Then it was that Lionel performed a deed of heroism that only an Englishman can appreciate. Unopened in his pocket, just as it had come in that morning's mail, was the last number of a sporting journal known as The Pink Un, so called from the roseate tint of the paper, attributed by the fanciful to an inherent sense of shame in the pages themselves in no wise shared by their editors. This was the only thing in the way of paper Lionel could find in his pockets, and his match box was almost empty.
Without a moment's hesitation he unfolded the precious sheet, and, tearing page after page into remorseless strips, folded them quickly into long spills. Then, striking a match, with the utmost care, he lighted the first of his paper torches.
The flame leaped up, and Harriet saw that she stood in a grassy, bath-shaped hollow, at least two heads higher than herself, but how long it was impossible to say. Lionel quickly joined her, lighting a fresh torch as he came, and giving her the remainder of the precious paper to hold in reserve.
As they moved forward cautiously the darkness in front of them resolved itself into a glistening barrier of ivy extending straight upward into the immense blackness above. This, as Harriet afterward learned, was the other side of the ivy-covered ruin whose forgotten origin had been a perpetual source of speculation to Horatio and herself ever since they came to Ipping House.
"Horatio!" she cried, pressing her face against the damp leaves. She heard his familiar little cough.
"My dear Harriet, there must be a heavy dew. I hope you remembered your galoshes." His voice seemed to come from the depths of the ivy.
Reassuring as it was, the curate's calmness, his very solicitude was indescribably irritating to the overwrought nerves of his wife.
"How can you talk like that," she cried, "after all I've been through, Horatio, thinking you were drowned in the lake—and you sit there like a—like a mole and talk about galoshes!"
Suddenly her hand, pushing through a foot's thickness of ivy, encountered cold stone. Her anger turned instantly to fear.
"Where are you, Horatio? Why don't you come out? You must come out! Oh, I can't bear it!" she sobbed convulsively.