She rose from her seat at the table and stood by his side, leaning her hand on his shoulder and her little rounded chin on her hand.
"How the clouds are driven about, and how wild they look! Oh come away, Arthur. I am so glad I am not alone!"
"Why, my little cousin? Is lightning more dangerous in solitude?"
"Everything seems more dangerous when one is alone; but you don't understand me, Arthur. I never feel as if a storm were dangerous. It's not fear, but a kind of feeling rather difficult to explain, as though bad things were about and near us."
"Witches on broomsticks and malignant fairies," suggested Arthur.
Adèle laughed: "Not exactly. I lost my faith in them a few years ago; indeed, by the bye, I never believed in them. My fairies were always pretty and good. This storm makes me think of wicked people more than wicked spirits. There! look! That yellow, sinister-looking flash brought before me as distinctly as if I had seen him at the moment the face of Margaret Grey's tormentor, the tall dark man who smiled in at the window so insolently. Oh, I do hope and trust I shall never meet him anywhere!"
"How funny!" said Arthur lightly: "the storm made me also think of some one connected with Mrs. Grey. That horrid old landlady's face came in a most contorted manner before my mind. I fear that woman is no better than she ought to be; however," he drew out his watch, "if Martha has followed out my directions she ought to be at the cottage now. Let me see: the train is due in York at half-past four, by six she should be at Middlethorpe Station, then a two hours' drive. I hope it is all right, but I can't help wishing I had got the old woman to start last night."
"What are you afraid of, dear?" said Adèle nervously.
Arthur laughed, but there was something forced in his mirth: "We'll draw the curtains, Adèle. You have infected me with your fancies. I really feel as if something uncanny were abroad to-night." They sat down together to the tea-table luxuriously spread with rich plate and china. There were no hot fumes of gas to poison the atmosphere, but a silver reading-lamp cast its warm light upon the table, leaving the heavy crimson curtains in their long folds, the tall stately bookcases and the oaken cabinet in shadow. It was a pleasant room, restful to the senses. Adèle looked round her. "How comfortable we are here to-night, Arthur! and," as a sullen crash of thunder and the splash of falling rain came from outside, "how desolate it must be out there! Oh, Arthur, why can't every one be as happy and comfortable as we are?"