"No, no! you were right!" said Margaret. "Why do you not go to her?"
"I have come to her!" panted the girl. "Oh, Mrs. Stanley!—--" but she stopped perforce, for Margaret's open-eyed bewilderment showed that the words were lost upon her.
"You have come?" she said. "Come where—to whom?"
"I have come here, toyou!" exclaimed the girl, stretching out her hands. "Oh, dear lady, you are beautiful, ten times more beautiful than I am; but you look good and kind. Have mercy on me, and give me back my husband!"
Margaret shrank back, paling a little, but once again convinced that she was in the presence of a mad woman.
Yes, that was the key to the whole scene. The woman was one of those monomaniacs who are possessed by the shadow of an imagined wrong, and had pitched upon her as the person who had injured her! She looked toward the door and half rose, but before she could rise from her chair, the girl threw herself on her knees before her, and caught at her dress.
"You do not believe me! You would spurn me! Oh, my dear lady, in Heaven's name, listen to me! Do not turn from me! Think of my great wrong, my broken heart. You think you love him, but remember me! I am his wife—his wife; while you—ah, you have no claim on him! Besides, he has wronged you as cruelly almost as he has wronged me! Do not hesitate, dear, dear lady; have pity on me, and let him come back to me!" she cried, sobbing now bitterly.
Margaret tried to jerk her dress from the clinging hands, but they held too tightly.
"You—you are mad!" she got out at last, in a horrified voice, which she tried to keep steady. "I do not know you—I never saw you before! I know nothing of your husband! It's a mistake, all a mistake. Let me go, please, or I shall call some one——"
"No, no! Listen to me! Be patient with me!" pleaded the girl. "You do not know me, but I know you, though I only saw you and him together once. It was up the river. Oh, I should never, never forget you. Oh, be good to me! Let him come back to me! I am his wife—his wife! You will not, you cannot divide husband and wife!"
"Yes, you are mad!" said Margaret, with conviction. "You have never seen me with your husband!—never! never! Let go my dress!"
"Yes, you!" sobbed the girl. "Do you think I should mistake when all my life hung upon it? I have tried not to mention my husband's name, but you force me to do it. He may have tried to hide it from you—it is possible—but you may know it!"
"Yes, tell me," said Margaret, soothingly, feeling that it would be well to humor her, "tell me; but let go my dress—you frighten me—please."
"His name is Blair! He is Lord Leyton!" sobbed the girl.
Margaret uttered no cry. For a second she seemed as if she had not heard. The room spun round; the blue sky outside the window turned red; and the sofa opposite her seemed to heave as if shaken by an earthquake. Then she laughed.
"You are a wicked woman!" she said, in slow tones of cold anger and contempt—"a very wicked woman! Why have you come here with this story? Do you want money?"
The girl looked up at her with a strange look. Had she expected her victim to take the blow differently?
"You—you don't believe me!" she wailed at last.
Margaret laughed; a short laugh of scorn and contempt.
"Believe you!" she said, and that was all.
Her retort seemed to render the girl desperate.
"You know it is true!" she cried. "You knew that he was married—that I am his wife. He is Lord Blair Leyton; his uncle is the Earl of Ferrers. He is my husband, and you have stolen him from me——"
"You lie!" burst from Margaret's white lips.
The passion that had been smoldering within her bosom leapt like an all-devouring flame to her lips, and she stood over the pale-faced, crouching girl like a goddess, her tall, graceful figure drawn to its full height, her eyes blazing, her hand outstretched as if it held the lightnings of Jove.
No wonder the girl shrank and cowered.
She did more than cower; she hesitated. For in that moment she quailed with fear, and half melted with pity, and shrank with loathing from her hellish task.
It was only for a moment. She had gone too far to go back now. To draw back would lead to exposure and ruin.
"Oh, hush, hush!" she whined. "You are too cruel! You know I speak the truth. We were married on the twelfth of March at St. Jude's—you do not believe me—see there, then; there is the certificate!" and she drew a paper from her breast and held it out, keeping firm grip of it, however.
Margaret stared at her without moving for a moment; then she bent down. For awhile she could see nothing, the paper and the characters on it danced before her eyes. Then her vision cleared, and she saw, still obscurely, the printed and written lines.
It was a certificate of the marriage of Blair, Lord Leyton—it set forth the long string of his Christian names—and Lucy Snowe, at the church of St. Jude, Paddington, on March the twelfth of the present year.
She tried to grasp the paper, but her fingers refused to close on it, and fell limp and useless at her side, and she stood glaring down at the crouching figure at her feet as at some monster.
"Are you convinced?" wailed the girl. "Do you believe me now? Oh, howdoyou think I should have the heart to tell you such a story? And now—what will you do? Oh, give him back to me! I don't utter a word of reproach against you! No! I know, I feel that he has deceived you—Ah!" she broke out as if she had been stung. "Don't tell me he has married you! If he has, if he has dared to, I'll punish him! I'll send him to penal servitude. I'll——"
Margaret's swooning senses caught the threat, and she held out her hand. It was her turn to plead.
"No, no!" she panted almost inaudibly, "he—he hasnot! He is nothing to me! You—you shall have him back! Oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven!" and, with a cry that rang through the room, she fell forward on her face.
Lottie Belvoir looked down at the prostrate figure of Margaret with a pallor that made the carefully-applied paint on her face look yellow by contrast.
For a minute or two she felt frightened and had an idea of calling for help. Lottie was not altogether a bad girl; indeed, the persons who are either altogether bad or altogether good do not exist in real life, but only in the pages of some novels.
She had been brought up in a hard school, in which each has to struggle for itself, and where each knows that without doubt the devil will take the hindmost.
Mr. Austin Ambrose had worked upon her feelings and tempted her to do this thing, and she had done it. But in the doing of it she had felt distinctly uncomfortable, in the first place she had discovered that Margaret was a lady; if she had been one of Lottie's own class, Lottie could have had no compunction whatever. Then Margaret's beauty, which affected everybody more or less, had had its effect upon Lottie; then again Margaret had treated her so kindly and gently; and altogether Lottie Belvoir had not had a particularly good time of it.
She got the glass of water and sprinkled it over the white beautiful face, and chafed her hands and presently Margaret reopened her eyes, and smiling faintly, murmured—"Blair!"
Then, as memory returned to its seat, the white features were convulsed, and shrinking away from Lottie she said, in a ghastly whisper:
"It is all true, then? I—I thought that I had dreamt it."
