“Poor Ghost,” she might cry after it, “you did not know that he would prove so strong!” Nor would he.... Her dream faded like the trembling colours in the evening sea. And otherwise, unless that were so, she could not go. She had no illusions as to what her escape with him would mean. There would be no return for her to Garth—even Glebeshire itself would cast her out. As she thought of all her days, of her babyhood, when the world had been the green lawn and the old oak, of her girlhood, when Rafiel and Polchester had been the farthest bounds, of all the fair days and the wild days, of the scents and the sounds and the cries and the laughter, it seemed that the little cove itself came close to her, pressing up to her, touching her cheek, whispering to her: “You will not go!... You will not go!... You will not go!” No, of her own will she could not go. The golden pool was very full, swelling with a lift and fall that caught the light of the sun as though the evening itself were rocking it. Against the far band of rocks the tide was breaking with a white flash of colour, and the distant caves boomed like drums. But the peace was undisturbed; birds slowly, with a dreamy beat of wings, vanished into a sky that was almost radiant white ... and behind her, the dark rocks, more than ever watching, guarding beasts that loved her, waited for her decision. Then all things faded before her vision of her mother. That so familiar figure seemed to come towards her with a freshness, a piquancy, as though mother and daughter had been parted for years. “We’ve misunderstood one another,” the figure seemed to say: “there shall never be misunderstanding again.” There seemed, at that moment, to be no one else in Katherine’s world: looking back she could see, in all her past life, only her mother’s face, could hear only her mother’s voice. She remembered the day when she had told her about the engagement, the day when she had forgotten about the Stores, yesterday in her bedroom.... She buried her face in her hands, feeling a wild, desperate despair—as though life were too strong for her and her will too weak. She felt a touch on her shoulder, and saw that Philip had returned, his face in the dusk was pale like the white sky. “Well?” he said. She shook her head, smiling a dismal little smile. “I can’t go.... You know that I can’t.” (That other woman in her whispered: ‘Now he must compel you.’) Philip looked out to sea. “I can’t,” she repeated. “I can’t leave it all.” (‘Ah! make me go!’ that other whispered.) He turned away from her and looked back at the rocks. “You care for all this more than for me.” “You know that that is not true. I care for you more than anyone or anything in the world. But these have all been fancies of yours, Phil. In six months time—” she broke off. (‘Force me, compel me to go with you,’ the other woman whispered to him. But he did not hear.) “Yes. We’ll go back,” he said.