“Oh, how can you be so foolish!” cried Lucy. “There, bring the light, and I’ll come with you.”
“There—there was a poor girl murdered once, miss,” stammered Eliza, “at a gate. Please, miss, I dursn’t go.”
“Then I must go myself,” cried Lucy. “Don’t be so silly. Mamma will be dreadfully cross if you don’t come.”
Eliza seemed to think that it would be better to risk being murdered at the gate than encounter Mrs Alleyne’s anger, so she started up, caught at the tin candlestick with trembling hand, and then unbolted the kitchen door loudly, just as the bell was about to be pulled for the fourth time.
“You speak, please, miss,” whispered the girl. “I dursn’t. Pray say something before you open the gate.”
“Who’s there,” cried Lucy.
“Only me, Miss Alleyne,” said a well-known voice. “I was coming across the common, and thought I’d call and see how your brother is.”
Lucy eagerly began to unfasten the great gate, but for some reason, probably best known to herself, she stopped suddenly, coloured a little, and said—almost sharply,—
“Quick, Eliza, why don’t you open the gate?”
Thus adjured, the maiden unfastened the ponderous lock, and admitted Philip Oldroyd, who shook hands warmly with Lucy, and then seemed as if he were about to change her hand over to his left, and feel her pulse with his right.