Feeling for the path in the blackness of the wood, I led her by the hand,
and she followed me as trustfully as a child. At last, after an age of
groping, the heavy scents of shrubs and flowers stole to us on the night
air, and we came out at the hedge into what seemed a blaze of light that
flooded the rows of color. Here we paused, breathless, and looked. The
bench under the great tree was vacant, and the garden was empty.
It was she who led the way through the hedge, who halted in the garden
path at the sound of voices. She turned, but there was no time to flee,
for the tall figure of a man came through the opposite hedge, followed by
a lady. One was Nicholas Temple, the other, Mademoiselle de St. Gre.
Mrs. Temple's face alone was in the shadow, and as I felt her hand
trembling on my arm I summoned all my resources. It was Nick who spoke
first.
"It is Davy!" he cried. "Oh, the sly rascal! And this is the promenade
of which he left us word, the solitary meditation! Speak up, man; you
are forgiven for deserting us."
He turned, laughing, to Mademoiselle. But she stood with her lips parted
and her hands dropped, staring at my companion. Then she took two steps
forward and stopped with a cry.
"Mrs. Clive!"
The woman beside me turned, and with a supreme courage raised her head
and faced the girl.
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