He got up and went. Defeat was apparent enough, although it was unexpected. Lois stole back to the house—stole back to her room and locked the door.
Saton walked home across the hills, with white face and set eyes. He looked neither to the right nor to the left, and when he arrived at Blackbird’s Nest, he walked straight into the long, old-fashioned room on the ground floor, which he called his library, and where Rachael generally sat.
She was there, crouching over the fire, when he entered, and looked around with frowning face.
“Bertrand,” she said, “I hate this country life. Even the sunshine mocks. There is no warmth in it, and the winds are cold. I must have warmth. I shall stay here no longer.”
He threw a log on to the fire, and turned around.
“Listen,” he said. “The girl Lois Champneyes—I have lost my hold of her. She knows something about the accident to Rochester.”
“Bungler!” the woman muttered. “Go on. Tell me how you lost your power.”
“I cannot tell,” he answered. “I was in an unsettled mood. I think that I was a little afraid. She spoke of that afternoon. It all came back to me. I am sure that I was afraid,” he added, passing his hand across his forehead.
She leaned toward him and her eyes glittered, hard and bright, from their parchment-like setting.
“Bertrand,” she said, “you talk like a coward. What are you going to do?”