There was a world of mingled emotions in her tones. Distrust, resentment, bitterness, and a strong undercurrent of passion. A stranger would have been puzzled by this daughter of the people, who talked and looked so far above her station. Her auditor, for his part, was not a little discomfited. The first surprise over, the situation held out endless complications. It was one thing for the prodigal in a far country to pick up a beautiful nobody for his amusement—quite another for the future Squire of Cranston to return home and find that inconvenient young person domiciled at his very door, and owning parentage with a skulking, drunken and poaching rascal, at whom even his own squalid class looked askew. A unit in the crowd at American pleasure resorts was one thing; Dorrien of Cranston at home, quite another. He foresaw grave difficulties.
“How do I think you are looking? Why, first-rate, of course,” he answered. “Improved, if anything.”
“Thanks. I can’t say the same of you. I liked you better yonder in the States. I’m candid, too, you see. But you’re a very great person here, while I—well never mind. And now I had better tell you. I hadn’t the smallest idea that you belonged here when I came—so don’t think I came on purpose. I don’t want to trouble you or get in your way—no—not I. But I can’t quite forget old times.”
The summer air was soft and slumbrous, the place was isolated, and the stillness of the dreamy forenoon unbroken by the sound of voice or footstep to tell of the outer world. Roland’s strong pulses shook his frame with overmastering violence, and his temples throbbed as he gazed on the splendid, sensuous beauty and magnificent outlines of the girl, standing there talking to him in tones and words that contained three parts reproach. And she was gifted with an extraordinarily soft and attractive voice. In a second she was beside him.
“Darling!” she whispered, winding her arms round him, her words coming in passionate torrent. “Darling—I could call you that in the old times, you know. Do you remember those nights at the Adirondacks—the beautiful lake and the moonlight—and ourselves? I see you remember. Why not again—here? The cottage is out of the way—scarcely anyone ever passes even—at night, no one. Father is in trouble. I shall be alone here—perhaps for weeks. You are your own master, are you not—you can come—often, always? It was not so long ago—only a few months. You can’t have grown weary. No one need know—and when it is dark this way is quite deserted—I don’t want to keep you altogether—I don’t want to injure you with anybody. But only one week—one short week if you wish it. Then I’ll go away—right away.”
Her words came in fitful, incoherent gasps, and there was something of the fierce grip of a wild beast in her tight embrace. Like lightning, a consciousness of this flashed through the other’s fired brain, a consciousness of his very senses slipping from him. Would he still yield to the terrible fascination?
“Two’s company, three’s a crowd,” is a sound proverb, even when the third is a dog. Roy, who had been lying in the doorway, suddenly sprang up with a threatening growl, and darted in pursuit of a passer-by, barking loudly. The incident was sufficient. It was a rude interruption, but salutary, so thought at least one of the two.
“This won’t do, Lizzie. As I said before, this isn’t New York, and one can’t be too careful. Now I had better go, at any rate. Good-bye.”
He spoke hurriedly, and acted on his words before she had time to remonstrate. It was a lame conclusion to a stirring interview. All the better—for him, at any rate.
Left alone, the girl stood rigid as stone. Here was the loadstar of her vehemently passionate nature. She had spoken truth in disclaiming all knowledge of Roland Dorrien’s whereabouts when she came to Wandsborough. Pure chance had brought her there. Once there, however, she was not long in ignorance as to who dwelt at Cranston—and day by day she had watched that field path as we saw her watching it to-day. Now she was rewarded. Well, was she?