"Yes, I am."
Elsewhere in the belfry Mark rang himself into better humour. The labour physicked his grief and soothed his soul. He told himself that all the fault was his, and when the chimes were still, he put on his coat and went to Undershaugh to beg forgiveness.
Phyllis met him.
"Cora's out walking," she said.
"Out walking! Who with?" he asked.
But Phyllis was nothing if not cautious. She had more heart, but not more conscience than her sister.
"I don't know—alone, I think," she answered.
CHAPTER XIII
A day of storm buffeted the Moor. Fitful streaks of light roamed through a wild and silver welter of low cloud; and now they rested on a pool or river, and the water flashed; and now they fired the crests of the high lands or made the ruddy brake-fern flame. Behind Shaugh Moor was storm-cloud, and beneath it, oozing out into the valleys, extended the sullen green of water-logged fields hemmed in with autumnal hedges.