The jeer gave a fillip to Henrietta’s pride.
“I am ready,” she said, though her voice shook a little.
“And you’ll go?”
“Yes,” coldly; “I shall go.”
“Did you think he was going to twist your pretty neck?” Bess rejoined. “Was that it? But come,” in a more sober tone, “we’ll go. Good-night, old man!” And moving to the door with the ease of one who knew every foot of the room, she unlocked it. A breath of fresh, cold air, blowing on her cheek, informed Henrietta that the door was open. She groped her way to it.
“Do you wait here,” Bess whispered, “while I see if the coast is clear. You’ll hear an owl hoot; then come.”
But Henrietta was not going to be left with that old man. She crept outside the door and, holding it behind her, waited. The night was dark as well as cold, for the moon would not rise for some hours; and Henrietta wondered, as she drew her hood about her neck, how they were to go anywhere. Presently the owl hooted low, and she released the door, and groped her way round the house and between the fir trunks to the gate. A hand, rough but small, clutched her wrist and turned her about; a voice whispered, “Come!” and the two, Bess acting as guide, set off in silence along the road in the direction of Troutbeck.
“How far is it?” Henrietta muttered, when they had gone a distance, that in the night seemed a good half mile.
“That’s telling,” Bess answered. “’Tain’t far. Turn here! Right! right!” pushing her. “Now wait while I——”
“What are you doing?”