For a moment Anne hesitated, then, with a little smile, took up the card of excruciatingly green wool and broke off a strand. She threaded the needle she found stuck into the wool, and fitted the sock on her hand.
“I owe him,” said Anne, “some small payment for the shelter.” And she laughed, seating herself again in the armchair. Neatly, deftly, she drew the wool in and out across the hole, her ears alert to catch the sound of returning steps, or of carriage-wheels. The needle moved swiftly and with dexterity.
What is one to make of her? Lady Anne Garland—the proud, the much-courted, the to the world always aloof and sometimes disdainful [Pg 179]Lady Anne Garland—sitting in a meagrely furnished little room by a fire of sticks and fir-cones, darning the green sock of a vagabond Piper! And infinitely more incomprehensible is the fact that he—this man on whom she had only twice before set eyes—was causing her to think of him in a manner not at all good for the peace of her own soul; especially as—and here a distinct confession must be made—she was already quite more than half in love with a man she had never even seen—the writer of books and letters, Robin Adair.
Human nature is a complex and curious thing, though by those who, having read thus far, hold the key to the riddle her nature may perhaps be understood.
Ten minutes later and a neat darn had replaced the gaping hole. Finding no implement handy with which to cut the wool she broke it, then placed the sock, the wool, and the needle again upon the table in much the same position they had previously occupied.
She got up from her chair and crossed to the window. The rain was still coming down in torrents, and the lightning was still frequent, but the thunder was muttering now at a distance.
Once more she looked back into the room. What a queer little room it was, and how entirely peaceful! Why did the villagers imagine it to be haunted? Could anything be more restful, more reposeful? And how very homely it looked in spite of its somewhat bare appearance! And then she stopped in her reflections, for the sound of wheels had struck upon her ear. A moment later the carriage came in sight down the lane. On the box, mackintoshed and stately, were both coachman and footman.
Anne laughed. “It really was unnecessary for them both to come,” she said to herself. And then Peter was out of the carriage and up the path to the door.
“It is here,” he said.
Anne came forward. “I am more than grateful,” she said. “And you must be terribly wet.”