“Is this Prior’s Glebe?” she asked—and her voice gave an odd thrill to my pulses, for I thought I recognized it.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Jacob.
“Lady Beveer’s, I think.”
“That’s near enough,” returned Jacob, familiar with the eccentricities of pronunciation accorded to the name. “What did you please to want?”
“I want Miss Field.”
“Miss Field!” echoed the old man.
“Harriet Field. She lives here, don’t she? I’d like to see her.”
“Oh—Harriet! I’ll send her out,” said he, turning away.
The more I heard of the voice, the greater grew my dismay. Surely it was that of Roger’s wife! Was it really she that Scott had seen at the station? Had she come after Roger? Did she know he was here? I stood back amid the sheltering laurels, hardly daring to breathe. Waiting there, she began a little dance, or shuffle of the feet, perhaps to warm herself, and broke into a verse of a gay song. “As I live, she’s not sober!” was the fear that flashed across me. Harriet, her things still on, just as she came in from church, came swiftly to the gate.
“Well, Harriet, how are you?”