IX
Frances stood astounded at the sudden anger in his face as he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving her in the cold, dusky room alone.
When she went across the hall and into "the chamber" he was gone by the other way; Mrs. Randall and her father were deep in a discussion of his affairs, farm and household. Frances was left to her own reflections; they held a vague feeling of having stumbled somewhere and failed to measure to a greatness. She was quiet for the rest of their visit, beyond the custom of that cheerful young woman. As there was more time for thought she became conscience-stricken; she felt she knew where she had offended, she had derided the home of which young Montague was so proud and that while a guest within it; she strove to make her peace, but he gave her no chance, until they waited on the steps in the moonlight for the trap.
Mrs. Randall was down on the walk, the professor was looking anxiously to Starlight's harness; Frances had lingered purposely.
The road home was rough, ruts and steep hills darkened by thick woods. Mr. Holloway was looking carefully to the fastenings of Starlight's harness, unwilling to trust too much to the hands of the boy who had brought him to the door. Mrs. Randall waited near him, Frances lingered purposely on the broad high steps of the porch.
The moonlight flooded the world; its white light gleamed on the drive about the circle where the tangled shrubbery cast weird shadowings; the dusk under the trees on the further lawn lay heavy and black; far-off loomed the oaks above the graves of those who had lived and died in the old house on whose steps they stood. The air of the autumn night was chill and still, save for the restless movements of Starlight. With the shadowed, unreal face of the night a feeling of awe touched Frances. She made a step nearer to the young man standing by her, his tall figure towering above her, his fair face shadowed by his big soft hat.
"We have had a lovely visit," she said softly.
"I am glad."
"And it's such a beautiful old place—beautiful; you must trim up your roses and—"
"I know nothing of flowers," coldly.