“Miss Carew!” exclaimed a well-remembered voice.
Bewildered, breathing quickly, she gazed from Edward Mauville, who thus unexpectedly accosted her, to the prostrate form, lying motionless on the road. The rude awakening from her day-dream in the hush of that peaceful place, and the surprising sequence had dazed her senses, and, for the moment, it seemed something tragic must have happened.
“Is he dead?” she asked quickly, unable to withdraw her glance from the immovable figure, stretched out in the dim light on the path.
“No fear!” said Mauville, quietly, almost thoughtfully, although his eyes were yet bright from the encounter. “You can’t kill his kind,” he added, contemptuously. “Brutes from coal barges, or raftsmen 375 from the head waters! He struck against a stone when he fell, and what with that, and the liquor in him, will rest there awhile. He’ll come to without remembering what has happened.”
Turning moodily, the land baron walked slowly down the road, away from the gate; she thought he was about to leave her, when he paused, as though looking for something, stooped to the ground, and returned, holding out a garment.
“You dropped your wrap, Miss Carew,” he said, awkwardly. “The night is cold and you will need it.” She offered no resistance when he placed it over her shoulders; indeed, seemed unconscious of the attention.
“Don’t you think we had better go?” he went on. “It won’t hurt him”––indicating the motionless body––“to stay here––the brute!”
But as he spoke, with some constraint, her eyes, full of doubts, met his, and he felt a flush mantle his face. The incongruity of his position appealed forcibly to him. Had he not been watching and following her himself? Seeing her helpless, alone, in the silent spot, where she had unconsciously lingered too long, had he not been almost on the point of addressing her? Moved by vague desires, had he not already started impetuously toward her, when the man from the river had come rollicking along and insinuated himself after his fashion in the other’s rôle?
And at the sight––the fleeing girl, the drunken, profane waterman!––how his heart had leaped and 376 his body had become steel for the encounter; an excess of vigor for a paltry task! Jack, as he called himself, might have been a fighting-man earlier in the day, but now he had gone down like straw. When the excitement of this brief collision was over, however, the land baron found his position as unexpected as puzzling.
As these thoughts swiftly crossed his mind, he could not forbear a bitter laugh, and she, walking more quickly toward the gate, regarded him with inquiry, not perhaps unmingled with apprehension. A picture of events, gone by, arose before her like a menacing shadow over the present. He interpreted her glance for what it meant, and angry that she doubted him, angry with himself, said roughly: