaped the stream, and strode towards the beech clump.  Prank of the moonlight!  Nothing!  In and out of the boulders and thorn trees, muttering and cursing, yet with a kind of terror, he rushed and stumbled.  Absurd!  Silly!  Then he went back to the apple tree.  But she was gone; he could hear a rustle, the grunting of the pigs, the sound of a gate closing.  Instead of her, only this old apple tree!  He flung his arms round the trunk.  What a substitute for her soft body; the rough moss against his face—­what a substitute for her soft cheek; only the scent, as of the woods, a little the same!  And above him, and around, the blossoms, more living, more moonlit than ever, seemed to glow and breathe.

7

Descending from the train at Torquay station, Ashurst wandered uncertainly along the front, for he did not know this particular queen of English watering places.  Having little sense of what he had on, he was quite unconscious of being remarkable among its inhabitants, and strode along in his rough Norfolk jacket, dusty boots, and battered hat, without observing that people gazed at him rather blankly.  He was seeking a branch of his London bank, and having found one, found also the first obstacle to his mood.  Did he know anyone in Torquay?  No.  In that case, if he would wire to his bank in London, they would be happy to oblige him on receipt of the reply.  That suspicious breath from the matter-of-fact world somewhat tarnished the brightness of his visions.  But he sent the telegram.

Nearly opposite to the post office he saw a shop full of ladies’ garments, and examined the window with strange sensations.  To have to undertake the clothing of his rustic love was more than a little disturbing.  He went in.  A young woman came forward; she had blue eyes and a faintly puzzled forehead.  Ashurst stared at her in silence.

“Yes, sir?”

“I want a dress for a young lady.”

The young woman smiled.  Ashurst frowned the peculiarity of his request struck him with sudden force.

The young woman added hastily: 

“What style would you like—­something modish?”

“No.  Simple.”

“What figure would the young lady be?”

“I don’t know; about two inches shorter than you, I should say.”

“Could you give me her waist measurement?”

Megan’s waist!

“Oh! anything usual!”

“Quite!”