He stood in front of her frowning, though the sight of her distress touched him a little through his vexation. She had always touched him rather—that was the worst of it.
“What have you come here for?” he asked, feeling great misgivings as to the reason. “Come, sit here like a good girl and tell me. Lord! your dress is dripping. ’Tis like a madwoman to go running over the country these damp nights.”
And he drew her down upon the yew-stump and put his arm about her. The horse began to crop the short grass. He was completely reassured, and like many who considered themselves his betters, he found his stomach a source of much solace and occupation. Mary leaned her head against Rhys, and her sobs ceased as she found his arm round her; she was cold and wearied, and she was suffering an anxiety that was more than she could well bear.
“Rhys,” she said, “I know all about it. Mr. Evans was telling Turnbull o’ Tuesday evening, an’ I heard every word. Don’t you go—don’t you. I’ve come all the way through this lonesome place to ask you.” And she clung to him, imploring. He sat silent for a moment.
“Damnation,” he said at last between his teeth.
Mary’s tears broke out afresh. “Now you hate me for it, I know,” she sobbed, breaking away and standing before him, a slight wild figure against the clearing atmosphere. “But oh! how could I help it?”
“Nonsense,” said the young man impatiently, “come back and don’t be a fool. I couldn’t hate you, and that you know.”
“Is that true?” she asked, clasping her hands and fixing her large eyes on him. The wet mist had made her hair limp and heavy, and a lock of it showed on her shoulder, under the cloak she had thrown over her head. Even tears, cold, and wet could not make her anything but an attractive woman, and he put out his hand and took hers. It was like a piece of ice.
“You silly wench,” he said, pulling her towards him and kissing her. “Why do you come out like this, catching your death of cold? Not but what I’m glad you came, all the same, for I don’t seem to see you now-a-days, as I used to. What is it you want me to do?”
“Don’t go to the toll-gate wi’ them Rebecca people,” she begged. “It’s a black business, and oh! if you were to get caught what would they do to you? Rhys, there’s a man in Carmarthen jail that I used to know, and I’ve heard tell that they won’t let him out for years an’ years. And what would become of me?”