“I’ll stay here, of course. You’ll tell Miss Mary that we—that I am here, and she will tell you what we—what I, must do.”
“But—but—” he stammered, dubious of the plan.
“Of course I can go home again to Maam now,” she broke in coldly, and she was vexed for the alarm and grief he showed at the alternative.
“I will go; I will go at once,” he cried, but first he went far down on Blaraghour for wood for a fire to cheer her loneliness, and the dusk was down on them before he left her.
She gave him her hand at the door, a hand for once with helpless dependence in the clinging and the confidence of it, and he held it long without dissent from her. Never before had she seemed so beautiful or so affable, so necessary to his life. Her trials had paled the colour of her face and her eyes had a hint of tears. Over his shoulder she would now and then cast a glance of apprehension at the falling night and check a shudder of her frame.
“Good-night!” he said.
“Good-night!” she answered, and yet she did not loose her prisoned hand.
He sighed, and brought, in spite of her, an echo from her heart.
Then he drew her suddenly to his arms and scorched her face with lips of fire.
Nan released herself and fled within. The door closed; she dared not make her trial the more intense by seeing the night swallow up her only living link with the human world beyond the vague selvedge of the moor.