At the first sight of Melicent he believed that he had done right to come.
And behold, an hour later, all things were changed; the chance appearance of Otis had, as it were, altered the entire situation. Bert was no longer suppliant, but defender of Melicent's name against all comers—even against the man she was to marry.
It seemed to him that, whether she ever came to care for himself or no, she must break with Lance; for, knowing her as he did, he was sure that now she must feel that, if the engagement went on, full confession of all that had passed was imperative; and that seemed impossible.
Suspense grew and mounted in him till he felt desperate; yet still he sat there, with a kind of charmed stillness, while the quiet-coloured end of evening slowly merged in twilight.
It was growing dark when at last he saw figures moving along the path that led up on the other side of the ridge from Glen Royd—two figures, indistinct at first in the dusk, then clearer. It was Lancelot and Melicent walking together. Bert felt dizzy.
Then he had lost! They were reconciled! They moved slowly along, and he saw that Lance was pushing her bicycle.
He rose and obliterated himself hastily behind a craggy boulder.
They both turned into the road leading to the carriage drive of the Grange, which was also a short cut to the lower parts of Fransdale. They passed in complete silence, and he watched them along the white track of road until they were lost in the shadows of the wood.
A light glimmered out in the lodge window. It was the only sign of human life within his ken.
Lance must be bringing her back to dine, and intending to cycle home with her afterwards. He lit a match and looked at his watch. A quarter to eight. He could not meet them. He realised that he must have time.