He could not bear to see them, but left the
post to Orange, whose black face shone with joy and satisfaction over
Waring's return.
But after a time fate swung around (as she generally does if impatient
humanity would but give her a chance). Waring's health grew, and so
did his love. He had been like a strong man armed, keeping his palace;
but a stronger than he was come, and, the combat over, he went as far
the other way and adored the very sandals of the conqueror. The gates
were open, and all the floods were out.
And Silver? As he advanced, she withdrew. (It is always so in love, up
to a certain point; and beyond that point lies, alas! the broad
monotonous country of commonplace.)
This impetuous, ardent lover was not the Jarvis she had known, the
Jarvis who had been her master, and a despotic one at that.
Frightened, shy, bewildered, she fled away from all her dearest joys,
and stayed by herself in the flower-room with the bar across the door,
only emerging timidly at mealtimes and stealing into the long room
like a little wraith; a rosy wraith now, for at last she had learned
to blush. Waring was angry at this desertion, but only the more in
love; for the violet eyes veiled themselves under his gaze, and the
unconscious child-mouth began to try to control and conceal its
changing expressions, and only succeeded in betraying them more
helplessly than ever.
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