CHAPTER I HER ARRIVAL "Out of doors into the night! On to the maze Of the wild wood-ways, Not turning to left nor right From the pathway, blind with sight— "Now-now'-the door is heard; Nearer and here 'Now!' and, at call the third, She enters, without a word." ROBERT BROWNING, Mesmerism. FOR more than a mile that light had cheered on the wayfarer, exhaustion notwithstanding. When it was extinguished, something like despair took possession of the benighted wanderer. She stopped short in the rutty lane, the water creaking in her soaked shoes, and dripping down her white face. Then a last flicker of nature's instinct of selfpreservation hounded her on: for the throbbing in her raw feet warned her that, should she sink to earth, she would not have the power to raise herself. The road in which she walked could not have been a high-road, for in between the wheel-furrows were rough flints, grass grown. The rain descended upon the black fir-trees which bordered the way, with a roar that might have been the roaring of the sea, beating dully upon the ear. The wind made noise enough to drown all other sound. It was unspeakably cold and biting, and seemed to blow from all points of the compass. There was no moon, the blackness of the night was impenetrable. It was quite likely that the house where the light had been might be passed unseen in the universal gloom. The thought added a kind of passion to despair. Hunger and cold, fatigue and fear, drive hard and mercilessly. She stumbled on-and suddenly, with a blacker darkness than the thick night, the house loomed up before her. It was no mere cottage—a long, low building, surrounded by an old brick wall. Her bare hand trailing along the wet brick, felt a gap, saw a glimmer of white-a gate. The numb fingers seemed fumbling for a long time, first one side of the gate and then the other before the latch was found and lifted. There lay beyond a newly graveled sweep, all one yellow slop of liquid mud, with deep puddles here and there. As the latch fell with a click behind the intruder, she exhaled a breath of thankfulness: for the light which had just been extinguished-the light which had been visible from the road-had evidently shone through the semi-circular fanlight over the door; but in a room to the right of this door a lamp still burned, hidden hitherto by the intervening wall. Gratitude to the people, whoever they were, who sat up to such an hour-it must have been past midnight-welled up in her. The house could not be made out, but it was not so pitch dark here as in the tree-shadowed lane. Dimly the shapes of big ricks in the yard beyond, showed up against the sky. It ought to have been a farmhouse. But its old-fashioned garden had been turned into a carriage drive: and the light that streamed through the biscuit-colored window curtain was rose-shaded. The old-fashioned porch had not been removed. There were seats within, on either side. The visitor took the knocker, and knocked as vigorously as she could-with an expiring effort of failing strength. There was a minute of silence: a minute in which that house, and the March storm, and the wild night, seemed to hold their breath: and then, just as suddenly, muffled sounds were audible, of chairs pushed back, of a door opening and shutting, and voices speaking. A strong hand was laid upon the bolts and bars from within; therewith a man's voice said, "On foot! He must have left the trap in Cattenford-!” The door opened The intruder had sunk down upon one of the seats in the porch, and was not immediately visible to the man who appeared on the threshold. She, on the contrary, was able to see him, and the whole scene, with extraordinary clearness. There was a big, square hall before her; and upon its floor, paved in black and white squares, were rugs and skins. There was a table, with some cinerarias and pelargoniums in bloom upon it; there was a staircase going up at one corner; the whole was lit by the rose-colored lamp, which had been hastily snatched up and carried to the hall. It showed the place, like a scene upon the stage, with a half-open doorway where stood the figure of a woman in a maize-colored satin evening gown, glittering with embroidery. There was something almost repugnantly unexpected in the aspect of her bare arms and breast; something out of keeping with the situation. But the remarkable thing was to be found in the manner and expression of the two of them. There was |