"He's not a man, miss, he's a divil—six fut two and as black as a flue-brush. He was gamekeeper to the masther, and the masther turned him off for bad conduc', and he's swore to be even with him."
"Of course," said Miss Grimshaw, "I might telegraph to Mr. French, and bring him back, but he has gone on important business, and it would be a pity."
"It would, miss."
"I'm not afraid," said the girl, "and if you think you can manage till Thursday by yourself it would be better to do nothing. I will send him a telegram on Wednesday to make sure of him returning on Thursday."
"Yes, miss," said Moriarty. "That'll be the best way—and, if Black Larry comes before the masther is back, Heaven help him!"
Moriarty took his departure, and the girl turned to the window. The rain was falling now, "the long rain of these old, old lands, eternal, fateful, slow!" Verhaeren's verse crossed her mind as she looked out at the lowering sky and at the distant mountains, now half-veiled in clouds. As she looked the naked tree branches all bent one way, as if pressed down by an invisible hand, a sheet of rain obliterated everything beyond the middle distance of the landscape, and every window on the west side of the house shook and rattled to the wind that had suddenly risen.
She went upstairs to the schoolroom, where Effie, kneeling on the window-seat, was engaged in the monotonous occupation of tracing the raindrops on the pane with her finger.