They passed together through the wet bracken, his strong arm guiding her over the uneven path, and came to the open in silence.
“Don’t come with me,” she said then, and without a backward glance, went rapidly from him down the shimmering road.
CHAPTER XLIII
THE EVENING OF AN OLD SCORE
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!—Major Bristow’s ivory-headed camphor-wood stick thumped on the great door of Damory Court. The sound had a tang of impatience, for he had used the knocker more than once without result. Now he strode to the end of the porch and raised his voice in a stentorian bellow that brought Uncle Jefferson shuffling around the path from the kitchens with all the whites of his eyes showing.
“You dog-gone lazy rascal!” thundered the major. “What do you mean, sah, by keeping a gentleman cooling his heels on the door-step like a tax-collector? Where’s your master?”
“Fo’ de Lawd, Major, Ah ain’ seen Mars’ John sence dis mawnin’. Staht out aftah breakfus’ en he nevah showed up ergen et all. Yo’ reck’n whut de mattah, suh?” he added anxiously. “’Peahs lak sumpin’ preyin’ on he mind. Don’ seem er bit hese’f lately.”
“H-m-m!” The major looked thoughtful. “Isn’t he well?”