She lifted her hand and delicately held aside a few twigs that she might look out.
She had been quite right in deciding not to move.Nigel Anstruthers had come back, and after his pause turned, and avoiding the brick path, stole over the grass to the cottage door.His going had merely been an inspiration to trap her, and the wood and matches had been intended to make a beacon light for him.That was like him, as well.His horse he had left down the road.
But the relief of his absence had been good for her, and she was able to check the shuddering fit which threatened her for a moment.The next, her ears awoke to a new sound.Something was stumbling heavily about the patch of garden--some animal.A cropping of grass, a snorting breath, and more stumbling hoofs, and she knew that Childe Harold had managed to loosen his bridle and limp out of the shed.The mere sense of his nearness seemed a sort of protection.
He had limped and stumbled to the front part of the garden before Nigel heard him.When he did hear, he came out of the house in the humour of a man the inflaming of whose mood has been cumulative; Childe Harold's temper also was not to be trifled with.He threw up his head, swinging the bridle out of reach; he snorted, and even reared with an ugly lashing of his forefeet.
"Good boy!" whispered Betty."Do not let him take you --do not!"If he remained where he was he would attract attention if anyone passed by."Fight, Childe Harold, be as vicious as you choose--do not allow yourself to be dragged back."And fight he did, with an ugliness of temper he had never shown before--with snortings and tossed head and lashed--out heels, as if he knew he was fighting to gain time and with a purpose.
But in the midst of the struggle Nigel Anstruthers stopped suddenly.He had stumbled again, and risen raging and stained with damp earth.Now he stood still, panting for breath--as still as he had stood after the click of the gate.
Was he--listening? What was he listening to? Had she moved in her excitement, and was it possible he had caught the sound? No, he was listening to something else.Far up the road it echoed, but coming nearer every moment, and very fast.Another horse--a big one--galloping hard.Whosoever it was would pass this place; it could only be a man--God grant that he would not go by so quickly that his attention would not be arrested by a shriek! Cry out she must--and if he did not hear and went galloping on his way she would have betrayed herself and be lost.
She bit off a groan by biting her lip.
"You who died to-day--now--now!"
Nearer and nearer.No human creature could pass by a thing like this--it would not be possible.And Childe Harold, backing and fighting, scented the other horse and neighed fiercely and high.The rider was slackening his pace; he was near the lane.He had turned into it and stopped.Now for her one frantic cry--but before she could gather power to give it forth, the man who had stopped had flung himself from his saddle and was inside the garden speaking.A big voice and a clear one, with a ringing tone of authority.
"What are you doing here? And what is the matter with Miss Vanderpoel's horse?" it called out.
Now there was danger of the swoop into the darkness--great danger--though she clutched at the hedge that she might feel its thorns and hold herself to the earth.
"YOU!" Nigel Anstruthers cried out."You!" and flung forth a shout of laughter.
"Where is she?" fiercely."Lady Anstruthers is terrified.
We have been searching for hours.Only just now I heard on the marsh that she had been seen to ride this way.Where is she, I say?"A strong, angry, earthly voice--not part of the melodrama--not part of a dream, but a voice she knew, and whose sound caused her heart to leap to her throat, while she trembled from head to foot, and a light, cold dampness broke forth on her skin.Something had been a dream--her wild, desolate ride--the slew tolling; for the voice which commanded with such human fierceness was that of the man for whom the heavy bell had struck forth from the church tower.
Sir Nigel recovered himself brilliantly.Not that he did not recognise that he had been a fool again and was in a nasty place; but it was not for the first time in his life, and he had learned how to brazen himself out of nasty places.
"My dear Mount Dunstan," he answered with tolerant irritation, "I have been having a devil of a time with female hysterics.She heard the bell toll and ran away with the idea that it was for you, and paid you the compliment of losing her head.I came on her here when she had ridden her horse half to death and they had both come a cropper.Confound women's hysterics! I could do nothing with her.When I left her for a moment she ran away and hid herself.She is concealed somewhere on the place or has limped off on to the marsh.Iwish some New York millionairess would work herself into hysteria on my humble account.""Those are lies," Mount Dunstan answered--"every damned one of them!"He wheeled around to look about him, attracted by a sound, and in the clearing moonlight saw a figure approaching which might have risen from the earth, so far as he could guess where it had come from.He strode over to it, and it was Betty Vanderpoel, holding her whip in a clenched hand and showing to his eagerness such hunted face and eyes as were barely human.He caught her unsteadiness to support it, and felt her fingers clutch at the tweed of his coatsleeve and move there as if the mere feeling of its rough texture brought heavenly comfort to her and gave her strength.
"Yes, they are lies, Lord Mount Dunstan," she panted.
"He said that he meant to get what he called `even' with me.He told me I could not get away from him and that no one would hear me if I cried out for help.I have hidden like some hunted animal." Her shaking voice broke, and she held the cloth of his sleeve tightly."You are alive--alive!" with a sudden sweet wildness."But it is true the bell tolled!
