“Even F sharp,” he rejoined, humming the note.
She laughed, and told him to climb the chromatic scale.
“But you agree?” he said.
“I do not,” she replied.
The fog was cold. It seemed to rob them of their courage to talk.
“What is the note in ‘Tristan?’ ” Helena made an effort to ask.
“That is not the same,” he replied.
“No, dear, that is not the same,” she said in low, comforting tones. He quivered at the caress. She put her arms round him, reached up her face yearningly for a kiss. He forgot they were standing in the public footpath, in daylight, till she drew hastily away. She heard footsteps down the fog.
As they climbed the path the mist grew thinner, till it was only a grey haze at the top. There they were on the turfy lip of the land. The sky was fairly clear overhead. Below them the sea was singing hoarsely to itself.
Helena drew him to the edge of the cliff. He crushed her hand, drawing slightly back. But it pleased her to feel the grip on her hand becoming unbearable. They stood right on the edge, to see the smooth cliff slope into the mist, under which the sea stirred noisily.
“Shall we walk over, then ?” said Siegmund, glancing downwards. Helena’s heart stood still a moment at the idea, then beat heavily. How could he play with the idea of death, and the five great days in front? She was afraid of him just then.
“Come away, dear,” she pleaded.
He would, then, forego the few consummate days! It was bitterness to her to think so.