"Yes, it is all true," said Lottie, rather sullenly. "And now I want to know what you are going to do, miss?"
Margaret winced at the "miss." More surely than any other word could have done, it brought home to her the fact of her ruin and degradation.
Slowly she dragged herself to a chair, and sank into it, refusing with a slight shudder Lottie's proffered arm.
"What I am going to do?" she repeated in a dull, benumbed fashion. "I do not know! Yes I—I must go away! I must go at once, before—before he returns."
"That is the best thing you can do, miss," said Lottie. "It goes against me to drive you away, but what can I do? He is my husband——"
"Yes, yes," gasped Margaret, as if she were choking, "he is your husband—he is nothing to me. I have no right to stay here now. I will go."
"Perhaps you'd like to see him again, like to see us face to face and have it out with him?" suggested Lottie, doubtfully, and watching Margaret's face covertly.
"No, no," she said, instantly, and with a shudder, "I—I never wish to see him again."
"He has behaved cruelly, shamefully to you, miss," said Lottie; "to both of us, in fact, and he isn't worth fretting about, though he is a lord."
Margaret sat staring at the gayly patterned carpet, almost as if she had not heard the last words, then she looked round the room in a kind of bewildered fashion.
Lottie rose and let down her veil.
"There is a train in an hour," she said, with a sympathetic sigh, "if you'd like to go to London, or perhaps you'd like to go abroad. If there should be money wanted——"
She had almost gone too far.
Margaret rose and looked at her with wild eyes.
"I will go," she panted, "do not be afraid. I will never see your—your husband again. Butleave me alone! Do not offer me money"—then her face changed, and with a sob she cried—"forgive me. It is you who have been wronged as well as me. I—I did not mean to speak so—but, ah, if you would only go and leave me to fight against my misery."
Lottie turned pale again under her paint, and moved toward the door. There she paused, and a strange look came into her face. It was the shadow of coming remorse casting itself before its steps. Even then there was a chance for Margaret, for at that moment Lottie's womanly heart was beginning to assert itself, and the impulse to fling herself at Margaret's feet and tell her the truth—the real truth—was making itself felt; but at that instant she caught sight of a man's figure coming up the winding path, and with a quick step she came toward Margaret.
"I am going," she said, in her ear; "you will not see me again. Go to London—abroad—somewhere away from Blair, and—fromMr. Austin Ambrose!"
These last words were not in her part, but for the life of her, though she lost all, Lottie could not have helped whispering them. Then, without waiting for any response, she went out and turned down the path. A hundred yards from the gate, on the narrow path, she met Austin Ambrose.
"Well," he said, quickly, "is it over?"
"Yes, it's done," she said, looking at him with anythingbut a pleasant countenance; "and a nice job it has been! Why didn't you tell me she was a lady?"
He made an impatient gesture.
"What does it matter? Where is she?—how did she take it?"
"She is in there," said Lottie shortly; "and she took it—well, it would have been almost as easy to have murdered her! Indeed, I shouldn't be surprised if itdidkill her. She fell at my feet as if she were dead."
"Tut!" he said, with a cold smile; "she is not of the sort that die easily. She will get over it. But there is no time to lose. You get over to Paris; catch the down-train to the junction, and travel by the night mail."
"And you—what are you going to do now?" she asked.
He smiled.
"You need not trouble about that," he said. "You have done your part, and I'll see that you get your reward."
She nodded.
"If it was to be done over again," she began; then she moved on a step, but stopped and, with a spot of red, said:
"I advise you to get away before Blair comes back. If he should happen to turn up"—she shrugged her shoulders—"I wouldn't give much for your life!"
He nodded and laughed, and his eyes flashed evilly.
"Blair will not turn up!" he said.
The tone of confidence startled her.
"Why? What have you done with him?" she asked.
"Now, my dear Lottie," he said in a low voice, and looking round cautiously, "don't interfere with my part of the play. It doesn't concern you. Get off as fast as you can, and make your mind easy. Stop! you'll want money," and he put his hand to his pocket; but, with a deep flush and a tightening of the lips, she refused it—as Margaret had refused hers!
"I've got enough money to go on with," she said. "You can send it to the Hotel de Louvre at Paris, if you like," and, with a nod, she sped quick down the path.
Austin Ambrose waited for a minute or two, looking at the sky. The blue that had been so unbroken a short time since was streaked with fleecy clouds, that might later grow black.
Then he opened the cottage door and walked into the room where Margaret sat, her head resting upon her outstretched arms.
While one could count twenty he stood and looked down at her, then he said, in a low voice:
"Miss Margaret!"
She did not start, but raised her head and looked at him, and a shudder seemed to convulse her whole frame.
"You here?" she said, scarcely audible.
He inclined his head with a sorrowful gesture.
"Yes, I am here. I have come to see if by any chance I can be of assistance to you."
"Then—then you have heard it?" she panted.
He dropped his eyes and sighed.
"Tell me," she cried, catching at his arm and holding it with a grasp of steel, "tell me the truth! Is what she said—this woman!—is it true?"
He waited a moment.
"It is true, alas!" he said.
Margaret's hand fell from his arm, and she shrank back.
"I only learned it just now," he said, as if in explanation. "Early this morning, Lady Leyton—I beg your pardon, but I fear it is her legal title—met me at the station, and recognizing me as a friend of Blair's, told me her story."
Margaret hid her face in her hands.
"She has been here, I suppose?" he said.
"Yes," breathed Margaret.
He sighed.
"I feared so! I wish that I could have reached you and broken it to you before she came, but I wanted to learn if her story was true, and I telegraphed to the clerk of the church at which she said she was married." He paused to see if Margaret was fully realizing his words, then went on slowly and impressively. "I received an answer promptly. They were married at St. Jude's on the twelfth of March."
Margaret remained motionless.
"But I need not have taken this precaution, for I met the one person who could set all doubt at rest."
She looked up and fixed her eyes upon him.
"I met Blair, and taxed him with his fiendish villainy, and——"
Margaret caught her breath.
—"He confessed it!" he said.
She uttered a low cry, and cowered against the back of the chair.
"I think I could have killed him on the spot," he went on. "He has played the part of a heartless scoundrel! Miss Margaret, do you remember how he started when I remarked how easy it would be for a man to commit bigamy at Sefton?"
The incident flashed back upon Margaret's memory, and she groaned.
"If I had only known what that start of his meant!"murmured Austin Ambrose. "Yes, he confessed the crime! He sent you a message by me——"
She looked up and put up her hand.
