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Updated: May 23, 2025
That laugh of his was still ringing like sweetest music through her soul. He took her shoulders between his hands, searching her face closely. "And now," he said "now tell me his name!" Yet a moment longer she withstood him. Then she yielded, and went into his arms, laughing also a broken, tearful laugh. "His name is Lester Cheveril," she whispered. "But I I can't think how you guessed."
"I should be ready enough to clear out if it weren't for some one else!" "A woman, I suppose?" Cheveril said. He was aware that his companion glanced at him sharply through the gloom, and knew that he was momentarily suspected of eavesdropping. Then, with impulsive candour, the answer came: "Yes; the girl I'm engaged to. She has got to stay behind and marry some one else."
It comes upon you so suddenly and carries you away before you have time to realise what has happened. At least that has been my experience. There is no mistaking the real thing when it actually comes to you. "I am getting on awfully well, and like the life. By the way, it was through your friend, Lester Cheveril, that I got this appointment. A jolly decent chap that! I liked him from the first.
Indeed, he felt his wit, like Romeo's, to be of cheveril; and his conviction that it needed only the pull of circumstance to stretch it "from an inch narrow to an ell broad" expressed but the very wooing quality of a constitutional optimism. Now this inherent optimism is at least a serviceable weapon when it takes the form of self-reliance.
"I am not a very lively companion to-night, Mr. Cheveril," she said. "That is why I came away from the rest." There was more of appeal in her voice than she intended; and, realising it, she coloured deeply, and looked away again. He was just the sort of man to avail himself of a moment's weakness, she told herself, with rising agitation. Those shrewd eyes of his missed nothing.
And her people will simply force her to accept him when he does. Of course they will! He is Cheveril, the millionaire. You must have heard of him. Every one has." "I know him well," said Cheveril. "So do I by sight," the boy plunged on recklessly "an undersized little animal with a squint." "I didn't know he squinted," Cheveril remarked into the darkness.
"Quite sure?" said Cheveril, and she caught the old quizzical note in his voice. She did not reply. She was trying to understand him in the darkness, and she found it a difficult matter. There followed a long, long silence. The roar of the breaking seas had become remote and vague. But the moonlight was growing brighter. The dark cave was no longer a place of horror. "Shall we go?"
Under a flaring gas-lamp, Cheveril stood still. "Do you mind telling me your name?" he said abruptly. That roused the boy slightly. "My name is Willowby," he answered "James Willowby." He looked at Cheveril with a dawning wonder, and the latter uttered a short, grim laugh. The light streamed full upon his face. "You know me well, don't you," he said, "by sight?"
The man was going to propose, she knew she knew; and she was not ready for him. She felt that she would break down ignominiously if he pressed his suit just then. Cheveril, however, seemed in no hurry. He sat down facing her, and there followed a pause, during which she felt that he was studying her attentively. Growing desperate at length, she looked him in the face, and spoke.
They had nearly reached the water. The rush and splash of the waves held something solemn in their harmonies, like the chords of a splendid symphony. Cheveril heard the quick, indignant voice at his side like a cry of unrest breaking through. "What can I do?" it said. "I have never had a chance till now.
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