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.
“You are in as unpleasant a situation as a young woman can well be,” he said, when he stopped. “You came to a dirty hole to be alone with a man who felt it safest not to keep his appointment. Your horse stumbled and disabled himself and you. You are twenty miles from home in a deserted cottage in a lane no one passes down even in good weather. You are frightened to death and you have given me even a better story to play with than your sister gave me. By Jove!”
His face was an unholy thing to look upon. The situation and her powerlessness were exciting him.
“No,” she answered, keeping her eyes on his, as she might have kept them on some wild animal’s, “I am not frightened to death.”
His ugly dark flush rose.
“Well, if you are not,” he said, “don’t tell me so. That kind of defiance is not your best line just now. You have been disdaining me from magnificent New York heights for some time. Do you think that I am not enjoying this?”
“I cannot imagine anyone else who would enjoy it so much.” And she knew the answer was daring, but would have made it if he had held a knife’s point at her throat.
He got up, and walking to the door drew it back on its crazy hinges and managed to shut it close. There was a big wooden bolt inside and he forced it into its socket.
“Presently I shall go and put the horses into the cowshed,” he said. “If I leave them standing outside they will attract attention. I do not intend to be disturbed by any gipsy tramp who wants shelter. I have never had you quite to myself before.”
He sat down again and nursed his knee gracefully.
“And I have never seen you look as attractive,” biting his under lip in cynical enjoyment. “To-day’s adventure has roused your emotions and actually beautified you—which was not necessary. I daresay you have been furious and have cried. Your eyes do not look like mere eyes, but like splendid blue pools of tears. Perhaps
“No, you will not.”
“Don’t tempt me. Women always cry when men annoy them. They rage, but they cry as well.”
“I shall not.”
“It’s true that most women would have begun to cry before this. That is what stimulates me. You will swagger