"Do not tell me! Do not mention his name again!" she cried hoarsely.
"I must tell you," he said gently; "I promised! He implored your forgiveness! Reparation, he knows is impossible; not even the remorse, which will haunt him as long as his life lasts, can invent any way of undoing the wrong he has wrought you! He consigned you to my care, Miss Margaret, and I have undertaken readily—yes, very readily—to see that your future is not further darkened by want."
Margaret rose and clutched the table.
—"You—you offer me money; you, too! And his money!" she panted.
Austin Ambrose hung his head and sighed.
"You will let me be your friend?" he pleaded in a soft voice.
Margaret pushed the hair from her white forehead.
"No!" she said; "I have no friend! I am alone in all the world! Tell him—yes, tell him—that I would not touch a penny of his if it were to save my life! Tell him that he has killed my heart and soul, but while there is life still left in my body, I will use it to crawl as far from him as I can! Tell him—" she broke down for a moment—"tell him that I forgive him, but that if he ever again sends me such a message as you have brought, the love through which he wronged and ruined me will turn to hate!"
"You are right!" he murmured. "But what will you do?" he asked, looking at her with anxious intentness.
Margaret moaned.
"Ah! What will I do?" she sobbed hoarsely. "Heaven knows! there is only one thing I can do, to creep away into some place where none may find me, and die!"
If Mr. Austin Ambrose had possessed that extremely awkward organ, a heart, he would—he must—have been touched by the sight of the misery and anguish of this innocent girl, whose happiness he had so carefully and skillfully plotted against; but if there was a heart in Mr. Austin's bosom, it existed there simply for physiological reasons, and not for those of sentiment.
"I think you must let me be your friend!" he said in a low voice, and keeping his eyes on the carpet. "I can quite understand what it is you are feeling and suffering, and I think your desire to get away from here, to get beyond the possibility of ever meeting with Blair, anatural one. If you will let me I will help you. You would wish to go at once?"
Margaret did not answer him, she was scarcely conscious of what he said. He waited a moment or two, then said slowly and distinctly:
"I think that the best thing I can do, Miss Margaret, is to leave you for a short time. The blow has been an overwhelming one, in very truth, it has confused and bewildered me; and standing here, a friend of the villain who has wronged you—alas! the friend who did all he could in all innocence to bring about the ceremony—I feel as if I were a sharer in his guilt."
Margaret tried to murmur "No," but the word would not come.
"I think it will be better if I leave you for an hour or two; I will come back in the evening, after having made all arrangements, and if you will be so gracious as to intrust yourself to my hands as far as the station, I honestly think you will find the journey made easier for you."
She tried to thank him, but she was not capable of doing more than incline her head, and with hushed steps—as if there were death in the house—Mr. Austin Ambrose went out of the room and down the path.
With a low, heartrending moan she threw herself upon the ground and, grasping her hair in both her white hands, hid her face—crushed with shame and the torture of a broken heart.
She lay thus prostrate in her anguish for some time, then she rose and staggered up-stairs. A sudden thought had smitten her.
Blair might come back—it might be that he still loved her! Was it not love that had tempted him to work her ruin? He might still love her passionately enough to come back and try to force her to remain with him. Or the woman—his wife!—she might hear what he had done, and in a fit of revenge drag her, Margaret, into a court to give evidence against him and convict him.
She must fly! She did not think of Austin Ambrose's offer of assistance; or if she had thought of it, she would not have remained for him to return.
To get away at once, to fly to some place where no one knew her, or could get to know about it; that was her instinctive desire.
She bathed her face until the fearful aching of the burning eyes was lessened, and tried to pack a small bag with the few articles that were absolutely necessary, taking care that nothing but that which had belonged to her went into the bag.
One by one she stripped off her rings—until she came tothe wedding one—and placed them, together with the bracelets, chains and trinkets Blair had given her, on the dressing-table. The plain band of gold, inconsistent as it seemed, she allowed to remain on her finger. Then she changed her dress for the plain traveling costume in which she had been married.
In doing so, she saw the locket—Blair's first gift! With trembling hands she began to untie the ribbon, then she faltered. She had promised him that she would not part with this. Surely she could keep this to remind her of the time when she first tasted happiness, the time when she had thought him all that was true and noble.
The temptation to keep these two things that should seem as links between her and the past—so bitter, and yet so sweet!—proved too strong, and she let the locket fall into its place again over her heart.
The warm glow of evening was over the landscape by the time her simple preparations for flight were made, and drawing her veil on her pale and haggard face, she stole down the stairs.
In the narrow passage stood Mrs. Day.
"Are you going out, ma'am?" she said.
Margaret moistened her lips, and tried to answer carelessly:
"Yes, Mrs. Day."
"I don't think you ought to go far, ma'am," she said; "we are going to have a storm. Will you take an umbrella or your mackintosh?" and she looked toward the west, where a great bank of clouds seemed to rise from the horizon, as if about to swallow the sun in its inky mass.
"I will take my mackintosh," said Margaret.
Mrs. Day took it off the stand and folded it.
"I hope Mr. Stanley will be back before the storm breaks," she said. "You won't go far, ma'am?" she added, wistfully.
"No, not far," said poor Margaret.
She took the mackintosh on her arm and walked out and down the path. Then suddenly she heard the sound of a sob, and, looking back, saw Mrs. Day with her hand to her face.
Even in that hour of her supreme anguish, Margaret's gentle heart could beat in sympathy with another's sorrow, and she went back.
"What is the matter?" she asked hoarsely.
Mrs. Day forced a smile, but her eyes were full of tears.
"It's nothing—nothing much, ma'am," she said. "I beg your pardon for distressing you, but—but the boathasn't come back yet!" and she looked beyond Margaret toward the sea.
"Oh, I hope it will be all right," Margaret faltered. "Do not be anxious, it will be back before the storm."
She could not trust herself to say any more, and turning, walked quickly away down the path.
She felt tired, but she reached the bottom by the aid of a handrail, and went toward the station. Then suddenly she remembered that she had forgotten her purse!
She had a few pounds in gold and a little silver in her pocket, but the purse, containing the bank-notes given her by the earl, she had left in a drawer at the cottage.
She stood, aghast and trembling. To go back she felt was impossible; and yet, what should she do? How could she accomplish her flight and hope to hide herself without money?
After a few minutes the dull roar of the rising tide seemed to exercise a fascination over her; and presently she felt no desire to reach the station, only a great longing to be alone by the side of the vast ocean, whose solemn, measured beat seemed like an awful voice calling to her.
