Therefore Lucy sat down on the wall to await her oncoming rescuer.
Meanwhile the wagon came nearer.
It contained a single occupant who was perched with careless grace astride a barrel of flour and appeared to be very much hedged in by a multifarious assortment of small packages and sacks of grain. It did not look as if there were room in the carriage for an additional ounce, and when the girl saw how crowded it was, her heart sank; then as she looked again, it bounded with sudden emotion, for the man who so jauntily urged forward his steed from his pinnacle on the barrel was none other than Martin Howe.
Resolutely Lucy rose from the wall and, without a glance in the traveler’s direction, set out at a sharp pace along the highway.
She would not ask a favor of Martin Howe if she had to plod every step of the three scorching miles; and if he were brute enough to let her toil along in the heat—to walk while he rode—well, that was all she ever wanted to know about him. Her heart beat tumultuously as she heard the wheels coming closer. 181
The horse was beside her now, and the whirl-wind of dust his hoofs raised made her choke. Would the wagon stop or go on? The horse’s head passed abreast of her, then his white, lathered body. Next the wagon came into sight, with Martin sitting proudly and stiffly on his perch. Afterward horse, wagon, and man rolled past, and the girl was left alone.
Her lip trembled. Would he really leave her like this in the dust and heat? Would he leave even his worst enemy? It was incredible a human being could be so heartless. And the humiliation of it! To tag along behind him on foot, smothering in his dust!
Rage possessed her. That should be the end of Mr. Martin Howe! He was no gentleman. He was not even human.
She sat down on the stone wall once more, waiting for him to disappear and the dust from his wheels settle.
But to her surprise she saw him come to a stop in the road and, pivoting around on his perch, face her.