All the way home the memory of those eyes haunted Ernestine. All the way
home her ears were straining to catch the hoot of a motor-horn and the
rush of wheels behind them.
But no motor overtook them. Nothing happened to disturb the smiling
peace of that summer afternoon.
Back in her little room under the thatch she flung herself face
downwards on the bed, and lay tense. What should she do? What should she
do? He had seen her. He was on her track. Sooner or later he would run
her to earth. And she--what could she do?
For a long while she lay there, too horror-stricken to move, while over
and over again there passed through her aching brain the memory of those
eyes. Did he guess that she had come there to hide from him? Had he been
hunting her for long?
She moved at length, sat up stiffly, and felt something crackle inside
her dress. With a little start she realised what it was, and drew forth
Rivington's letter.
A great sigh broke from her as she opened and read it once again.
A little later she ran swiftly downstairs with a folded paper in her
hand. Out into the blinding sunshine, bareheaded, she ran, never pausing
till she turned into the lily-decked garden of the post-office.
She was trembling all over as she handed in her message, but as it
ticked away a sensation of immense relief stole over her. She went out
again feeling almost calm.
But that night her terrors came back upon her in ghastly array. She
could not sleep, and lay listening to every sound. Finally she fell into
an uneasy doze, from which she started to hear the dog in the yard
barking furiously. She lay shivering for a while, then crept to her
window and looked out. The dense shadow of a pine wood across the road
blotted out the starlight, and all was very dark. It was impossible to
discern anything. She stood listening intently in the darkness.
The dog subsided into a growling monotone, and through the stillness she
fancied she caught a faint sound, as if some animal were prowling softly
under the trees. She listened with a thumping heart. Nearer it seemed to
come, and nearer, and then she heard it no more. A sudden gust stirred
the pine tops, and a sudden, overmastering panic filled her soul.
With the violence of frenzy she slammed and bolted her window, and made
a wild spring back to the bed. She burrowed down under the blankets, and
lay there huddled, not daring to stir for a long, long time.
With the first glimmer of day came relief, but she did not sleep. The
night's terror had left her nerves too shaken for repose. Yet as the sun
rose and the farmyard sounds began, as she heard the mill-wheel creak
and turn and the rush and roar of the water below, common sense came to
her aid, and she was able to tell herself that her night alarm might
have been due to nothing more than her own startled imagination.
On the breakfast table she found a card awaiting her, which she seized,
and read with deepening colour.
"Expect me by the afternoon train. I shall walk from the station.--K.E."
A feeling of gladness, so intense that it was almost rapture, made her
blood flow faster. He was coming in answer to her desperate summons. He
would be with her that very day. She was sure that he would tell her
what to do.
She read the card several times in the course of the morning, and came
to the conclusion that it would be only nice of her to walk to meet him.
The path lay through beech woods. She had gone part of the way with him
only three days before. Only three days! It seemed like months. She
looked forward to meeting him again as though he had been an old friend.
She started soon after the early dinner. The afternoon was hot and
sultry. She was glad to turn from the road into the shade and stillness
of the woods. The sun-rays slanting downwards through the mazy, golden
aisles made her think of the afternoon on which she had waited for him
under the dome of St. Paul's.
The heat as she proceeded became intense. The humming of many insects
filled the air with a persistent drone. It was summer at its height.
A heavy languor began to possess her. She remembered that she had not
slept all the previous night. She also recalled the panic that had kept
her awake, and smiled faintly to herself. She did not feel afraid now
that Rivington was coming. She even began to think she had been rather
foolish, and wondered if he would think so too.
She began to go more slowly. Her feet felt heavier at every step. A few
yards ahead a golden-brown stream ran babbling through the wood. It was
close to the path. She would sit down beside it and rest till he
arrived.
She reached the stream, sank down upon a bed of moss, then found the
heat intolerable, and began impulsively to loosen her shoes. What if he
did discover her a second time barefooted? He had not minded before;
neither had she. And no one else would come that way. He had even lent
her his handkerchief to dry her feet. Perhaps he would again.
Once more a strictly private little smile twitched the corners of her
mouth. She slipped off her stockings and plunged her tired feet into the
cool, running water.
Leaning back against a tree-trunk she closed her eyes. An exquisite
sense of well-being stole over her. He would not be here yet. What did
it matter if she dozed? The bubbling of the water lulled her. She rested
her feet upon a sunny brown stone. She turned her cheek upon her arm.
And in her sleep she heard the thudding of a horse's hoofs, and dreamed
that her knight errant was close at hand.
X