Patricia at the inn

by J. C. Snaith

The next thing of which the landlord was aware, was, that they were leaving the altitude on which they stood. As they prepared to descend to the path beneath, the woman hung heavily upon the strange man’s arm. And as they came down the incline of the rocks, they approached so near to Gamaliel’s hiding-place that the old man was able to train his eyes full upon them; and the moonlight and the light of the woman’s lantern falling on them too, they became a feast for his curiosity. He was able to discern almost every detail of the stranger’s countenance; and as he did so, he had to strangle the cry of surprise that welled up on his lips. The woman’s mysterious companion was none other than the landlord’s new serving-man, Will Jackson.

CHAPTER VII
The Woman

BY the time Gamaliel had recovered a little of his amaze, the man and the woman had gone past him; and when at last he reached his feet to follow them, they were already lost to sight in the descent. Judging them to be upon the path that led back to his inn, and that thither doubtless was their destination, the landlord stumbled down as speedily as he could towards it. As he had supposed, the woman and his serving-man had reached it too, and were steering a straight course to the inn. The landlord crouched after them as stealthily as ever. It was his desire to see without disturbing them. He must observe every detail of their behaviour, and afterwards construe it at his leisure. To his mind there never was so deep a mystery as the wild business of that night.

When they came to the inn they stayed a minute underneath the sign, and resumed their eager converse. Again was the landlord too far off to hear the purport of it, but there was still the same passion and excitement on the woman’s side as formerly; and when they parted—the lady through the open kitchen door, and the serving-man to a temporary bed of straw that had been found for him in the stable at the back—there was again that astounding incident of her lips being pressed upon the fellow’s hand.

The landlord waited until Will Jackson had retired, and then hastily came up just as the woman had entered the kitchen and was about to close the door. Without saying a word, he put his shoulder to it and forced an entry. He paid no heed to the woman until the door was bolted, so that no one might intrude, and he had got the candles lit. Then he turned upon his victim.

That the winterly cold had struck her he could see. Her pale face was mottled with blue patches where its claws had pinched her; the belated hair that had wriggled from her hood hung on her temples limp and wet; and the fingers of one starved hand were stiffened to the burnt-out lantern that they bore. She had a crying need for warmth and kindness, but those were luxuries that Master Gamaliel administered only to himself. Thus he poured some brandy forth and drank it briskly, and warmed his frozen hands at the candle-blaze. He then felt strong enough to turn his attention to the lady.

“Madam,” he said, “this is a very serious thing. I await your explanation of it, madam.”

Saying this, he craftily assumed a place between her and the stairs leading to the bedfast traveller’s chamber. Her retreat was intercepted.

She looked at him dumbly, and did not answer. But she lifted her pleading eyes up to his face of stone, as one who knew the great powers residing in them, and who was accustomed to employ them as weapons of defence. The landlord laughed a little insolently.