"Come," she said, "let us sit down and talk. There are two years
between us."
She led the way back in the direction whence he had come, and when they
had reached the bank of moss she seated herself and looked out under
the trees, at the blue water. He stood still a moment as though
hesitating, and then sat down beside her, but not quite close to her,
as he would have done in earlier years.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "there are two years between us. We must
bridge them."
"And between what we were and what we are there is something more than
time," she answered, still looking far away.
"Yes."
He was silent, and he thought of his mother, and he knew that Beatrix
was thinking of her too, and of her own father. It had not occurred to
him that Beatrix could resent the marriage as bitterly as he, nor that
she could in any way be as great a loser by it as he was.
"Tell me why you left England," he said at last.
"And you? Why did you leave your home?"
She turned to him, and the little melancholy smile that was
characteristic of her was in her face.
"I had no home left," he answered gravely.
"And had I? How could I live with them? No--how could I have lived
with them, knowing what I did, even had they been ever so kind?"
"Were they unkind to you?"
Gilbert's deep eyes grew suddenly pale as they turned to hers, and his
words came slowly and distinctly, like the first drops of a thunder
shower.
"Not at first. They came to the castle where I had been left all alone
after they were married, and my father told me that I must call the
Lady Goda my mother.
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