She reached the foot of the rock, toward which the fisherman had pointed when he told her of the accident that had happened to the man and woman two years ago.
The tide had not touched it yet, and painfully she clutched its rugged surface up which a few hours ago she could have sprung easily.
At the top she sunk down exhausted, her face toward the sea, her eyes fixed on the bank of cloud, that like the giant in the Eastern fable, who escaped from the open bottle, had expanded and grown into a huge mass, which had ingulfed the sun, and threatened, as it seemed, to swallow the whole sky.
How long she lay there, hidden from the sight of the village, motionless and almost lifeless, she knew not; but suddenly she heard the lap, lap of water below her, and looking down, saw that the tide had crept round the rock, and was gradually but swiftly rising.
She regarded its sullen approach with heavy, listless eyes. All power of thought, much less appreciation of her peril, had deserted her. The sound of the waves, the dull booming of the wind fell upon her ear almost soothingly.
The day seemed to close and night to fall; the storm-clouds were right over her, and enveloped the earth as with a pall.
Suddenly the darkness was broken by a vivid flash of lightning, and the thunder roared and seemed to shake therock on which she lay. At the same moment she felt her right foot grow cold, and looking down, saw that the tide had reached and covered it.
Then, for the first time, she awoke from her stupor, and realized that death and she were face to face.
With that instinct of self-preservation, that shrinking from the horror of death which comes to even the most miserable, she sprung to her feet and crawled to the highest point of the rock, and looked wildly round.
She had been cold the moment before, but now she seemed suffocating with an awful heat. With trembling hands she tore off her hat and waved it—Heaven knows with what desperate idea of attracting attention!—but the wind seized it and tore it from her hand. A moment afterward she felt the water lapping at her feet, and with an awful voice she called upon—Blair!
As if in answer to her appeal, the lightning shot out from the black sky and revealed her form as if carved in bronze on the top of the rock. The next moment she heard a man's voice, and a boat seemed to rise from the depths of the sea at her feet.
A lantern flashed in the darkness, and by its flickering gleam she saw a man rowing in the boat, and a woman crouching in the stern.
It was Day and his wife.
The woman screamed and pointed.
"There—there she is! For Heaven's sake be quick! Spring, Mrs. Stanley, spring! Oh——" and she moaned, "be quick!"
But, half mad with the insanity of mental and physical torture, Margaret drew back.
"No!" she cried. "I will not go! You shall not take me back to them!"
"Quick!" roared Day, with an oath, "or you will be too late! Here, hold the lantern, Jane! Hold it high!"
His wife seized the lantern and threw its rays upon Margaret's wild, white face. The boat, driven by the tide, struck against the rock, and Day, grappling it with his boat hook, sprung on to it.
For a moment or two there was a struggle between the weak and exhausted woman and the strong mariner. It lasted only a minute or two; then he lifted her bodily, and as gently as possible dropped her in the boat.
Springing in after her he seized the oars and began rowing to shore.
For a minute or two Margaret lay motionless, panting heavily, then she got to her knees and flung herself at Mrs. Day's feet, clinging to the woman's dress.
"Have pity on me," she moaned; "don't take me back!I will go anywhere else. I will do anything—but don't take me back to him! Oh, listen to me! You don't know how cruelly he has wronged me. I cannot go back. Stop!"—and she seized one of the oars. "Youshallstop!"
Day stopped rowing, confused and bewildered.
"Is—is she mad?" he roared, hoarsely, at his wife.
Mrs. Day, white and trembling, threw her arms round Margaret and got her clear of the oars so that he might row.
"Oh, my dear, what is it? What has happened? Do you know that you have been nearly drowned? If I had not seen you and caught the boat just as it was coming to land—quick, James, quick!"
"No, no," sobbed Margaret. "Not back! I will not go back!" and she tried to free herself from the woman's grasp and throw herself into the sea.
"The poor lady's gone out of her mind!" said Day, pityingly. "Hold her, Jane, for Heaven's sake!"
"Yes, yes," panted Mrs. Day. "You row as hard as you can. I will hold her, poor dear. Oh, James, what can have happened? And she so happy a few hours agone!"
Day bent to the oars. Margaret had ceased to struggle, but Mrs. Day did not dare to relax her grasp. The boat forced its way nearer the shore.
Suddenly there rang out a sharp report, and a flash of fire darted from the beach.
Day uttered a cry and stopped rowing as if he had been shot, and Mrs. Day crouched still lower in the boat.
"It's the coastguard!" he said, bending forward and lowering his voice, though no one but the two women could have heard him. "It's the revenue men—and I've got the things aboard!"
There was silence for a moment, then Mrs. Day spoke.
"You must go to shore, James," she said, with the calmness of despair. "If we were alone——"
She stopped and looked at the prostrate figure at the bottom of the boat.
"Go ashore!" he responded, with an oath. "What! and them waiting for me? I tell you I've got the stuff on board. It's ruin, blank ruin!"
Silence again. The wind howled, the boat tossed like a walnut shell upon the black billows.
"Oh, James, think of her—think of the poor demented creature!" sobbed Mrs. Day.
"Think of her! Yes, that be right enough; but I must think of thee, lass, and the bairns as well! I tell 'ee it means ruin! As well row straight into the jail's gates asgo ashore to them wolves. No! I'm sorry, Jane; I'm main sorry; but I can't do it—for your sake."
There was that tone in the man's voice which quiets even the strongest and most determined of women, and his wife sank back and resigned herself.
The boat swung round, and Day, setting his teeth, pulled for the open sea.
"We'll never reach the schooner," panted Mrs. Day hoarsely.
"I'll risk it," he responded grimly. "Better trust ourselves to the open all night than run into the midst of the sharks there," and he nodded toward the shore.
"And this poor lady?"
He glanced at Margaret.
"Well, I'm but doing her bidding, beant I?" he retorted. "Didn't she pray and beseech me not to take her back? There, be easy! I've no breath for chattering, woman. Keep the lantern dark, and steer her straight out."
As he spoke there came another flash from the shore, and a rocket sped upward to the black sky.
Day uttered a grim exclamation of satisfaction.
"The fools!" he ground out; "they've showed me the way! The schooner lies due north of the customs, where that rocket started from! Keep her straight, lass, and we'll slip 'em yet. They won't risk their boat out—it's worse near the beach than it be here clear of the rocks. Sit still and fear nought!"
With the cool courage belonging to his class, he pulled steadily on, his wife grasping the tiller—for Margaret lay motionless and inert enough now—and peering into the darkness.
