He promised Mrs. Dearmer that next week he would go with her to town, and all that day he tried to prove that he was not dull. The effort was successful until the evening, and then came the feeling of suffocation and the need for deep draughts of air. With a muttered excuse he left his guests to their play and laughter, and hurried to the terrace.
The night was still, not a breeze stirred in the trees, and the light of a young moon was upon the terrace, casting faint, motionless shadows over greensward and stone flags. For a little while Sir John stood looking down into the stream, which seemed asleep to-night. Upon it the shadows quivered, but scarce a ripple of music came from underneath its banks. A man might well feel some regrets for the past on such a night of peace, might well hear the small voice of conscience distinctly, but with Sir John there was only superstition and fear.
Motionless shadows on the terrace, and yet Sir John turned suddenly, as though he were conscious of movement, and his eyes rested upon a shadow in the angle of a wall. He had not noticed it before; now for a little space it seemed like other shadows, but Sir John was not deceived. It moved, coming out from the wall and towards him, and a man stood there.
"Martin!"
Sir John was not a coward, but a sigh of relief escaped him when he realised that this was no phantom, but a thing of flesh and blood—only Mad Martin.
"I have waited for you, Sir John."
"The doors were not locked against you, though they well might have been. Where do you spring from to-night, and what have you been doing?"
"Wandering and dreaming."
"In a mad mood, eh?"
"Yes, when I see things and hear voices," said Martin in a sing-song tone, as though he were dreaming now and unconscious of the words his lips uttered. "I heard my mistress calling me. Where is she, Sir John?"