“I’ll give you a light. Come along,” she went on, coaxingly.
And without a moment’s delay she led the way out into the passage. Much to her relief, he followed, at the same slow, heavy pace.
“Now,” she said, when they had reached the outer door, “give me the key, please.”
He felt in his pocket obediently, and produced the key, which she, overjoyed, almost snatched from his hand. The noise she made in her excitement, as she opened the door, seemed to disturb him, for he began to move restlessly, like a person on the point of waking. Once in the corridor, however, Olivia was bold; she passed her hands several times slowly down his arms, murmuring in a low, soothing tone, injunctions to him to get home quickly. This treatment succeeded perfectly. His manner lost its momentary restlessness, and it was in the same stolid way as he came that he got out on the ladder, descended, replaced the ladder in the long grass, and climbed over the wall.
Olivia watched his retreating figure as long as it was in sight, and then, feeling sick and cold slunk back into her rooms, not forgetting to lock the outer door of the passage safely behind her. Like most women, however brave, when they have been through an exciting crisis, she felt exhausted, limp, almost hysterical. She staggered as she entered the bedroom, and it was with a reeling brain that she walked up and down, up and down, unable to sleep, unable even to rest. She knew the mystery now, and she felt that the knowledge was almost more than she could bear.
Next morning her appearance, when she came down late to breakfast, was so much affected by the awful night she had passed that even the children wondered what was the matter with her. Mr. Denison, believing it to be the result of his avoidance of her the evening before, was cut to the heart with remorse, while his wife, alarmed at the change in the girl, altered her tone, and did her best to be kind to her. Olivia could not eat. Her cheeks were almost livid; her great eyes seemed to fill her face; the hand she held out to be shaken was cold, clammy, and trembling. Her amiable little half sister, Beatrix, saw an opening for a disagreeable remark, and made use of it.
“Mr. Williams wouldn’t say you were pretty if he could see you now,” said she. “Would he, mamma?”
Like most children, she was quick enough to detect how inharmonious were the relations between her mother and her step-sister. She was surprised to find, however, that for once she received no sympathy from the quarter whence she expected it.
“Be quiet, Beatrix, and don’t be rude,” said Mrs. Denison, sharply, with a glance at Olivia, on whom she thought that the reference to the supposed cause of her distress would have some sudden and violent effect.
“Can’t you keep those children in better order, Susan?” asked Mr. Denison, peevishly. “Their rudeness is getting quite intolerable.”