Suddenly she uttered a cry.
"The schooner, James! I saw her light for a moment!"
"Ay!" he responded coolly; "she's heard the gun and seen the rocket, and thinks we may be harking back. Show a glim of the lantern toward her, but keep it from the shore."
Cautiously Mrs. Day raised the lantern, with its light side toward the vessel, and an instant afterward a faint light appeared and then went out.
Day laughed cheerily.
"She sees us, lass. Keep up thee heart; it's all right. I've give them chaps the slip once more!"
"Yes, once more!" she responded, with a groan; "but some day or other——"
"Tut, tut! thee'st lost thee nerve, woman," he broke in, curtly.
She sank back with a heavy sigh and said no more.
Presently they saw the light again, this time close upon their bow, and in a few minutes the boat grated against the side of the schooner.
"Is that you, James?" inquired a voice.
Day answered in the affirmative.
"Yes; worse luck. Let the rope down the other side away from the shore; you can show a light then. I've got womenfolk aboard."
He pulled round to the larboard, and the lantern showed a rope ladder.
"Lend a hand here," he said, and he raised Margaret.
The man on board uttered an exclamation.
"Sakes a-mercy, James, what have you got there?" he demanded.
"It's my cousin," said Mrs. Day, before her husband could answer.
"Oh, and it's you, too, Mrs. Day, is it?" said the captain, in a tone of surprise. "Well, it's a rare night for ladies to be out in! And your cousin! Bless my soul, but she's swooned."
Between them they got Margaret on deck, and Mrs. Day had her carried down to the cabin, and then, asking for some brandy, locked the door on the men.
It was some time before Margaret recovered consciousness, and for some minutes she looked round with a listless indifference that was worse almost than the swoon from which she had roused.
At last she asked the inevitable question: "Where am I?"
"Here with me, dear lady," replied Mrs. Day, beginning to cry for the first time, "and Heaven be thanked that you are not lying dead in Appleford sands!"
Margaret drew a long sigh.
"I—I thought I had died," she moaned, and turning her face to the wall, said no more.
Mrs. Day sat down beside her, praying that she might sleep, for she knew that it was her only chance; and after a time Margaret fell into that stupor of exhaustion which is the nearest approach to nature's great restorer.
Presently there came a knock at the door, and opening it, Mrs. Day found her husband outside.
"How is she?" he asked.
"Better, poor soul!" she replied.
"Well," he said, "you'd better come on deck. The captain's upset and has been asking me questions about 'un."
"And what did you say?" she demanded anxiously.
"Well," he retorted, with a grim smile, "seeing asyou've started the game, I thought as how you'd better continue it, so I left 'em to you."
She stood for a moment thinking deeply, then followed him on deck.
The schooner was scudding along at a pace which put all danger from pursuit out of the question; but the captain, who was leaning against the bulwarks smoking a pipe, did not look at all comfortable or amiable.
"Well, Mrs. Day," he began at once, "what's this yarn about your cousin? Sakes alive! I'm fond of your sex enough, but I like 'em best on shore. Who is she, and what is she doing out in the boat?"
"She's my cousin, Captain Daniel," said Mrs. Day promptly, "and she's in trouble. I don't know as I ought to tell you the story, but seeing that we brought her on board——"
"Just so, and that's what I object to," he said gruffly. "It's work enough to take the trade quiet and snug, as it is, but with a woman aboard that nobody knows anything about——" he puffed at his pipe significantly.
"You can trust her," said Mrs. Day; "there's no fear of her splitting, Captain Daniel."
"Oh, you think she'll die?" he said, looking mightily relieved.
"No, no! But there are reasons why she should keep her own counsel, though she is a woman. You wait until morning, captain, and you'll see whether she's to be trusted or not."
She spoke with such a confident air that he relaxed a little.
"Well, you and yours are in the same boat, remember, Mrs. Day, and if harm comes to us, your James will share it! Don't forget that."
"I do not forget it, captain," she responded.
"Very well," he said. "I'll leave it to you. Make the poor soul as comfortable as possible. The Rose of Devon wasn't chartered to carry lady passengers, but we'll do the best we can. You'll find some extra bedclothes, and that like, in my cabin; and I'll see to the supper by the time you're ready. As to liquor"—he grinned—"well, I dare say we can find a glass or two of that!"
"I dare say!" said Mrs. Day with an answering smile, and she hurried back to the cabin and to Margaret.
Blair rode on toward Ilfracombe, his cigar between his lips, his handsome face wearing its best and brightest look. He was, as he would have expressed it, as happy asa sandboy; and the only thing that could have increased his happiness would have been to have had Margaret with him.
It would be an exaggeration to say that he thought of nothing else but her as he rode along; but it is true that she was present in his thoughts nearly all the time, and that as he looked seaward, where the green water lay like an opal in the sun, or inland, where the yellow cornfields glittered like gold across the blue sky, he thought how much she would have admired it, and how her artist soul would revel in its beauty.
After riding some time he saw a couple of men lying by the roadside. They were fishermen from Appleford, who had, perhaps, been to Ilfracombe, and were resting.
"I'm right for Ilfracombe, I suppose?" said Blair.
The men touched their hats.
"Yes, sir, you're right," said one; "but you have come a long way round. You should have cut across the cliff by the narrow lane through Lee."
"Eh?" said Blair, standing in his stirrups and looking about him.
The man got up, and shading his eyes, pointed to the place indicated.
"That's the way; it's but a bit of a lane, but it saves a mile or more."
"Thanks!" said Blair. "I'll remember it, and come back that way."
As he spoke, a man, who had been climbing the hill behind Blair and the two fishermen, came suddenly, as it were, upon them. He stopped short, and in an adept fashion sunk easily to the ground, where he lay and listened, within almost touch of them, and yet unseen.
"Yes, I understand," said Blair; "nice day, isn't it. You fellows have a cigar?"
A fisherman may be a teetotaler, but he always smokes.
Blair took out his cigar case; there were just two cigars left, and he gave them to the men.
"Bean't we robbing you, sir?" said one of the men, rather shyly, offering the case back; but Blair pushed it toward them.
"Plenty more in 'Combe," he said, with a smile, "and this will last me some time."
Then he rode on, having made, by a few pleasant words and two cigars, two friends who would have risked their lives on his behalf.
He reached 'Combe at last, the colt having settled down to a steady pace, and putting him up at the hotel stables, he went into the town to buy Margaret's things, even before he had his lunch.
