It would have been extraordinary, after Teenie's visit, had Nellie not received a letter from Sidney, begging her to give him an opportunity of clearing up the mystery which had so long surrounded Black Anchor Farm. The style and spelling of this epistle moved her to the discovery that it would be necessary to leave Miss Yard in the hands of Kezia, and return to Highfield, for one night only, in order that she might superintend the packing of the furniture; in place of George, who might quite possibly prove untrustworthy.
She replied, not altogether to that effect, without one thought for the ridiculous nature of her expeditionary programme; she could not arrive at Highfield until late in the afternoon, she would be compelled to leave early the following morning, while the packers could not reasonably be invited to work from dusk to sunrise. Sidney could meet her at the station if he liked: in fact she thought that might be the best plan, "As poor old George does not possess a sense of humour." Sidney thought so too; but Nellie in her hurry missed the train. She was able to agree with Miss Yard, who could not travel without the observation, "They ought to do away with railway junctions."
There was no good reason for losing all sense of method upon her arrival at Windward House. As a methodist, she would have walked calmly indoors, announced to Bessie—who was presumably in charge—that she had returned to spend one more night in her old bedroom entirely out of sentiment; and then have gone for a walk, in the opposite direction to Black Anchor, among the moths and beetles, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new moon. But the sight of that open window, the garish lamplight, the cold apparition of George with a murderous cork in his hand, made her hopelessly unmethodical. Her mind became so entirely disorganised that everything escaped it, except that stupid necessity of going for a walk immediately. She flung her bag through the window and fled.
On the way to Black Anchor Nellie succeeded in persuading herself that she was, if not exactly discreet, at least as sensible as any other young woman in revolt from the severity of everyday life towards a more picturesque and imaginative style of existence. She actually made a plan. As it was night, and sufficiently dark for spying, she would approach the farm among the bogs, flit around it like a will-o'-the-wisp, play watchful fairy at the window, act recording angel at the keyhole, until part at least of the mystery might be revealed. She had no particular wish to discover the secret of Sidney's fascination, which attracted to him young ladies of superior birth and education, but she desired very much to learn something about these prepossessing damsels; who they were and why they came; and above all it was her business to ascertain why Sidney spoke like a farmer's boy, but looked like a farmer's landlord, and wrote like the descendant of a poet laureate.
"How dark it is down here!" she murmured. "Lucky I know the geography. I wish I knew my history half as well."
Then it seemed to her that all kinds of light-footed people were leaping over the bogs and jumping the furze bushes; while the moor on each side twinkled with teasing eyes of local inhabitants sent out to watch the movements of the spy.
Nellie saw the farm, and knew by the stream of light that all the doors and windows stood wide open. The trackway beyond was dangerous because one window threw a searchlight right across it; but she walked on, having never been taught the art of scouting, and came presently to a colossal figure, carved apparently out of granite, or beaten into human shape by wind and weather, rising from an unhewn boulder halfway to the sky. This was a wonder of the moor never previously discovered, thought Nellie; but a moment later she felt certain ghosts were abroad, and this colossus was being worshipped by the local inhabitants, dancing invisibly all over the peat and tussocks: she could detect the smell of incense, see the smoke rising; any moment she might be compelled to witness a human sacrifice. There was a glow of fire undoubtedly. Again she fled, while the colossus shook from side to side although there was no wind.
"How silly of me!" gasped Nellie. "It was old Mr. Brock, sitting on a rock—bother the rhyme!—smoking a cigar."
Obsessed by the idea of finding out something concerning this enchanted region, she went on towards the farmhouse, forced to walk along the lighted trackway because it skirted the edges of a bog, where in full swing was the season of grand opera and, from a cool green dais, the bullfrog conductor constrained an enormous amount of energy out of his orchestra—it sounded like Tanhäuser but was more melodious—although the night-jars and owls did their best to mar the performance out of professional rivalry, while the beetles with their trombones were hopelessly discordant. But soon there were other sounds, far pleasanter; a scuffling in the furze-clad regions beyond; an approach, a trepidation, a capture, and a scream:
"You beast, Sidney! I did think I had hidden myself that time."