And then, poor woman, she thought of the long years between her and rest, and leaning her head against the gate-post, began to cry bitterly in the gloom.
Presently she ceased crying and with a start looked up, feeling that she was no longer alone. Her instincts had not deceived her, for in the shadow of the fir trees, not more than two paces from her, was the figure of a man. Just then he took a step to the left, which brought his outline against the sky, and Ida’s heart stood still, for now she knew him. It was Harold Quaritch, the man over whose loss she had been weeping.
“It’s very odd,” she heard him say, for she was to leeward of him, “but I could have sworn that I heard somebody sobbing; I suppose it was the wind.”
Ida’s first idea was flight, and she made a movement for that purpose, but in doing so tripped over a stick and nearly fell.
In a minute he was by her side. She was caught, and perhaps she was not altogether sorry, especially as she had tried to get away.
“Who is it? what’s the matter?” said the Colonel, lighting a fusee under her eyes. It was one of those flaming fusees, and burnt with a blue light, showing Ida’s tall figure and beautiful face, all stained with grief and tears, showing her wet macintosh, and the gate-post against which she had been leaning—showing everything.
“Why, Ida,” he said in amaze, “what are you doing here, crying too?”
“I’m not crying,” she said, with a sob; “it’s the rain that has made my face wet.”
Just then the light burnt out and he dropped it.
“What is it, dear, what is it?” he said in great distress, for the sight of her alone in the wet and dark, and in tears, moved him beyond himself. Indeed he would have been no man if it had not.