altogether angry with the partner of his thoughtlessness, nor could
he be entirely cold. Her beautiful eyes, her despairing attitude
would haunt him he knew for many a day. She had ceased weeping and
stood quietly awaiting his departure. Amherst felt all the force of
a strong and novel passion sweep along his frame as he looked at
her. Was she happy, was she a loved and loving wife? Somehow the
conviction forced itself upon him that she was not. Yet he could not
ask her, it must remain her secret.
Amherst looked at his watch. It aroused her.
"What is the time?" she said lifting her head for the first time
since he had kissed her.
"Ten minutes past six," Amherst replied.
"You must go," she said, with an effort at self-control. "I shall
have much to do presently."
He cast one look about and approached her.
"Will you forgive me"--he began in a tone of repression, then with
another mighty and involuntary movement he caught her hands and
pressed them to his breast. "My God," he exclaimed, "how I should
have loved you!"
A moment after he flung her hands away and strode down the cliff,
unfastened his boat and rowed away in the direction of the hotel as
fast as he could. Rounding a sharp rock that hid what lay beyond it,
he nearly succeeded in overturning another boat like his own, in
which sat a gentleman of middle age, stout and pleasant and mild of
countenance. The bottom of the boat was full of fish. Amherst made
an incoherent apology, to which the gentleman answered with a
good-natured laugh, insisting that the fault was his own. He would
have liked to enter into conversation with Amherst, but my friend
was only anxious to escape from the place altogether and forget his
recent adventure in the hurry of departure from the hotel. Three
days after he embarked at Quebec for England, and never revisited
Canada. But he never married and never forgot the woman whom he
always asserted he might have truly and passionately loved. He was
about twenty-eight when that happened and perfectly heart-whole. Why--
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