"

By the time he had reached the door, Mr. Flint had gone back to the
window once more, and appeared to have forgotten his presence.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE VALE OF THE BLUE

Austen himself could not well have defined his mental state as he made
his way through the big rooms towards the door, but he was aware of one
main desire--to escape from Fairview. With the odours of the flowers
in the tall silver vases on the piano--her piano!--the spirit of
desire which had so long possessed him, waking and sleeping,
returned,--returned to torture him now with greater skill amidst these
her possessions; her volume of Chopin on the rack, bound in red leather
and stamped with her initials, which compelled his glance as he passed,
and brought vivid to his memory the night he had stood in the snow and
heard her playing. So, he told himself, it must always be, for him to
stand in the snow listening.

He reached the hall, with a vast relief perceived that it was empty, and
opened the door and went out. Strange that he should note, first of all,
as he parsed a moment at the top of the steps, that the very day had
changed. The wind had fallen; the sun, well on his course towards the
rim of western hills, poured the golden light of autumn over field and
forest, while Sawanec was already in the blue shadow; the expectant
stillness of autumn reigned, and all unconsciously Austen's blood was
quickened though a quickening of pain.

The surprise of the instant over, he noticed that his horse was
gone,--had evidently been taken to the stables. And rather than ring the
bell and wait in the mood in which he found himself, he took the path
through the shrubbery from which he had seen the groom emerge.

It turned beyond the corner of the house, descended a flight of stone
steps, and turned again.

They stood gazing each at the other for a space of time not to be
computed before either spoke, and the sense of unreality which comes
with a sudden fulfilment of intense desire--or dread--was upon Austen.
Could this indeed be her figure, and this her face on which he watched
the colour rise (so he remembered afterwards) like the slow flood
of day? Were there so many Victorias, that a new one--and a strange
one--should confront him at every meeting? And, even while he looked,
this Victoria, too,--one who had been near him and departed,--was
surveying him now from an unapproachable height of self-possession and
calm. She held out her hand, and he