Then, one day,
the key-word had been spoken. After that, they never ceased to hope
that Raymond Warde might come to an untimely end.
During these years Gilbert had grown from a boy to a man, unsuspicious,
worshipping his mother as a kind of superior being, but loving his
father with all that profound instinct of mutual understanding which
makes both love and hatred terrible within the closer degrees of
consanguinity. As time went by and the little Beatrix grew tall and
straight and pale, Gilbert loved her quite naturally, as she loved
him--two young people of one class, without other companions, and very
often brought together for days at a time in the isolated existence of
mediaeval castles. Perhaps Gilbert never realized just how much of his
affection for his mother was the result of her willingness to let him
fall in love with Beatrix. But the possibility of discussing the
marriage was another excuse for those long conversations with Sir
Arnold, which had now become a necessary part of Goda's life, and it
made the frequent visits and meetings in the hawking season seem quite
natural to the unsuspecting Sir Raymond. In hunting with Sir Arnold, he
had more than one narrow escape. Once, when almost at close quarters
with an old boar, he was stooping down to meet the tusker with a low
thrust. His wife and Sir Arnold were some twenty paces behind him, and
all three had become separated from the huntsmen. Seeing the position
and the solitude, the Lady Goda turned her meaning eyes to her
companion.
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