In leaving she wondered why Mr. Dugdale woke from his dreaminess to bid her good-night with a fatherly air, addressing her more than once by his superlative of kindness, “My child.” When she took her husband's arm to go out of the lighted hall-into the night, Agatha trembled, as if something were going to happen—she knew not what.
The street was very dark, for Kingcombe people were economisers in gas; and besides kept such primitive hours, that at ten o'clock you might walk from one end of the town to the other and not see a light in any house. There was not a soul abroad except these two, and their feet echoed loudly along the pavement. At first Agatha, blinded by coming out of light into darkness, saw nothing, but stumbled on, clinging tightly to her husband. At length she perceived whereabouts they were—the black, quaintly-gabled houses, the market-cross, and, far above the sleepy town and its deserted streets, the bright wonderfully bright stars.
Agatha took comfort when she saw the stars.
“Have we far to go? I am rather tired,” she said to her husband, chiefly for the sake of saying something.
“Tired, are you? Then you must have a quiet day tomorrow. It will be very quiet, I doubt not;” and he sighed.
“Why so? What is to be done to-morrow? Shall you have to ride over to Thornhurst?”
“No; I saw Anne Valery yesterday. I shall not see her again for a good while.”
“Indeed!”
“There is business requiring me in Cornwall. To-morrow I am going away.”
“Going away!” The words were little more than a sigh. She felt all cold and numb for the moment. Then a sudden flood of the old impetuous pride came over her. Going away! Leaving his young wife! Leaving her alone in her new home—alone the second day, to be wondered at, and pointed at, and pitied! Perhaps he did it to humble and punish her. It was cruel—cruel! And again the demon or angel—which took such various forms that she hardly knew the true one—rose up rampant within her.