“Stay, Martha, look! there’s some one on the bank. If it’s one of the family what shall I do? or if it’s a tramp? Look! either he’s gone to sleep and he’ll catch his death of cold, or else he’s blinded with the moonlight, as people say.”
It was a pretty voice that spoke, with a little catch in it as of mingled fright and audacity: and then followed a slight stir on the gravel as though the speaker had started back at sight of the unlooked-for figure under the tree. “Oh, Martha! what shall I do? I’ve no business to be here at this time of the night.”
“You’re doing no harm,” said Martha. “The missis will think I was showing a friend round the grounds to look at the moon, and she’ll never say a word. It’s Master Walter. Hush! Don’t you take no notice, and he’ll take none. He’s often here of nights.”
“But he’s gone to sleep, and he’ll catch his death of cold,” the stranger said. “Oh, Martha, you that know him, go and wake him up!”
“Hush, then, come along. It’s not cold, only a bit damp, and we’re used to that in this house. Come along,” Martha said.
Walter heard with an acuteness of hearing which perhaps, had it been only Martha, would not have been his; but the other voice was not like Martha’s—he thought it sounded like a lady’s voice. And he was pleased by the solicitude about himself. And he was very young, and in great need of some new interest that might call him out of himself. He rose up suddenly, and took a long step after the two startled figures, which flew before him as soon as he was seen to move.
“Hi, Martha! where are you off to? Come back, I tell you. Do you think I’ll do you any harm, that you run from me?”
“Oh, no, sir, please, sir; it’s only me and a friend taking a turn by the river afore she goes up to the village. It’s a friend, please, sir, as is staying with us at ’ome.”
“There’s no harm done,” said Walter. “You need not run because of me. I’m going in.” The two young women had come to a pause in a spot where the moon was shining clearly, showing in a little opening, amid all the tracery of interlacing boughs, of which she was making a shadow pattern everywhere, the square figure of Martha, standing firm, with another lighter, shrinking shadow, slim and youthful, beside her. There was something romantic to Walter’s imagination in this unknown, who had shown so much interest in himself. “Going to the village at this hour!” he added. “I hope she is not going by herself.”
“Oh, it’s of no consequence, sir,” said Martha, pulling rather imperatively her companion by the gown.