There was a very good artist's colorman, and he displayed a selection of portable easels, and canvases, and colors which bewildered Blair.
"Look here," he said, at last; "you know the sort of things a lady wants, don't you know. Just put up as much as I can carry on horseback, and send the rest to this address."
This being the kind of order a shopkeeper's soul delighteth in, the man beamed, and soon had a very bulky looking heap collected in the middle of the shop.
"All right," said Blair; "sure you have got everything?"
The man, after vainly endeavoring to think of some other useless articles, said rather grudgingly, "Yes."
"Very well then. What's the damage? I'll put the paint boxes in my pockets, and I can tie a small parcel of the other things to the saddle, and the rest you can send on; but mind, I want them sent at once! You people down here are rather slow sometimes. I can't have this lady kept waiting."
He gave the address, paid the bill, which did not in the least astonish him, though our friend had charged about fifty per cent. above his usual prices—and afterwards almost wept because he hadn't stuck on double!—and then went to the hotel and had his lunch.
He made a very hearty meal, for Blair, in love or trouble, being as strong as a lion and always on the move, was a capital trencherman, and then went over to look at the town.
He was in the humor to be pleased with anything, and the place, with its picturesque coast scenery and general air of brisk cheerfulness, just suited him.
"I'll bring Madge here, by George!" he said to himself. "She'll be delighted with it."
To give her some idea of the place he bought a dozen or two photographs and stuffed them in his pockets; then he saw a trinket cleverly made of the tiniest shells set in silver, and he bought that.
Some little time he spent sitting on a seat on the walk round the Capstan Hill, and would have stayed longer, but suddenly there came round the corner a figure he knew.
It was that of Colonel Floyd. Blair, forgetting that he was supposed to be on the Continent, was just jumping up to greet him with a hearty "Hallo, old man!" when he remembered himself, and catching up a newspaper, got behind it. The colonel lounged past in his languid,nil admirarifashion, and passed out of sight.
Blair let the paper fall, and for the first time that morning his face grew clouded.
"Confound all this mystery and concealment!" he muttered, impatiently. "By George! I'll have no more of it! I hate this skulking about like a bank-clerk who has bolted with the till and is dodging the detectives. I'll have no more of it! I'll take Madge to the earl next week, and make a clean breast of it. Even he can't be such a savage as not to melt at that smile of hers."
The resolution brightened him, as all good resolutions do, and considering that the colt had had rest enough, he went back to the hotel, and ordered him to be brought round.
The colt was in excellent spirits, and Blair rode along, humming a song and thinking of Margaret—and his dinner.
The color tubes rattled in his pockets, and his bulging pockets banged against his side, but he didn't mind in the least; he was doing something for his Madge.
By this time—he had not hurried going, and had been a good spell in the pretty town—the sun was setting, and the black mass of cloud was rising portentously.
"We shall get wet jackets, my friend," he said to the colt, and he put him to a quicker pace.
Mindful of the short cut which the men had pointed out in the morning, he rode up the rather steep hill, and without any difficulty found the lane.
It was, as they had said, a narrow lane, between two high banks. There was a tree here and there, and every now and then a gate opening into the fields on either side; it was steep, too, and not very easy, and Blair was obliged to go slowly.
"Seems to me," he said to the colt, "that we could move faster going across the downs, my friend. Never mind, it's a long lane that has no turning! Jove, here it comes!" he broke off, as a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder burst forth.
"Steady, old man, you are master, you know; I'm a stranger."
The rain dropped suddenly, in a sheet, as it seemed, and Blair stopped to turn up his coat collar, and see that Madge's tools were protected by the lappets of his pockets. He had very little objection to getting wet himself, but he meant to carry home the day's spoil to her uninjured, if he could manage it.
At the moment he was fumbling with the reins, held loosely in his hand, a shout, a yell was heard behind him.
It was man's voice, presumably; but it was so unearthly, so discordant, that even Blair started. As for the colt, he gave one side-way jump, then started off helter-skelter, mad with fright.
"Steady, old man!" said Blair, tightening the rein. "It was a rum noise, but don't lose your head. Steady!" and he laughed.
But the laugh died on his lips, for, while the horse was still on the bolt, he saw one of the field gates lying right across the narrow road.
Now, at any time, this is a sight which is calculated to make a horseman look and feel serious; because however slowly the horse may be going, if he is not pulled up in time before he reaches the prostrate gate, his legs will get entangled in the bars, and he must inevitably fall. But when a horse is bolting, the situation becomes dangerous and deadly.
To pull him up in time Blair saw would be impossible, even for him. He looked swiftly at the banks on either side, with the idea of turning him up them, but they were too high. There was only one thing to do, and that was to drop off as easily as possible as the horse fell.
A moment more and the catastrophe came. The runaway horse's fore-feet struck between the top bars, his off hind leg caught the lower one, and with a crash and a startled shake of the head, the colt came down all of a heap.
Blair had been ready a moment before, and as the horse fell he managed to get out of the stirrups and roll out of the saddle.
It was nicely and cleanly done, as only a steeplechaser could have done it, and he was on his legs and bending over the horse almost the next instant.
Plunging and kicking, the colt tried to extricate himself from the awful trap, and Blair had coaxed him on his legs, and was leading him out when he heard a strange noise behind him, and saw a tall form standing on the bank above his head.
At that instant, for the first time the thought of foul play occurred to him. Grasping the bridle with one hand and his whip with the other, he turned and looked up.
The sky was black as night, but a flash of lightning clove the heavens just then, and by its lurid light he saw the face of Jem Pyke. He thought that he was dreaming. It seemed too incredible. When last he had seen the man it had been at Leyton, where Pyke lived. How could he possibly be here?
He gazed up at him for a second or two, which seemed an age; then he opened his lips to speak, but the thunder roared and blotted out his voice.
With a wild laugh the man glowered down upon him motionless as Blair himself, then, with a spring, threw himself upon him.
Blair squared his shoulders to meet the shock, but Pyke, though lean, was tall, and his long form, aided by the impetus of his leap, bore Blair to the ground.
There was a terrible struggle, at which the frightened horse stood looking as if it were a horrified human being; then Pyke got his fingers round Blair's throat, and, pressing against it, shook him heavily.
"At last!" he shouted, between a hiss and a growl. "At last, mister! I've waited a long time, but it's my turn now, I think. You fine-tongued gentleman! I'll—I'll kill you. You thought I'd forgotten you, eh? You thought I was going to let you go scot free, did you? Ah! you'll know me better when I've done with you."
