The instant afterward he was startled by the appearance of a figure, emerging into the moonlight from the further end of the shrubbery, and rapidly approaching him. He was near enough to see that it was the figure of a woman. Was it one of the female servants, hurrying back to the house after an interview with a sweetheart? In his black evening dress, he was, in all probability, completely hidden by the deep shadow in which he stood. Would he be less likely to frighten the woman if he called to her than if he allowed her to come close up to him in the dark? He decided on calling to her.
“Who is out so late?” he asked.
A cry of alarm answered him. The figure stood still for a moment, and then turned back as if to escape him by flight.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said. “Surely you know my voice?”
The figure stood still again. He showed himself in the moonlight, and discovered—Sydney Westerfield.
“You!” he exclaimed.
She trembled; the words in which she answered him were words in fragments.
“The garden was so quiet and pretty—I thought there would be no harm—please let me go back—I’m afraid I shall be shut out—”
She tried to pass him. “My poor child!” he said, “what is there to be frightened about? I have been tempted out by the lovely night, like you. Take my arm. It is so close in here among the trees. If we go back to the lawn, the air will come to you freely.”
She took his arm; he could feel her heart throbbing against it. Kindly silent, he led her back to the open space. Some garden chairs were placed here and there; he suggested that she should rest for a while.