Each morning felt both bright and borrowed. He tried to think himself foolish for expecting loss where he had met only kindness, yet the thought persisted. Habit or warning, he could not decide. Still, one truth remained. Hope had entered his life uninvited, and he would be dishonoured to dismiss it merely because he was afraid.
The candle sank lower. He closed the book he had not read and sat a while in the soft hush of the room. The flame, steady and small, threw its light in a narrow circle, and he thought again of the lighthouse. How faithfully it had stood, shining for the sake of those who might never see it closely, guiding strangers across dark water. He wished to be such a light for her. To be silent now would be a cowardice unworthy of either of them. If she could not love him, he would carry his love as honour. If she could, his life would take its pattern from that steady beam.
He bent to shield the flame, set the wick safe for the night, and in that quiet act chose the morning.
Chapter Eighteen
It was the last morning they would have the leisure to walk in Brinmouth. Elizabeth knew it even before she opened her eyes. The chamber was very still and touched with early light. She could hear the distant murmur of the waves, steady and familiar; the sea would remain though she must leave it.
She rose earlier than was her habit and dressed with particular care. It was only a walk, such as she had taken nearly every morning for six weeks, yet she found herself lingering over the fastening of a ribbon or the arrangement of a sleeve. She laughed once at her own attention to such matters.
Mrs. Gardiner was already at the breakfast table. Mr. Gardiner had gone to the harbour, where business could not yield even to a last morning. Mrs. Gardiner looked at Elizabeth with one of her quiet, encompassing glances, so gentle that they never embarrassed, yet so perceptive that they never deceived.
“You slept tolerably, my dear,” she said.
“Tolerably,” she answered. “Though I shall miss the sound of the water. It is a poor preparation for Hertfordshire meadows.”
Mrs. Gardiner poured another cup. “The tide will reward you this morning. Your uncle expects Mr. Darcy at the harbour, so you and James may take your usual hour on the sands.”
Elizabeth bent her attention to her tea.
“I shall not be gone long,” she said. “There is so much to be done before we quit the house. And you will want to write to the children at Ashford House. They must be impatient for your return.”
“For ours,” Mrs. Gardiner corrected. “They will miss you too, Lizzy.” Her aunt laid a hand briefly over hers. “There is timeenough for what matters.” Elizabeth made no answer, but a few minutes later rose to fetch her bonnet from the little passage. James touched his hat and fell back at the proper distance as she stepped into the morning. The air was bright and fresh; clouds drifted high above the sea, and the water shone beneath them with uncommon clarity.
She descended the path toward the strand with a composure she did not entirely possess. Nothing had been spoken between them of London, of Hertfordshire, or of what might follow when distance and duty resumed their claims. He had been all steadiness and every kindness, yet kindness was not certainty.
The tide was far out. Long pale reaches of sand shone where the water had withdrawn, traced by narrow channels that glimmered like glass. The air held the mingled scent of salt and weed and the faint tar of the harbour. It was all so familiar that the thought of leaving it touched her unexpectedly.
She glanced back and saw that James had halted at the rise, respectfully distant. Several times she fancied that a figure upon the path might prove to be Mr. Darcy, and was as often mistaken. At length, however, he appeared by the lower way from the street above, the slope having concealed him until he was nearly upon the strand. He removed his hat and bowed.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet.”
“Good morning, sir.”
Her voice was steady, though her pulse was not. They spoke for a few moments of the weather, of the tide, of her uncle's business at the harbour. A gull wheeled low over the water and vanished toward the quay. The tide had begun to turn, and small waves slipped quietly over the sand.
“Your time in Brinmouth is very nearly finished,” he said at last. “Your uncle mentioned yesterday that you leave tomorrow.”
“Yes,” she replied. “We go first to town for a day or two. Mrs. Gardiner is impatient to see the children at Ashford House. We shall not linger. My uncle's business here is concluded; there is no further cause to remain.”
“I think Brinmouth will remember you longer than you remember it.”
She coloured and looked down at the sand. “You make it sound as if my tread upon the beach is of consequence.”
“It has been so to me,” he answered.
They walked on. The waves rose and fell in their quiet measure. A gull settled on a distant rock.
At length he spoke again.
“Miss Bennet; may I ask whether you find the walk fatiguing to-day, or whether you could bear to go as far as the outer bar? The sand is firm there, and we should still be well within Mrs. Gardiner's appointed time.”
“I am quite equal to it,” she said. “The air is so mild; one might believe the sea wished to be kind upon our last day.”
He inclined his head, and they followed the curve of the bay toward the farther point where the tide had drawn back, leaving a broad expanse of glistening sand between the shore and the line of foam. James remained where the path widened; from that distance he could see them clearly, and hear nothing.
For some minutes neither spoke. The sound of the water accompanied them, and the distance between themselves and the cottages gradually increased. Elizabeth became conscious that they were farther from interruption than they had ever been before.