Blair struggled as hard as he could, but the man's long, bony fingers were like steel, and, with a shrug of his shoulders, he felt that his time had come. But even at that moment the old spirit came to the front, and, though he could not speak, he smiled up at the livid face of his assailant.
The smile seemed to madden the man.
"What! you grin, do ye?" he said, between his teeth. "I'll teach you! I'll humble you!" Then an idea seemed to strike him, and, kneeling on Blair's chest, he said, "But I'll give you a chance, my lord, even now, curse me if I don't. Say, 'I beg your pardon,' and I'll let you go."
With the intention of giving Blair an opportunity for the apology, his grasp slackened slightly.
It was a small opening, but Blair seized it.
With a tremendous effort he writhed himself free, and grasping Pyke by the forearm, raised himself to his feet, and forced Pyke to his knees.
"You miserable hound!" he said, with his short, curt laugh. "Beg your pardon, you mad fool! I'll teach you to set traps for a good horse, that's worth ten of you! You put the gate there, did you? Look here, I'll make you carry it back to its place before I've done with you! Ah, and beg my pardon, too, into the bargain!" and with a tremendous force he flung the man backward.
Pyke was on his feet instantly, and the two men confronted each other, not as they had done on Leyton Green, for then Blair's face wore a smile, and there was joy and contentment in his heart, at the prospect of a fair fight, but now he knew that it would be as foul as his opponent could make it.
The sky grew blacker; the rain pelted down upon them, but neither of them noticed the weather.
With a bound they sprung at each other, dealing heavy blows, and taking them as if they were feather-down. The result was a foregone one. Blair had been riding, the manhad been walking, and was weakened by passion. His blows grew lighter and slower, his breath came in short, deep gasps; Blair knew that another minute would make him the victor, and, already relenting, he was about to call to Pyke and offer him quarter, when the man, stepping back, pointed beyond Blair, and shouted:
"Look! the lady!"
Blair turned. There was only one lady that could rush to his mind, and that was Margaret, and he thought, in the flash of the moment, that she had come to meet him. He turned, and Pyke caught up a heavy stick that lay where he had dropped it at his first spring, and struck Blair an awful blow on the back of the head.
Without a cry he went down face foremost, his arms outstretched, and lay like a figure carved in stone.
Pyke stood over him, looking down at him with livid face and panting breath.
There was a pause in the storm at that moment, as if the wind and the rain had stopped to look on; then the elements resumed their warfare, and a flash of lightning played over the prostrate man's head.
Pyke went down on his knees, and with trembling hands turned the motionless form on its face, and peered at it.
Then he started back with an oath.
"I've done for him!" he muttered, hoarsely, and the wind seemed to echo mockingly: "Done for him." "He's as dead as a herring! Curse him, it serves him right!" he ground out, and he raised his foot, but withheld the kick as a thought—the thought of self-preservation—came to him. "Looks ugly!" he muttered, "cursed ugly. There's more trouble in this than I thought on!"
He looked up and down the lane and across the hedge with the keen, fearful face of a man who already hears the pursuers; then buttoning his wet coat round him, and giving a parting glance at the still form, began to run—like Cain.
He went in the direction of Lee, and was so absorbed in the one idea of flight, that a dark object which stood beside the hedge just before him made him spring aside, and almost shout with fear.
But it was only the colt, which, too frightened by the storm, and disheartened by the rain, was cowering under the lee of the hedge.
Pyke was hurrying by it, when he pulled up suddenly, and struck his leg as if welcoming an inspiration.
"Dang it!" he cried, exultingly, "that's the game. Woa, horse, woa, horse," and he crept slowly up to the colt.
The animal was far too cowed to attempt flight, and Pyke got hold of the bridle easily. But he did not mount. Instead, he unfastened one stirrup and struck the colt with it. The horse, maddened by fear, started and shook, then tore down the lane at breakneck pace.
Pyke waited a moment listening to the clatter of its hoofs mingling with the rain and the thunder, then quickly retracing his steps returned to Blair.
He still lay where his assailant had left him. Pyke knelt down and thrust one unresisting foot into the stirrup, then he dragged the body for a few yards along the wet road and left it lying on its back, leaped over the hedge and fled. But once more he came back, and lifting the gate replaced it on its hinges and fastened it.
Mr. Austin Ambrose was spending an extremely unpleasant evening. It sounds as if it would be a very nice thing to play with one's fellow creatures as if they were puppets—to pull the wires which govern their actions, and to make them dance to one's piping; but the wire-puller has sometimes a very uncomfortable time of it.
Mr. Austin Ambrose had up to the present found his puppets quite docile and obedient to the pulling of the wires. He had got Lord Blair and Margaret secretly married, he had hidden them away at Appleford; his puppet Lottie had played her part really quite admirably, and Margaret was fully convinced that she had been betrayed and ruined by the man she loved.
So far, so well; but still Mr. Austin Ambrose was uncomfortable. He had left Margaret to herself, knowing that if so left she would be more likely to carry out his desire and fly, than if he remained with her.
But he did not mean to lose sight of her; it was his intention to travel by the same train if possible, and to track her, unseen himself, to her place of refuge.
So he went and placed himself on the road leading to the station, and lighting a cigarette, waited as patiently as he could.
Hour passed after hour, and still she did not come. Then the clouds rose, and the sky grew murky, and presently the storm broke.
"Confound women!" he muttered, vainly trying to light the last of his cigarettes; "you can never count upon them. I would have sworn that she would have made for the station; and yet she hasn't. She's waiting to see Blair, after all. Well, I'll go and see. There'll be a scene presently, if she remains, and I hate a scene!"
With his coat-collar turned up he climbed to the cottage and knocked.
There was no answer; and after waiting and knocking again, he opened the door.
To his amazement, the cottage seemed deserted. He was calling Mrs. Day impatiently, when a woman came running with her apron over her head from the neighboring cottage.
"Mrs. Day's out, sir. She's gone down to the beach," she said in answer to his inquiries, "and I've got the children with me. It's lonely for 'em here, and such a storm raging."
"But—but Mrs. Stanley?" he said quickly; "she's in, is she not?"
The woman stared at him.
"Mrs. Stanley, sir—the lady, sir? Oh, no; she went out hours ago."
"Nonsense!" he said roughly. "I beg your pardon; I mean that it is impossible that she should be out in this storm."
"Yes, but she is, sir. I saw her go down the path in the afternoon with her mackintosh on her arm. I think she went to meet her good gentleman."
