Henrietta listened to his departing steps, then with a sigh of relief she returned to her breakfast. Her spirits rose. She felt that she had exaggerated her troubles; that she had allowed herself to be alarmed without cause. The landlady’s rudeness, rather than any real perplexity or peril, had imposed on her. Another time she would not be so lightly frightened. For, after all, she had done nothing of which even Mr. Sutton, if he told the truth, could make much. They might suspect that she had stolen out to meet Walterson; but as she had not met him, they could prove nothing. They might conclude from it, that he was in the neighbourhood; but as Bishop already held that belief, things were left where they were before. Except, to be sure, that for some reason she had lost the landlady’s favour.
The girl had arrived at this comfortable stage in her reasoning when the shuffling of feet along the passage informed her that Bishop was returning. Nor Bishop only. He brought with him others, it was clear, and among them one heavy man in boots—she caught the harsh ring of a spur. Who were they? Why were they coming? Involuntarily she rose to her feet, and waited with a quickened heart for their appearance.
The sounds that reached her were not encouraging. One of the men stumbled, and growled an oath; and one laughed a vulgar common laugh as at some jest in doubtful taste. Then the door opened wide, and with little ceremony they followed one another into the room, one, two, three.
... he touched his brow with his whip handle
Bishop first, with his bluff, square face. Then a stranger, a tall bulky man, heavy-visaged and bull-dog jawed, with harsh, over-bearing eyes. He wore an open horseman’s coat, and under it a broad leather belt with pistols; and he touched his brow with his whip-handle in a half familiar, half insolent way. After him came the pale, peaky face of Mr. Sutton, who looked chap-fallen and ashamed of himself.
The moment all had entered,
“Mr. Chaplain, close the door,” said the stranger in a broad Lancashire accent, and with an air of authority. “Now, Bishop, suppose you tell the young lady—damme, what’s that?” turning sharply, “Who is it?”