Unless--and a swift spasm of pain shot through her, searing its way like a tongue of flame--unless Lady Anne had been altogether mistaken in her fixed belief that Blaise had not really cared for his wife but had only been carried away on the swift tide of passion--that tide which runs so fiercely and untrammelled in hot youth.
Jean had her black hour then, when she faced the fact that although her love was given, and although she tremulously believed it was returned, she would probably never know the supreme joy of utter certainty, never hear the beloved’s voice utter those words which hold all heaven for the woman who hears them.
But, through the darkness that closed about her, there gleamed a single thread of light--the light of her own bestowal of love. Even if she never knew, of a surety, that Blaise cared, even if--and here she shrank, but forced herself to face the possibility sincerely--even if she were utterly mistaken and he did not care for her in any other way save as a friend--his “little comrade”--still there would remain always the golden gleam of love that has been given. For no one who loves can be quite unhappy.
THE chalcedony of the spring skies had deepened into the glowing sapphire of early June--a deep, pulsating blue, tremulous with heat. On the sundial, the shadow’s finger pointed to twelve o’clock, and the sleepy hush of noontide hung over the rose garden where Jean was gathering roses for the house.
Burke’s voice broke across the drowsy quiet so unexpectedly that she jumped, almost letting fall the scissors with which she was scientifically snipping the stems of the roses. She bestowed a small frown upon the head and shoulders appearing above the wooden gate on which he leant.
“It’s not very helpful to begin by giving one an electric shock,” she complained. “How long have you been there?” His attitude had a repose about it which suggested that he might have been standing there some time watching her.
“I don’t know. But as I _am_ here, may I come in?” Without waiting for her answer, he unlatched the gate and came striding across the velvet greenness of the lawn.
His visits to Staple had grown of late so much a matter of daily occurrence that they were no longer hedged about by any ceremony, and Jean had come to accept his appearance at any odd moment without surprise.