American fiction -- 19th century; Short stories; Western stories
A bright sun and a keen easterly wind were revealing the curling ridges
of the sea beyond the headland when Randolph again passed the gates of
Dornton Hall on his way to the rectory. Now, for the first time, he was
able to see clearly the outlines of that spot which had seemed to him
only a misty dream, and even in his preoccupation he was struck by its
grave beauty. The leafless limes and elms in the park grouped themselves
as part of the picturesque details of the Hall they encompassed, and
the evergreen slope of firs and larches rose as a background to the
gray battlements, covered with dark green ivy, whose rich shadows were
brought out by the unwonted sunshine. With a half-repugnant curiosity he
had tried to identify the garden entrance and the fateful yew hedge the
captain had spoken of as he passed. But as quickly he fell back upon the
resolution he had taken in coming there--to dissociate his secret, his
experience, and his responsibility to his patron from his relations
to Sibyl Eversleigh; to enjoy her companionship without an obtruding
thought of the strange circumstances that had brought them together
at first, or the stranger fortune that had later renewed their
acquaintance. He had resolved to think of her as if she had merely
passed into his life in the casual ways of society, with only her
personal charms to set her apart from others. Why should his exclusive
possession of a secret--which, even if confided to her, would only give
her needless and hopeless anxiety--debar them from an exchange of those
other confidences of youth and sympathy? Why could he not love her and
yet withhold from her the knowledge of her cousin's existence? So he had
determined to make the most of his opportunity during his brief holiday;
to avail himself of her naive invitation, and even of what he dared
sometimes to think was her predilection for his companionship. And if,
before he left, he had acquired a right to look forward to a time
when her future and his should be one--but here his glowing fancy was
abruptly checked by his arrival at the rectory door.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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