She loved Roddy. She could not trace the steps by which her love had grown, but affection had first been changed into something stronger on that day when he had been carried back into his house from whose gates he had passed, that morning, so strong and sure. Pity had been the beginning of it, admiration of his courage had continued it, this moment of this stormy night had struck it into flame—
And now, perhaps, in another day or so, she would learn that he had done with her for ever.
She sat there, huddled, trembling, her eyes burning, her throat dry.
Oh! why wouldn't the carriage go faster! If only this storm would come and that terrible sky would break! She knew that Mrs. Rand and Daisy were away in the country and Lizzie went out very seldom. She would find her. She must find her. She shuddered to think what she might do were Lizzie not at home.
They were there. Yes, Miss Rand was at home: Rachel went in.
Lizzie was sitting quietly by the open window, reading. She looked up and saw Rachel in a dress of black and gold, her face very pale, as she stood there in the doorway.
"Lizzie dear—Lizzie." Rachel flung off her cloak, stood for a moment motionless, then without another word, huddled up on to the sofa and, her face buried in her arm, began to cry. Lizzie came across to her, took her hand, and sat there without speaking.
After a long time she said, "Rachel dear. What is it?"
Rachel clung to her, holding her fiercely. At last, looking up but away from Lizzie, she said, "Oh! if you hadn't been here. I don't know—I simply don't know what—I think it's this night. This awful night. It's so close and the storm is so long coming."
"Has anything particular happened?"