Lady Betty was silent awhile, only betraying her impatience by sighing or beating the trunk with her heels. By-and-by, the hour before the dawn came, and it grew cold. He heard her teeth chatter, and after fumbling with his coat, he took it off, and, in spite of her remonstrances, wrapped her in it.
"Don't!" she said, feebly struggling with him. "Don't! You're a gentleman, and I am only----"
"You're a woman as much as your mistress," he answered roughly.
"But--you hate women!" she cried.
"You don't belong to me," he answered with disdain, "and you'll not die on my hands! Do as you are bidden, child!"
After that he walked up and down before the tree; until at last the day broke, and the grey light, spreading and growing stronger, showed them a sea of mist, covering the whole world--save the little eminence on which they sat--and flowing to their very feet. It showed them also two haggard faces--his weary, hers beautiful in spite of its pallor and her long vigil. For in some mysterious way she had knotted up her hair and tied her kerchief. As she gave him back his coat, and their eyes met, he started and grew red.
"Good heavens, child!" he cried, "you are too handsome to be wandering the country alone; and too young."
She had nothing to say to that, but her cheeks flamed, and she begged him to come quickly--quickly; and together they went down into the mist. At that hour the birds sing in chorus as they never sing in the day; and, by the time the two reached the road the sun was up and the world round them was joyous with warmth and light and beauty. The dew besprinkled every bush with jewels as bright as those which Betty carried in her bosom--for she had thrown away the case--and from the pines on the hill came the perfume of a hundred Arabys. Tom wondered why his heart beat so lightly, why he felt an exhilaration to which he had been long a stranger. Heartbroken, a woman-hater, a cynic, it could not be because a pair of beautiful eyes had looked kindly into his? because a waiting-maid had for a moment smiled on him? That was absurd.
For her, left to herself, she would have pursued the old plan, and gone wildly, frantically up and down, seeking at random the place where she had left Sophia. But he would not suffer it. He led her to the nearest cottage, and learning from the staring inhabitants the exact position of Beamond's Farm, got his companion milk and bread, and saw her eat it. Then he announced his purpose.
"I shall leave you here," he said. "In two hours at the most I shall be back with news."