“Where is Mr. Oliver?” she inquired of Sam.
“Mr. Oliver was out, Miss Jane. As it was getting late, the missis told me to get the gig ready, and bring it.”
After that, Jane was silent, thinking about Valentine and his renewed promises. It might be that the air was favourable to love catching: anyway, both the young Preens had fallen desperately into it; Jane with Valentine Chandler and Oliver with Emma Paul.
Duck Brook was soon reached, for the horse was swift that evening. On the opposite side of the road to the Inlets, was a large field, in which the grass was down and lying in cocks, the sweet smell of the hay perfuming the air of the summer night. Leaping across this field and then over its five-barred gate into the road, came Oliver Preen. Jane, seeing him, had no need to wonder where he had been.
For across this field and onwards, as straight as the crow flies, was a near way to Islip. Active legs, such as Oliver’s, might get over the ground in twenty minutes, perhaps in less. But there was no path, or right of way; he had to push through hedges and charge private grounds, with other impediments attending. Thomas Chandler, Conveyancer and Attorney-at-law, had laughingly assured Oliver that if caught using that way, he would of a surety be had up before the justices of the peace for trespass.
“Stop here, Sam,” said Jane. “I will get out now.”
Sam stopped the gig, and Jane got down. She joined her brother, and the boy drove on to the stables.
“It was too bad, Oliver, not to come for me!” she cried.
“I meant to be home in time; I did indeed, Jane,” he answered; “but somehow the evening slipped on.”
“Were you at Mr. Paul’s?”