Austin Ambrose started, and his face flushed.
If she had, and they had met before—well, before something that he hoped had happened—all his plans, all his deeply and skillfully laid plots would be smashed and pulverized.
He turned his back to the woman, that she might not see his face.
"I—I think she must be in the house still," he said, with a sudden hope; "she may have come back, you know."
"She may, but I don't think she could without my seeing her. Howsomever, it's easy to find out." And she lit a candle and went up the stairs, calling respectfully, "Mrs. Stanley, are you in, ma'am?" while Austin Ambrose listened intently.
In a minute or two she came down.
"No, sir, she's not in the house. I'm afraid the poor lady's in the storm; leastways, unless she's taken shelter."
Austin Ambrose caught up his hat.
"If she should come in before I return," he said, hurriedly, "ask her to wait till I see her and speak with her. Do you hear? Do not let her go. You understand?"
The woman, frightened by his pallor and sternness, dropped a courtesy, and he rushed out and down the path.
If she had gone down the road to Ilfracombe, and had met Blair! His heart almost ceased beating at the thought. She would meet Blair, and, he knew too well, frustrate the elaborate plot, and ruin the plotter.
He gained the entrance of the road to 'Combe; two or three men were standing under the shelter of a shed, with their tools beside them.
"Have you been working here—in the fields?" he inquired.
"Yes, master, and we be drenched through, we be!" said one.
"Have you seen a lady—a lady with a veil—come this way—to Ilfracombe, I mean?" he said, trying to steady his voice. "I am afraid she has got caught in the storm."
The men shook their heads.
"No," said he who had spoken first; "no one has been along this road 'cepting the gentleman who rode Farmer James' colt this morning."
"I know—I mean I don't know," said Austin Ambrose, catching himself up. "Are you sure?"
"Sure and sartain!" said another man. "We've been working in sight o' the road all day, and the lady couldn't a passed without our seeing her. Have you got a bit of 'bacca, your honor?"
He tossed them a shilling, and hurried back. It was just possible that she may have gone to the station by another road than that which he had watched. Fighting his way against the wind and rain, he reached the station.
From one and another of the porters he inquired if she had been seen, and the answer was the same. No lady answering to Madge's description had reached the station. Half wild with impatience and fear—not for her, by any means, certainly not; but for himself!—he returned to the beach.
As he did so he saw a gang of fishermen and sailors standing under the lee of a rock, and peering out to sea.
They did not hear him approach, and, in his noiseless fashion, he got close up to them and within hearing unnoticed.
"No boat could put out from the beach, man," said the old man with whom Margaret had spoken that morning. "We've tried it with the best of them, the Lass and the Speedwell, and it ain't no manner o' use. 'Sides, where's the good? the tide have swept over the rock an hour agone!"
"And you're sure you seed her?" asked a man.
"Do 'ee think I've gone silly all in a moment?" retorted the old fellow, pettishly. "I tell 'ee, I seed her on thetop, half a-sitting and half a-lying. I did think as I'd get up and go to her, but I'd warned her in the morning, this very blessed morning; and the missus come and called me in to tea, and—and bla'-me if I didn't forget her."
"Oh, she's lost! She's drownded, as sure as a gun! Well, sakes a mercy, but it's a pity."
"We've all got to die," remarked a man philosophically; "and most on us dies by drownding; but then we're used to it, which makes all the difference."
Austin Ambrose pushed his way into their midst, startling them not a little.
"Of whom are you talking?" he demanded, and his voice sounded harsh and stern.
The old man touched his forehead and puffed at his pipe.
"It's the poor young lady up at Mrs. Day's, your honor," he said; "she've been and got washed off the Long Rock——"
Austin Ambrose put his hand up with a strange gesture, as if to stop him, and his face grew livid.
"What?" he cried hoarsely. "You say—oh, impossible!"
The old man shook his head.
"It's the possiblest thing as can be," he said grimly. "Seed her there myself, and I thought she'd gone to look at the tide. I never thought as she'd stop there after the warning I give her. I told her about the lady and gentleman as was lost there two year agone," he added to the others.
Austin Ambrose rushed out to the rocks and stared before him like a man dazed. Then he sprung to his feet.
"I'll give any man twenty pounds who will launch a boat and search for her," he cried hoarsely.
There was a profound silence. Then the old fisherman said grimly:
"Twenty pun ain't much for a man's life, your honor."
"I will give fifty—a hundred!" he cried desperately.
"Bless your honor's heart," said the old man slowly, "no boat could live in this—that is, near the beach—it might in the open! It's to be hoped it will, for Day's out," he said significantly. "No, your honor, a thousand pounds wouldn't tempt us; besides, it's too late! too late! The poor lady is drifting out to the sands, and the last's been seen of her or ever will be seen on this earth!"
Austin Ambrose uttered a cry, an awful cry. They who heard it thought that it was that of sorrowing friend or relative; but the cry was one of pity for himself and all his shattered hopes. After all his cleverness, his deep-laid schemes and restless toil, he had been foiled—and by the woman he had fooled and deceived!
It was maddening. And indeed as he reeled away from the group he looked like a man demented.
Suddenly he heard a shout and staggered back.
A man came running toward them with something in his hand. He held the wet and dripping articles on high and surveyed his companions gravely.
"The old 'un's right!" he said slowly. "Here be the poor lady's cape and hat!"
Austin Ambrose tore them from the man's hand.
"Are you sure?" he gasped.
"Yes," came a grave chorus. "We've see'd her wear 'em, time and again. They're hers, and she's lost, poor soul!"
Austin Ambrose walked away with the hat and cape in his hands.
At the back of the beach, on the quay, was a small inn, through whose red curtains the light shone cheerily. He pushed open the door and entered with unsteady gait. The little place was full of sailors and fishermen, all talking about the sad event, and recalling the similar fatality of two years ago. As he entered they became suddenly silent.
"Give me some brandy!" he said, hoarsely.
The landlady mixed him a glass of hot brandy-and-water, and he took it in both hands and drank it; then he sank on to a seat, and with tightly compressed lips stared at the door.
For the time he was unconscious of the presence of the others, deaf to their voices, which arose again in a hushed tone.
"It's the awfulest night," said one, "the awfulest! The poor gentleman's out in it, too! Farmer James have gone down the road to look for him. He's afeard the colt will be skeared by the lightning."
"Ah," said another; "not come back yet, poor gentleman? What a terrible story it will be to tell him. They beant long been mated, have they?"