And then—miracle of miracles!—a voice from the shrubs by which they stood bore to her ears the startling words that told her her prayer was answered there and then.
“Madam, that man is here.”
She stood frozen. Not more of a statue was Lot's wife in the moment of looking behind her than she who dared not look behind. That voice! A voice from the dead, a voice she had heard for the last time in the cottage that was Feversham's lodging at Weston Zoyland. Her wild eyes fell upon Sir Rowland's face. It showed livid; the nether-lip sucked in and caught in the strong teeth, as if to prevent an outcry; the eyes wild with fright. What did it mean? By an effort she wrenched herself round at last, and a scream broke from her to rouse her aunt, her cousin, and her brother, and bring them hastening towards her across the sweep of lawn.
Before her, on the edge of the shrubbery, a grey figure stood erect and graceful, and the face, with its thin lips faintly smiling, its dark eyes gleaming, was the face of Anthony Wilding. And as she stared he moved forward, and she heard the fall of his foot upon the turf, the clink of his spurs, the swish of his scabbard against the shrubs, and reason told her that this was no ghost.
She held out her arms to him. “Anthony! Anthony!” She staggered forward, and he was no more than in time to catch her as she swayed.
He held her fast against him and kissed her brow. “Sweet,” he said, “forgive me that I frightened you. I came by the orchard gate, and my coming was so timely that I could not hold in my answer to your cry.”
Her eyelids fluttered, she drew a long sighing breath, and nestled closer to him. “Anthony!” she murmured again, and reached up a hand to stroke his face, to feel that it was truly living flesh.
And Sir Rowland, realizing, too, by now that here was no ghost, recovered his lost courage. He put a hand to his sword, then withdrew it, leaving the weapon sheathed. Here was a hangman's job, not a swordsman's, he opined—and wisely, for he had had earlier experience of Mr. Wilding's play of steel.
He advanced a step. “O fool!” he snarled. “The hangman waits for you.”
“And a creditor for you, Sir Rowland,” came the voice of Mr. Trenchard, who now pushed forward through those same shrubs that had masked his friend's approach. “A Mr. Swiney. 'Twas I sent him from town. He's lodged at the Bull, and bellows like one when he speaks of what you owe him. There are three messengers with him, and they tell of a debtor's gaol for you, sweetheart.”