The Argosy — page 161: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

By the Sad Sea Waves. 149 temper, and getting us both into trouble, his voice startles me—or rather not his. voice, but what he says. “T have called you fast,” it says; “even a ‘girl of the period.’ I never meant to fall in love with you. But yet—I have done it.” There is an odd, half-humourous, half-doubtful tone in the voice; and its owner is clutching Ottalie’s two hands. Heer head is bent so low, I can only see the outline of a flushed cheek. Apprehension— anger—I hardly know what feeling arouses me. CT Ottalie 1? I may as well call to the moon. She does not hear or heed me. Mr. Daine bends down to her and speaks almost in a whisper. Her eyes—the big, beautiful grey eyes—glance up at him. In my vexation I retire from the window. In my trouble I walk back to it. Both of them have forgotten my existence. “Do you know,” he goes on, and my ears are quick, “I began by meaning to dislike you. I did not care for a girl who could be fast enough to row a stranger over the bay and personate a boatman’s daughter. Ottalie, how did you subdue my prejudices ?—How did you get the better of me? Are you a witch?” Mr. Daine is certainly an odd lover, if he means it for love, and woos after a fashion of his own ; but Ottalie does not seem to object. As he bends to her, the wind stirs her pretty hair, and the water comes rolling in slowly over the sunshiny sand—poor, foolish Ottalie. “You are a witch, perhaps,” he says, after a pause. ‘On my life I cannot tell! I only know one thing—I love you!” “Really and truly do you love me? Really and truly?” asks she, childishly twisting her fingers together, as she rises to her feet, and looks up at him. “ Better than life!” he answers, and takes both the hands in his. Dismay had held my breath, but I call now. “ Ottalie !” He hears that, and looks round. She goes and looks out at the murmuring sea. At that moment the maid comes in with the tea-tray, cake, and bread-and-butter. We dine early on Sundays. ‘Come in to tea,” I call out, in desperate hope of putting an end to their folly. But no; just as though my words were wind, they regard them not. Opening the gate, they stroll off together across the sands. I take my tea alone, with a sinking heart. How intensely foolish Ottalie is ! The wildest imagination could not, I fear, picture Deborah Peyre as a “praying woman.” Of course I go to church; I go this evening. I have called myself a miserable sinner scores of times ; now I feel I am one, or that she is, or he is; or that we are all sinners together. I get into a back pew, and I believe I pray. Itry to pray; more earnestly perhaps than I had ever tried in my life. And after the service is ; | | a