In the night she had started out of her sleep, calling wildly, piteously, on Jack to come and save her. But there was no Jack here—only Stephen, smiling and watchful as he came to meet her and help her into the carriage. For a moment her hand touched his bare wrist, and he felt it cold as ice even through her glove; but he smiled still as if he had no fear.
“Once mine,” he thought, “and all will be well!”
Quietly, with no fuss or bustle, Slummers closed the door, mounted the box, and the horses started off.
Stephen looked at his watch, and smiled.
“Punctual almost to the minute,” he said. “Are you warm enough, my darling?”
And he bent forward, and arranged the costly furs round the slight form.
“Quite,” she said; but she shrank into her corner with a little shiver.
Stephen left her to herself, but would not remain silent, chatting with, or rather to, Mrs. Davenant, in a strain of easy cheerfulness, his eyes wandering to the pale face just showing above the pile of furs.
Their hoofs ringing on the road, which a few hours of early frost had made hard, the horses, the finest pair in the county, for Stephen was critical in such matters and liked the best, spun the distance, and again, almost punctual to the minute, the village of Netherton, to which Stephen had sent the change of horses, was reached.
Slummers stepped down from the box, and was seen to enter the inn yard.