Old Tamar rose up affrighted, her stiff arms raised, and uttered a blessing. She did not know what to make of it. Rachel sat down upon one of the kitchen chairs, scarce knowing what she did, and Stanley Lake halted near the threshold—gazing for a moment as wildly as she, with the ghost of his sly smile on his smooth, cadaverous face.
'What ails her—is she ill, Master Stanley?' asked the old woman, returning with her white eyes the young man's strange yellow glare.
'I—I don't know—maybe—give her some water,' said Lake.
'Glass of water—quick, child,' cried old Tamar to Margery.
'Put it on the table,' said Rachel, collected now, but pale and somewhat stern.
'And now, Stanley, dear,' said she, for just then she was past caring for the presence of the servants, 'I hope we understand one another—at least, that you do me. If not, it is not for want of distinctness on my part; and I think you had better leave me for the present, for, to say truth, I do not feel very well.'
'Good-night, Radie—good-night, old Tamar. I hope, Radie, you'll be better—every way—when next I see you. Good-night.'
He spoke in his usual clear low tones, and his queer ambiguous smile was there still; and, hat in hand, with his cane in his fingers, he made another glance and a nod over his shoulder, at the threshold, and then glided forth into the little garden, and so to the mill-road, down which, at a swift pace, he walked towards the village.