Just below the spot where Piers and Irene
rested, a great lichened hazel stretched itself all across the beck;
in the upward direction a narrowing vista, filled with every tint of
leafage, rose to the brown of the moor and the azure of the sky. All
about grew tall, fruiting grasses, and many a bright flower;
clusters of pink willow-weed, patches of yellow ragwort, the
perfumed meadowsweet, and, amid bracken and bramble, the purple
shining of a great campanula.
On the open moor, the sun blazed with parching heat; here was
freshness as of spring, the waft of cool airs, the scent of verdure
moistened at the root.
"Once upon a time," said Otway, when both had been listening to
their thoughts, "I fancied myself as unlucky a man as walked the
earth. I've got over that."
Irene did not look at him; she waited for the something else which
his voice promised.
"Think of my good fortune in meeting you this afternoon. If I had
gone to the Castle another way, I should have missed you; yet I all
but did go by the fields. And there was nothing I desired so much as
to see you somewhere--by yourself."
The slight failing of his voice at the end helped Irene to speak
collectedly.
"Chance was in my favour, too. I came down to the beck, hoping I
might meet you."
She saw his hand move, the fingers clutch together. Before he could
say anything, she continued:
"I want to tell you of an ill-natured story that has reached my
ears.
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