us be content to belong to the old-fashioned crowd,” he suggested. “You come anyhow of a race which expresses itself far more naturally than we Anglo-Saxons can, and whether I am self-conscious about it or not, I am not in the least ashamed of owning that I am absolutely and entirely in love with you.”
She stretched out her arms.
“Come and tell me so again, darling,” she invited. “Tell me so many times during the day. Do not let us care what any of these moderns are doing. Keep on telling me so.”
Which invitation and his prompt acceptance of it seemed to form the textbook of their wonderful cruise.
* * * * *
And then at last their voyage came to an end. In the pearly grey stillness before the dawn they found themselves one morning on deck, leaning over the rail, watching a dark mass ahead gradually take to itself definite shape. A lighthouse gave pale warning of a nearby harbour. The stars faded and a faint green light in the east broke into the coming day. They heard the ringing down of the engine behind. They were passing through the placid waters now at half speed. The shape and colour of that dark mass gradually resolved themselves. The glimmering light sank into obscurity. There were rolling woods and pine-topped hills surrounding the old-fashioned town of quaintly shaped buildings which they were slowly approaching. Behind there was a great sweep of meadowland—a broad ribbon of deep green turf—cut so many ages ago that it seemed as though it must have been a lordly avenue from all time. At the head was a dim vista of flower gardens surrounding the Castle, from the turrets of which the streaming flag had already caught the morning breeze. One other building towered over the little town—the cathedral—half in ruins, half still massive and important. As they drew nearer they could hear the chimes, the sound of bells floating over the water. He pressed her arm.
“No salute,” he warned her. “Some one told me there was not a gun upon
the island.”
“Is that not rather wonderful?” she whispered. “We have had all two people need of strife. The bells are better.”
They were near enough now to hear the birds in the woods which hung over the low cliffs. A flight of duck surprised them. The chiming of the bells grew more melodious. There was a little catch in her voice as her arms reached out for him.
“The people on the quay may see us but I do not care,” she whispered. “This is Paradise which we have found!”
THE END
THE GREAT IMPERSONATION
CHAPTER I
The trouble from which great events were to come began when Everard Dominey, who had been fighting his way through the scrub for the last three quarters of an hour towards those thin, spiral wisps of smoke, urged
