“Wait! I’m goin’ with you,” said a tense voice. It was Martin.
“Thank you very much, but I really don’t need anybody.”
“I’m goin’,” repeated the man doggedly.
“I don’t want you to,” Lucy returned curtly, nettled into irritability.
“Likely not,” observed Martin with stolid determination.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” fretted Lucy angrily. “I’d much rather——”
It was like a child helplessly dashing itself against a wall. Martin paid no attention to her protests. With a lighted lantern in one hand and an umbrella in his other, he set forth with Lucy down the driveway.
Overhead the trees wrenched and creaked, 129 and above the lashings of their branches the rain could be heard beating with fury upon the tossing foliage. Once in the blackness Lucy stumbled and, following the instinct for self-preservation, put out her hand and caught Martin’s arm; then she drew her hand quickly away. They proceeded in silence until they reached the gate at the foot of the long Webster driveway; then the man spoke:
“’Tain’t fur now,” he said, halting short. “I’ll give you the umbrella.” He held it out to her.
“But you’ll get drenched.”