"You're a wicked old woman, grandmother," said Trelyon with a laugh. "You oughtn't to put such notions into the head of a well-conducted young man like me."
"Well, you're not such a booby as you used to be, Harry," the old lady admitted. "Your manners are considerably improved, and there was much room for improvement. You're growing a good deal like your grandfather."
"But there's no Gretna Green now-a-days," said Trelyon as he went outside, "so you can't expect me to be perfect, grandmother."
On the first night of his arrival at Eglosilyan he stole away in the darkness down to the inn. There were no lamps in the steep road, which was rendered all the darker by the high rocky bank with its rough masses of foliage: he feared that by accident some one might be out and meet him. But in the absolute silence under the stars he made his way down until he was near the inn, and there in the black shadow of the road he stood and looked at the lighted windows. Roscorla was doubtless within—lying in an easy-chair, probably, by the fire, while Wenna sang her old-fashioned songs to him. He would assume the air of being one of the family now, only holding himself a little above the family. Perhaps he was talking of the house he meant to take when he and Wenna married.
That was no wholesome food for reflection on which this young man's mind was now feeding. He stood there in the darkness, himself white as a ghost, while all the vague imaginings of what might be going on within the house seemed to be eating at his heart. This, then, was the comfort he had found by secretly stealing away from London for a day or two! He had arrived just in time to find his rival triumphant.
The private door of the inn was at this moment opened: a warm glow of yellow streamed out into the darkness.
"Good-night," said some one: was it Wenna?
"Good-night," was the answer; and then the figure of a man passed down the road.
Trelyon breathed more freely: at last his rival was out of the house. Wenna was now alone: would she go up into her own room and think over all the events of the day? And would she remember that he had come to Eglosilyan, and that she could, if any such feeling arose in her heart, summon him at need?
It was very late that night before Trelyon returned: he had gone all round by the harbor and the cliffs and the high-lying church on the hill. All in the house had gone to bed, but there was a fire burning in his study, and there were biscuits and wine on the table. A box of cigars stood on the mantelpiece. Apparently, he was in no mood for the indolent comfort thus suggested. He stood for a minute or two before the fire, staring into it, and seeing other things than the flaming coals there; then he moved about the room in an impatient and excited fashion; finally, with his hand trembling a little bit, he sat down and wrote this note: