“Be satisfied. No woman shall ever suffer through me—again. I will bear it to the end—alone.”
“Spoken bravely—spoken like yourself,” began the vicar of Rishton, in his usual firm and cheerful tones. He was about to say more, when his speech was checked by the sight of a man’s face peering over the wall of a small, neglected garden, which adjoined the vicar’s own premises on a lower level of the hill.
The face was that of a stranger, but of a stranger who apparently took a deep interest in his surroundings. Meredith Brander examined his features with frank and rather puzzled interest, while Vernon scanned the face with an intentness which almost savored of dread. The stranger, on his side, gave them a nod of free-and-easy greeting, which they returned by a more conventional salute, as they proceeded up the hill.
“Who is that man?” asked Meredith, as if trying to recall some memory connected with the features he had just seen.
“I don’t know,” answered the brother, in a troubled voice. His brother looked inquiringly.
“Have you seen him before? I can’t quite make up my mind whether he is a stranger to me or not.”
“He is a stranger,” said Vernon; “probably the man who has taken the cottage. I heard this morning that it was let at last.”
“You don’t know his name then?”
“Mat Oldshaw, who told me, did not mention his name.”
No more was said on the subject of the stranger by either of the brothers, both of whom remained apparently in deep thought for the few remaining steps of their walk.