And yet all the emotionalism of this
climax was centered elsewhere. It was from Philippa's lips that
he would hear his real sentence; it was her answer which would
fill him once more with the lust for life, or send him on in his
rush through the night for safety, callous, almost indifferent
as to its result.
He walked up the drive, curiously at his ease, in a state of
suspended animation, which knew no hope and feared no
disappointment. Just before he reached the front door, the
postern gate in the wall on his left-hand side opened, and
Philippa stood there, muffled up in her fur coat, framed in the
faint and shadowy moonlight against the background of seabounded
space. He moved eagerly towards her.
"I heard the car," she whispered. "Come and sit down for a moment.
It isn't in the least cold, and the moon is just coming up over the
sea. I came out," she went on, as he walked obediently by her
side, "because the house somehow stifled me."
She led him to a seat. Below, the long waves were breaking through
upon the rocks, throwing little fountains of spray into the air.
The village which lay at their feet was silent and lifeless--there
was, indeed, a curious absence of sound, except when the incoming
waves broke upon the rocks and ground the pebbles together in their
long, backward swish. Very soon the sleeping country, now wrapped
in shadows, would take form and outline in the light of the rising
moon; hedges would divide the square fields, the black woods would
take shape and the hills their mystic solemnity.
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