She made a move to remount her horse, but the man stepped forward and seized the bridle. Buck, nervous and startled, wheeled and reared, but could not jerk free from the iron grip on his bit. Thorvik moved up the path and put himself between Beatrice and the house. Terror as well as anger was beginning to take possession of her, but she faced him without flinching.
“You wrote it—after I forbid?” His voice shook with fury. “Then this is what I do with the answer.” He slipped the rein over his arm and with his great hard hands tore the letter into shreds that went whirling and scattering in the wind all across the side of the hill.
“Had Christina read it?” cried Beatrice in dismay.
“No, Christina cannot read, nor I. She is crying at home. I told her I would bring the letter to you and tear it up before your face, to show you how much use is it to meddle with the business of other people.”
“And she will never know what he said?” Beatrice exclaimed. “You took it from her before she could hear? You coward—you——”
“Steady, my dear.”
A man’s quiet voice sounded at her elbow, and she turned suddenly to see John Herrick.
“Anger won’t get you anywhere with people of this fellow’s kind,” he said gently. “If you wish to order a man off your grounds, you must do it quietly.”
So, standing firm on the path, fortified by the knowledge that John Herrick was beside her, Beatrice had the strange delight of directing an impertinent intruder to drop her horse’s rein and leave her premises, and of seeing him obey. For Thorvik went. He blustered, stammered, then finally relinquished Buck’s bridle and marched away to the gate. He stopped before he passed through to hurl a defiance over his shoulder, but he hastened on immediately after.
“His threats grow louder the further away he goes,” commented John Herrick.