She followed the road into a bower of trees, overhanging it so densely
that the pass appeared like a rabbit’s burrow, and presently reached a
side entrance to the park. The clouds rose more rapidly than the
farmer had anticipated: the sheep moved in a trail, and complained
incoherently. Livid grey shades, like those of the modern French
painters, made a mystery of the remote and dark parts of the vista, and
seemed to insist upon a suspension of breath. Before she was half-way
across the park the thunder rumbled distinctly.
The direction in which she had to go would take her close by the old
manor-house. The air was perfectly still, and between each low rumble of
the thunder behind she could hear the roar of the waterfall before her,
and the creak of the engine among the bushes hard by it. Hurrying on,
with a growing dread of the gloom and of the approaching storm, she drew
near the Old House, now rising before her against the dark foliage and
sky in tones of strange whiteness.
On the flight of steps, which descended from a terrace in front to the
level of the park, stood a man. He appeared, partly from the relief the
position gave to his figure, and partly from fact, to be of towering
height. He was dark in outline, and was looking at the sky, with his
hands behind him.
It was necessary for Cytherea to pass directly across the line of his
front. She felt so reluctant to do this, that she was about to turn
under the trees out of the path and enter it again at a point beyond
the Old House; but he had seen her, and she came on mechanically,
unconsciously averting her face a little, and dropping her glance to the
ground.
Her eyes unswervingly lingered along the path until they fell upon
another path branching in a right line from the path she was pursuing.
It came from the steps of the Old House. ‘I am exactly opposite him
now,’ she thought, ‘and his eyes are going through me.’