CHAPTER VIII
THE MAN WITH TWO FACES
This outward sainted Deputy,
Whose settled visage and deliberate word
Nips youth i’ the head and follies doth emmew
As falcon doth the fowl—is yet a Devil!
Shakespeare.
Haybittle dragged me out. From the porch I had a last view of the room. It showed me the table set for a feast, as I had left it, the old lady seated in her chair, Constantia on her feet, motionless, and gazing after us. Was it fancy or did I read something besides scorn and defiance in the girl’s eyes as they followed me; a shadow of fear, of appeal, of unutterable sorrow? I could not tell, and I had no time to dwell on the fancy. In a twinkling I was half-lifted and half pushed into the saddle of a troop-horse, the reins were thrust into my hand, the word was given, we moved off, the lighted windows faded as by magic. I had one glimpse of Mammy Jacks’ face amid a knot of staring negroes, a moment in which to press my purse—once before given and returned—into her hand, and we had left all behind, and were filing down the field road, amid the jingle of bits, the trampling of hoofs, the curt orders, all the familiar sounds of a troop of horse on the march.
I was among my own people, Paton’s cheery tones cried, “Hark Forrard!” in my ears, his kind hand had knotted my spare rein to his saddle. I was free, with friendly hands and voices round me, and a good horse between my knees. I should have been jubilant, I should have been happy, I should have been content at least; and Heaven knows I was wretched. It was not only that we were parted, but in the moment of parting the girl had judged me unfairly and hurt me wantonly, God only knew why! She had flung my thanks in my face and poured scorn on the affection of which—for she was a woman—she must at least have had some suspicion.
Sore with the pain of parting, I cried out passionately against her injustice: that injustice which, had I been indifferent to her, must still have been cruel. As it was I loved her; and at this our last interview, when I had been on the point of telling her, hurried and ill-timed as the moment was, something of what I felt, she had—oh, but it was cruel! For I might never—I might never see her again. This might be my last memory of her.
Yet at this moment her stricken face, her eyes, wells of grief and appeal, rose up before me, and gave me a strange bewildering certainty that I was loved. That I was loved! She might pour contempt on me, she might insult me; but the very violence of her language proved that there was something in her heart akin to that which swelled in mine. There was a bond between us. Miles might part us, but her eyes followed me, and her heart. For, here was the old mystery, the old puzzle. But of pain is born knowledge; and with her reproaches in my ears, and every pace of my horse carrying me farther from her—and never perhaps should I see her again!—I was sure at last that I had touched her heart.