COMETHUP LEARNS THE TRUTH.
Quite early in the morning, almost before the gray dawn had come stealing across the sky, ’Linda left the inn and set out swiftly for the outer walls of the town. Some of the old glamour of the romantic personality of the dead man was still upon her, some faint pride in him still remained. She wanted to see that statue which had been raised to him, and of which she had caught a glimpse as she drove into the town on the previous day; she wanted to see it when no one else was there, to carry away in her memory the thought of him as he stood thus and looked in all men’s eyes, and so perhaps to wipe away the memory of the poorer, meaner thing she knew him to have been.
A white, heavy mist was blowing across the marshy lands from the sea; as she came up upon the grass-grown old walls the mists were floating and flowing about the statue, hiding and showing it by turns. She went close and looked up at it for a long time.
The sculptor had been happy in striking the characteristic attitude of the man. The figure stood with one hand lightly planted on the hip and the other hanging by the side; the head was thrown back and the face, with the old daring, wilful smile upon it, turned toward the sky. It was strange to see him there, high above her, on the very spot where they had wandered and played together as children. She turned away at last and began slowly to retrace her steps, looking back once or twice at the silent figure above her.
Suddenly she heard quick steps behind her and, turning sharply, saw the figure of a man looming out of the mist. The man came nearer with a half-stealthy movement that frightened her. She was on the point of crying out, and had stopped, scarcely knowing what to do, when the man overtook her in a stride or two, and peered into her face and cried her name. With a great feeling of relief she put out her hand to him.
“Old Medmer Theed!” she exclaimed. “Dear old friend, you startled me for a moment; I could not distinguish you in this mist.”
He paid no heed to what she said; he did not even notice the hand she held out to him. “So he draws you here still,” he muttered half to himself. “It is as I thought; his power is still as great as ever. See”—he leaned toward her and peered into her face—“your face is white and there are tears in your eyes. But it shall end, child; he shall trouble you no more.”
She remembered afterward that he kept one hand behind him, as though he held something in it—something he did not wish her to see. Fearing that some strange, wild thought such as had troubled him in the old days was troubling him again, she spoke soothingly to him and smiled. “Indeed, there is nothing to trouble me,” she said lightly; “all my troubles are ended.”
“Then why do you come here?” he asked suspiciously. “Why should you come here except to meet him? and why should you weep when you meet him?”
“I don’t understand,” she said, looking at him with a puzzled expression. “I have not come here to meet any one; no one is awake yet, save ourselves.”