So Tom was got quick to his bed.
And Mildred sat down again by the kitchen fire, to rest for a little, feeling too tired to undress.
“Well, I do thank God of His mercy he’s not a-comin’; I do. Who can tell what would be if he was? And now, if only Master Harry was sure to keep away all might go right—yes, all—all might go right. Oh, ho, ho! I wish it was, and my old head at rest, for I’m worked worse than a horse, and wore off my feet altogether.”
And all this time she was looking through the kitchen-window, with dismal eyes, from her clumsy oak chair by the fire, with her feet on the fender, and her lean shanks as close to the bars as was safe, shaking her head from time to time as she looked out on the black outlines of the trees which stood high and gloomy above the wall at the other side, against the liquid moonlit sky.
XXXII
An Unlooked-for Return
In spite of her troubles, as she sat by the fire, looking out through the window, fatigue overcame Mildred, and she nodded. But her brain being troubled, and her attitude uneasy, she awoke suddenly from a sinister dream, and as still unconscious where she was, her eyes opened upon the same melancholy foliage and moonlit sky and the dim enclosure of the yard, the scenery on which they had closed. She saw a pale face staring in upon her through the window. The fingers were tapping gently on the glass.
Old Mildred blinked and shook her head to get rid of what seemed to her a painful illusion.
It was Charles Fairfield who stood at the window, looking wild and miserably ill.
Mildred stood up, and he beckoned. She signed toward the door, which she went forthwith and opened.
“Come in, sir,” she said.
His saddle, by the stirrup-leather, and his bridle were in his hand. Thus he entered the kitchen, and dropped them on the tiled floor. She looked in his face, he looked in hers. There was a silence. It was not Mildred’s business to open the disagreeable subject.
“Would you please like anything?”
“No, no supper, thanks. Give me a drink of water, I’m thirsty. I’m tired, and—we’re quite to ourselves?”
“Yes, sir; but wouldn’t ye better have beer?” answered she.
“No—water—thanks.”
And he drank a deep draught.
“Where’s the horse, sir?” she asked after a glance at the saddle which lay on its side on the floor.
“In the field, the poplar field, all right—well?”
“Tom told you my message, sir?” she asked, averting her eyes a little.
“Yes—where is she—asleep?”
“The mistress is in her bed, asleep I do suppose.”
“Yes, yes, and quite well, Tom says. And where is the—the—you sent me word there was someone here. I know whom you mean. Where is she?”
“In the front bedroom—the old room—it will be over the hall-door, you know—she’s in bed, and asleep, I’m thinkin’; but best not make any stir—some folks sleep so light, ye know.”
“It’s late,” he said, taking out his watch, but forgetting to consult it, “and I dare say she is—she came tonight, yes—and she’s tired, or ought to be—a long way.”
He walked to the window, and was looking, with the instinct which leads us always, in dark places, to look toward the light, above the dusky trees to the thin luminous cloud that streaked the sky.
“Pretty well tired myself, Mr. Charles; you may guess the night I’ve put in; I was a’most sleepin’ myself when ye came to the window. Tom said ye weren’t a-comin’; ’tis a mercy the yard door wasn’t locked; five minutes more and I’d have locked it.”
“It would not have mattered much, Mildred.”
“Ye’d a climbed, and pushed up the window, mayhap.”
“No; I’d have walked on; a feather would have turned me from the door as it was.”
He turned about and looked at her dreamily.
“On where?” she inquired.
“On, anywhere; on into the glen. If you are tired, Mildred, so am I.”
“You need a good sleep, Master Charles.”
“A long sleep, Mildred. I’m tired. I had a mind as it was to walk on and trouble you here no more.”
“Walk on—hoot! nonsense, Mr. Charles; ’tisn’t come to that; giving up your house to a one like her.”
“I wish I was dead, Mildred. I don’t know whether it was a good or an evil angel that turned me in here. I’d have been easier by this time if I had gone on, and had my leap from the scaur to the bottom of the glen.”
“None o’ that nonsense, man!” said Mildred, sternly; “ye ha’ brought that poor young lady into a doubtful pass, and ye must stand by her, Charles. You’re come of no cowardly stock, and ye shan’t gi’e her up, and your babe that’s comin’, poor little thing, to shame and want for lack of a man’s heart under your ribs. I say, I know nout o’ the rights of it; but God will judge ye if ye leave her now.”
High was Mrs. Tarnley’s head, and very grim she looked as with her hand on his shoulder she shook up “Master Charles” from the drowse of death.
“I won’t, old Tarnley,” he said at last. “You’re right—poor little Alice, the loving little thing!”
He turned suddenly again to the window and wept in silence strange tears of agony.
Old Tarnley looked at him sternly askance. I don’t think she had much pity for him, she was in nowise given to the melting mood, and hardly knew what that sort of whimpering meant.
“I say,” she broke out, “I don’t know the rights of it, how should I? but this I believe, if you thought you were truly married to that woman that’s come tonight, you’d never a found it in your
