His arms trembled as he uttered these words and, hardly conscious of what he was doing, he shook the heavy frame of the man before him backwards and forwards as if he had been a child in his hands. There was dead silence for several seconds and, unheeded by either of them, a weasel ran furtively across the path and disappeared among the trees. The damp odours of moss and leaf-mould rose up around them and, between the motionless branches above, the stars shone like pin-pricks through black parchment. Suddenly Brand broke away with a harsh laugh.
“Enough of this!” he cried. “We’ve had enough melodramatic nonsense for one night. You’d better go back to bed, Traherne, or you’ll be oversleeping yourself to-morrow and my mother will miss her matins.”
He held out his hand.
“Good night!—and sleep soundly!” he added, in his accustomed dull, sarcastic tone.
The priest sighed heavily and groped about on the ground for the hat he had dropped. Just as he had secured it and was moving off, Brand called out to him laughingly,
“Don’t you believe a word of what I said just now. I’m not drunk at all. I was only fooling. I’m just a common ruffian who knows a pretty face when he sees it. Talk to Linda about me and see what she says!” He strode off up the avenue and the priest turned heavily on his heel.
XV
BROKEN VOICES
Nance and Linda were not long in growing accustomed to their new mode of life. Nance, after her London experiences, found Miss Pontifex’ little work-room, looking out on a pleasant garden, a place of refuge rather than of irksome labour. The young girls under her charge were good-tempered and docile; and Miss Pontifex herself—an excitable little woman with extravagantly genteel manners, and a large Wedgewood brooch under her chin—seemed to think that the girl’s presence in the establishment would redound immensely to its reputation and distinction.