“Then I shan’t be frightened any more,” she murmured; and, closing her eyes, she lay for a while, breathing quietly as if asleep. She looked very delicate and frail, with her waxen cheeks and the dark shadows under her eyes, but still I noted a faint tinge of colour stealing back into her lips. I gazed down at her with fond anxiety, as a mother might look at a sleeping child that had just passed the crisis of a dangerous illness. Of the bare chance that had snatched her from imminent death I would not allow myself to think. The horror of that moment was too fresh for the thought to be endurable. Instead I began to occupy myself with the practical question as to how she was to be got home. It was a long way to North Grove—some two miles I reckoned—too far for her to walk in her present weak state; and there was the fog. Unless it lifted it would be impossible for her to find her way; and I could give her no help, as I was a stranger to this locality. Nor was it by any means safe; for our enemy might still be lurking near, waiting for the opportunity that the fog would offer.
I was still turning over these difficulties when she opened her eyes and looked up at me a little shyly.
“I’m afraid I’ve been rather a baby,” she said, “but I am much better now. Hadn’t I better get up?”
“No,” I answered. “Lie quiet and rest. I am trying to think how you are to be got home. Didn’t you say something about a caretaker?”
“Yes; a woman in the little house next door, which really belongs to the studio. Daddy used to leave the key with her at night, so that she could clean up. But I just fetch her in when I want her help. Why do you ask?”
“Do you think she could get a cab for us?”
“I am afraid not. There is no cabstand anywhere near here. But I think I could walk, unless the fog is too thick. Shall we go and see what it is like?”
“I will go,” said I, rising. But she clung to my arm. “You are not to go alone,” she said, in sudden alarm. “He may be there still.”
I thought it best to humour her, and accordingly helped her to rise. For a few moments she seemed rather unsteady on her feet, but soon she was able to walk, supported by my arm, to the studio door, which I opened, and through which wreaths of vapour drifted in. But the fog was perceptibly thinner; and even as I was looking across the road at the now faintly visible houses, two spots of dull yellow light appeared up the road, and my ear caught the muffled sound of wheels. Gradually the lights grew brighter, and at length there stole out of the fog the shadowy form of a cab with a man leading the horse at a slow walk. Here seemed a chance of escape from our dilemma.
“Go in and shut the door while I speak to the cabman,” said I. “He may be able to take us. I shall give four knocks when I come back.”
She was unwilling to let me go, but I gently pushed her in and shut the door, and then advanced to meet the cab. A few words set my anxieties at rest, for it appeared that the cabman had to set down a fare a little way along the street, and was very willing to take a return fare, on suitable terms. As any terms would have been suitable to me under the circumstances the cabman was able to make a good bargain, and we parted with mutual satisfaction and a cordial au revoir. Then I steered back along the fence to the studio door, on which I struck four distinct knocks and announced myself vocally by name. Immediately, the door opened, and a hand drew me in by the sleeve.
“I am so glad you have come back,” she whispered. “It was horrid to be alone in the lobby even for a few minutes. What did the cabman say?”
I told her the joyful tidings, and we at once made ready for our departure. In a minute or two the welcome glare of the cab-lamps reappeared, and when I had locked up the studio and pocketed the key, I helped her into the rather ramshackle vehicle.
I don’t mind admitting that the cabman’s charges were extortionate; but I grudged him never a penny. It was probably the slowest journey that I had ever made, but yet the funereal pace was all too swift. Half-ashamed as I was to admit it to myself, this horrible adventure was bearing sweet fruit to me in the unquestioned intimacy that had been born in the troubled hour. Little enough was said; but I sat happily by her side, holding her uninjured hand in mine (on the pretence of keeping it warm), blissfully conscious that our sympathy and friendship had grown to something sweeter and more precious.
“What are we to say to Arabella?” I asked. “I suppose she will have to be told?”
“Of course she will,” replied Marion; “you shall tell her. But,” she added, in a lower tone, “you needn’t tell her everything—I mean what a baby I was and how you had to comfort and soothe me. She is as brave as a lion, and she thinks I am, too. So you needn’t undeceive her too much.”
“I needn’t undeceive her at all,” said I, “because you are”; and we were still arguing this weighty question when the cab drew up at Ivy Cottage. I sent the cabman off, rejoicing, and then escorted Marion up the path to the door, where Miss Boler was waiting, having apparently heard the cab arrive.
“Thank goodness!” she exclaimed. “I was wondering how on earth you would manage to get home.” Then she suddenly observed
