"Where is he now?" broke from her in a loud whisper, whose sound was mechanical and hollow."Where is he now?"And she sat there without moving, while the grey mist from the marshes crept close about the door and through it and stole about her feet.
So she sat long--long--in a heavy, far-off dream.
Along the road a man was riding with a lowering, fretted face.He had come across country on horseback, because to travel by train meant wearisome stops and changes and endlessly slow journeying, annoying beyond endurance to those who have not patience to spare.His ride would have been pleasant enough but for the slow mist-like rain.Also he had taken a wrong turning, because he did not know the roads he travelled.The last signpost he had passed, however, had given him his cue again, and he began to feel something of security.
Confound the rain! The best road was slippery with it, and the haze of it made a man's mind feel befogged and lowered his spirits horribly--discouraged him--would worry him into an ill humour even if he had reason to be in a good one.
As for him, he had no reason for cheerfulness--he never had for the matter of that, and just now----! What was the matter with his horse? He was lifting his head and sniffing the damp air restlessly, as if he scented or saw something.Beasts often seemed to have a sort of second sight--horses particularly.
What ailed him that he should prick up his ears and snort after his sniffing the mist! Did he hear anything? Yes, he did, it seemed.He gave forth suddenly a loud shrill whinny, turning his head towards a rough lane they were approaching, and immediately from the vicinity of a deserted-looking cottage behind a hedge came a sharp but mournful-sounding neigh in answer.
"What horse is that?" said Nigel Anstruthers, drawing in at the entrance to the lane and looking down it."There is a fine brute with a side-saddle on," he added sharply."He is waiting for someone.What is a woman doing there at this time? Is it a rendezvous? A good place----"He broke off short and rode forward."I'm hanged if it is not Childe Harold," he broke out, and he had no sooner assured himself of the fact than he threw himself from his saddle, tethered his horse and strode up the path to the broken-hinged door.
He stood on the threshold and stared.What a hole it was--what a hole! And there SHE sat--alone--eighteen or twenty miles from home--on a turned-up box near the black embers, her hands clasped loosely between her knees, her face rather awful, her eyes staring at the floor, as if she did not see it.
"Where is he now?" he heard her whisper to herself with soft weirdness."Where is he now?"Sir Nigel stepped into the place and stood before her.He had smiled with a wry unpleasantness when he had heard her evidently unconscious words.
"My good girl," he said, "I am sure I do not know where he is--but it is very evident that he ought to be here, since you have amiably put yourself to such trouble.It is fortunate for you perhaps that I am here before him.What does this mean?"the question breaking from him with savage authority.
He had dragged her back to earth.She sat upright and recognised him with a hideous sense of shock, but he did not give her time to speak.His instinct of male fury leaped within him.
"YOU!" he cried out."It takes a woman like you to come and hide herself in a place of this sort, like a trolloping gipsy wench! It takes a New York millionairess or a Roman empress or one of Charles the Second's duchesses to plunge as deep as this.You, with your golden pedestal--you, with your ostentatious airs and graces--you, with your condescending to give a man a chance to repent his sins and turn over a new leaf!
Damn it," rising to a sort of frenzy, "what are you doing waiting in a hole like this--in this weather--at this hour--you --you!"The fool's flame leaped high enough to make him start forward, as if to seize her by the shoulder and shake her.
But she rose and stepped back to lean against the side of the chimney--to brace herself against it, so that she could stand in her lame foot's despite.Every drop of blood had been swept from her face, and her eyes looked immense.His coming was a good thing for her, though she did not know it.It brought her back from unearthly places.All her child hatred woke and blazed in her.Never had she hated a thing so, and it set her slow, cold blood running like something molten.
"Hold your tongue!" she said in a clear, awful young voice of warning."And take care not to touch me.If you do--I have my whip here--I shall lash you across your mouth!"He broke into ribald laughter.A certain sudden thought which had cut into him like a knife thrust into flesh drove him on.
"Do!" he cried."I should like to carry your mark back to Stornham--and tell people why it was given.I know who you are here for.Only such fellows ask such things of women.
But he was determined to be safe, if you hid in a ditch.You are here for Mount Dunstan--and he has failed you!"But she only stood and stared at him, holding her whip behind her, knowing that at any moment he might snatch it from her hand.And she knew how poor a weapon it was.To strike out with it would only infuriate him and make him a wild beast.And it was becoming an agony to stand upon her foot.
And even if it had not been so--if she had been strong enough to make a leap and dash past him, her horse stood outside disabled.
Nigel Anstruthers' eyes ran over her from head to foot, down the side of her mud-stained habit, while a curious light dawned in them.
"You have had a fall from your horse," he exclaimed."You are lame!" Then quickly, "That was why Childe Harold was trembling and standing on three feet! By Jove!"Then he sat down on the nail keg and began to laugh.He laughed for a full minute, but she saw he did not take his eyes from her.
