“What man?” Arabella was quaking pitifully. “The man you're always meeting; but to-night you meant to run away with him.”
“Spy!” said Arabella. “What makes you think that?”
“You have put on all your best things.”
“But what makes you think there is a man at all?”
“Oh, I saw that ages ago; though mind you, I have never seen him. It is the man with the meerschaum pipe, now isn't it?”
Arabella's first answer was a shaking fist. Next moment she was shaking all over, in a storm of tears during which Missy took hold of her with both arms, was thrown off, took a fresh hold, and was then suffered to keep it. At last she asked:
“Where were you to meet him, Arabella?”
The answer came with more sobs than words. “At the top corner of the Cultivation: the road corner: he is to wait there till I come.”
“Good!” said Missy. “That's half a mile away, and where we are is out of hearing of the house. Not so sure, eh? Well, come a little, further down the gully. That's better! Now we're safe as the bank, and you'll stop and tell me something about him, won't you, dear, before you go?”
Before she went! Could she ever go now? All the strength which this poor creature had imbibed from a man as masterful as the woman was weak—an imitative courage, never for a moment her honest own—had been rooted up easily enough from the soul where there was no soil for it, and was now as though it had never existed. Such nerve as she had summoned up was gone. Yes, she would stop and talk; that would be a relief. And Missy should hear all, all there was to tell; but this was very little, incredibly little indeed.