Ravenshoe. By Henry Kingsley.

12 RAVENSHOE.
" Nothing special," said Mackworth; "only I have never been
easy since you told me of that London escapade-years ago."
"He has been very devout ever since," said Clifford. "I fear
nothing."
" Humph! Well, I am glad to hear it," said Mackworth. "I
shall go to Rome. I'd sooner be gossiping with Alphonse and
Pierre in the cloisters than vegetating here. My talents are
thrown away."
He departed down the winding steps of the priests' turret,
which led to the flower-garden. The day was fine, and a pleasant seat a short distance off invited him to sit. He could get a
book he knew from the drawing-room and'sit there. So, with
habitually noiseless tread, he passed along the dark corridor, and
opened the drawing-room door.
Nobody was there. The book he wanted was in the little
drawing-room beyond, separated from the room he was in by a
partly-drawn curtain. The priest advanced silently over the
deep piled carpet and looked in.
The summer sunlight, struggling through a waving bower of
climbing plants and the small panes of a deeply mullioned window, fell upon two persons, at the sight of whom he paused, and,
holding his breath, stood, like a black statue in the gloomy room,
wrapped in astonishment.
He had never in his life heard these twain use any words beyond those of common courtesy towards one another; he had
thought them the most indifferent, the coldest pair, he had ever
seen. But now! now, the haughty beauty was bending from her
chair over her husband, who sat on a stool at her feet; her arm
was round his neck, and her hand was in his; and, as he looked,
she parted the clustering black curls from his forehead and kissed
him.
He bent forward, and listened more eagerly. He could hear
the surf on the shore, the sea-birds on the cliffs, the nightingale
in the wood; they fell upon his ear, but he could not distinguish
them; he waited only for one of the two figures before him to
speak.
At last Mrs. Ravenshoe broke silence, but in so low a voice
that even he, whose attention was strained to the uttermost, could
barely catch what she said.
"I yield, my love," said she; " I give you this one, but mind,
the rest are mine. I have your solemn promise for that?"
"My solemn promise," said Densil, and kissed her again.
"My dear," she resumed, " I wish you could get rid of that
priest, that Mackworth. He is irksome to me."
"He was recommended to my especial care by my mother,"
was Densil's reply. "If you could let him stay I should much
rather."