And then Cramier said:  “Put on that scarf thing, Olive, and come round the garden with me.”

Mrs. Ercott admitted to herself now that what John said was true.  Just one gleam of eyes, turned quickly this way and that, as a bird looks for escape; and then Olive had got up and quietly gone with him down the path, till their silent figures were lost to sight.

Disturbed to the heart, Mrs. Ercott rose and went over to her husband’s chair.  He was frowning, and staring at his evening shoe balanced on a single toe.  He looked up at her and put out his hand.  Mrs. Ercott gave it a squeeze; she wanted comfort.

The Colonel spoke: 

“It’s heavy to-night, Dolly.  I don’t like the feel of it.”

XVII

They had passed without a single word spoken, down through the laurels and guelder roses to the river bank; then he had turned to the right, and gone along it under the dove-house, to the yew-trees.  There he had stopped, in the pitch darkness of that foliage.  It seemed to her dreadfully still; if only there had been the faintest breeze, the faintest lisping of reeds on the water, one bird to make a sound; but nothing, nothing save his breathing, deep, irregular, with a quiver in it.  What had he brought her here for?  To show her how utterly she was his?  Was he never going to speak, never going to say whatever it was he had in mind to say?  If only he would not touch her!

Then he moved, and a stone dislodged fell with a splash into the water.  She could not help a little gasp.  How black the river looked!  But slowly, beyond the dim shape of the giant poplar, a shiver of light stole outwards across the blackness from the far bank—­the moon, whose rim she could now see rising, of a thick gold like a coin, above the woods.  Her heart went out to that warm light.  At all events there was one friendly inhabitant of this darkness.

Suddenly she felt his hands on her waist.  She did not move, her heart beat too furiously; but a sort of prayer fluttered up from it against her lips.  In the grip of those heavy hands was such quivering force!

His voice sounded very husky and strange:  “Olive, this can’t go on.  I suffer.  My God!  I suffer!”

A pang went through her, a sort of surprise.  Suffer!  She might wish him dead, but she did not want him to suffer—­God knew!  And yet, gripped by those hands, she could not say:  I am sorry!

He made a sound that was almost a groan, and dropped on his knees.  Feeling herself held fast, she tried to push his forehead back from her waist.  It was fiery hot; and she heard him mutter:  “Have mercy!  Love me a little!” But the clutch of his hands, never still on the thin silk of her dress, turned her faint.  She tried to writhe away, but could not; stood still again, and at last found her voice.

“Mercy?  Can I make myself love?  No one ever could since the world began.  Please, please get up.  Let me go!”