The room grew dark as she sat, stooping forward, her chin in her hands. The wind rose, and lapped like rising waves about the lonely house. She put more coal on the fire, feeling the intense cold of the night even there, in the nest of carpets, thick curtains, and cushions.
Suddenly she heard muffled feet on the red, newly-spread gravel outside. No wheels, but the steady, heavy tramping of feet! She heard voices, the rustic, slow voices of the farm men. There was a momentary silence: then Jethro spoke. She could not catch the words, but there was a sinister intonation in his voice.
She ran to the window. When she hastily dragged the curtain back she saw that the glass was spread with a fine cloth of silver. The casement was fast with frost; it took a determined movement of her wrist to throw it back.
When she put her head stealthily out into the night, the cold dashed against her with the sting of a blow. There had not been so cold a night that winter. The snow fell in solid steady flakes.
It was a typical winter’s night; it was quite theatrical in its completeness. She might have been looking at the drop-scene of a domestic drama. Snow, intense cold, slow-tongued, heavy-footed rustics—everything was ripe for a crisis; but there was to be no crisis in her life, no more drama. She was in harbor.
Jethro saw her before she spoke.
“Go back!” he said peremptorily. “Go back to the fire!”
Those were the words she had used to Gainah.
“Go back!” he repeated.
She couldn’t see his face; she could see nothing distinctly. The men were in a circle, as if they covered something. But she didn’t want to see. The strange ring in his voice was enough.