Laura Hammond, crossing the hall after tea, heard the outer door open behind her, and, feeling the cold gust of air which entered, stopped and turned, and saw him standing on the mat. He had let himself in in this way on more than one occasion before, and it was not that which in a moment caused her heart to sink. She had been expecting him all day, for she knew the crisis was imminent, and had been hourly looking for news. But she had not been expecting him in this guise. There was a strange disorder in his air and manner. He was wet and splashed with mud. He held his hat in his hand, as if he had been walking bareheaded in the rain. His eyes shone with a wild light, and he looked at her oddly. She turned and went toward him. “Is it you?” she said timidly.
“Oh, yes, it is I,” he answered, with a forced laugh. “I want to speak to you.” And he let drop the portière, which he had hitherto held in his hand.
There was a light in the breakfast-room, which opened on the hall, and she led the way into that room. He followed her and closed the door behind him. She pointed to a chair, but he did not take it. “What is it?” she said, looking up at him in real alarm. “What is the matter, Stephen?”
“Everything!” he answered, with another laugh. “I am leaving Claversham.”
“You are leaving?” she said incredulously.
“Yes, leaving!” he answered.
“To-night?” she stammered.
“Well, not to-night,” he answered, with rude irony. “To-morrow. I have been within an ace of getting the living, and I—I have lost it. That is all.”
Her cheek turned a shade paler, and she laid one hand on the table to steady herself. “I am so sorry,” she murmured.
He did not see her tremor; he heard only her words, and he resented them bitterly. “Have you nothing more to say than that?” he cried.