And as she stood in the dark road—quite alone with the hills and stars, calmed down into a supernatural awe, Agatha almost expected to see her husband stand before her in the old familiar likeness. She would not have been afraid.
But no apparition came. All nature, visible and invisible, was silent to her misery. If she went back to the house, all there would be silent too.
She took her resolution—though it could hardly be called a resolution, being merely the blind impulse of despair. She climbed over the gate—she had not wit enough to unfasten it—and ran, swift and silent as some wild animal, along the road to Kingcombe.
The rain ceased, and her dripping clothes dried of themselves, so as not to encumber her movements. By some happy chance her feet were well shod, and now, gathering her wits as she went, she put on the shawl—not the bonnet, her head burned so, and felt so wild Just then, far into the darkness, she heard wheels rolling and rolling. It was Mrs. Dugdale driving along rapidly towards Thornhurst—but without one slash of the whip or one word of conversation with Dunce. When she stopped to open a gate the glare of the chaise-lamps showed the little black figure by the roadside. Harrie screamed—she thought it was a ghost.
“Any news? any news?”
“Gracious! is it you, child? No news—none! Get up, quick, and come home.”
But Agatha fled on and on, noticing nothing, except once, when with a start she saw the great black outline of Corfe Castle looming against the night-sky.
When she reached Kingcombe, it was still dark. She could not even have found her way, save for the faint sky brightness lent by the overcast moon; and the distance she had traversed was all but miraculous. It seemed as if she had not walked by natural feet, but some unseen influence had drawn and lifted her the whole way. When she stood in Kingcombe streets she hardly believed her senses—save that nothing was hard of belief just then, except the one horror—incredible, unutterable.