Part 1 (2/2)
Her words wandered away into the night, for the girls, with cries of horror, had fled as if evil spirits pursued them.
With a mocking laugh, Ellenor hurried on, then gradually she slackened her pace. At last, she groped her way forward with outstretched hands, for it was horribly dark. Presently she touched the rough stone wall of some building and stopped and listened. Not a sound but the wild roar of the waves below the cliffs and the gradual lulling of the wind. She groped along the wall, till her hands fell a little lower, to a different surface. It was a short wooden door. She pushed against it, gently, but it did not yield.
She felt it across and up and down. There was no latch and she could find no keyhole. Again she pushed, this time with all her strength.
Jerking suddenly, the door opened inwards, and Ellenor, leaning against it, fell forward over the high threshold into pitch darkness. She felt a blinding blow and a sickening pain, and then she lost consciousness.
When she came to herself she was first aware of a heavily beamed cobwebbed roof, of a dim lantern beside her, of the stifling nearness of kegs and bales and boxes, and then of a very familiar figure kneeling beside her on one knee.
The man's face that peered into hers was handsome in a heavy undeveloped way. Eyes as grey as hers and as sombre scowled from underneath dark brows and a dark thatch of hair. His sullen mouth, set in a hard angry line, was the finest feature of a clean-shaven face.
”You little fool!” he half whispered, ”what on earth, or in h.e.l.l, has made you come meddling here, I'd like to know! I've nearly killed you!”
With his coa.r.s.e pocket handkerchief he mopped up the blood that was flowing from a cut on her head.
”How did you nearly kill me?” she asked, ”what harm have I done?”
”You've come sneaking in here, and in this darkness, and I hit you when you banged open the door. It seems you were falling over the doorstep. You're pretty pale, my girl, but I believe I know your face. Aren't you from Les Casquets?”
”I'm Ellenor Cartier, yes. And you--you're Monsieur Le Mierre, from Orvilliere.”
He scowled and looked for a minute as if he meditated another blow--then he swore roundly in the Norman-French that he and all the islanders spoke.
”How the devil did you know me in this darkness! You're a witch, it seems, and it isn't the first time I've thought it. You are not a beauty, my girl. But come, tell me, how did you recognize me?”
”I've seen you to church, to St. Pierre du Bois, but you were all dressed up then; and I've seen you driving to the market of a Sat.u.r.day morning sometimes.”
He laughed and bent a little closer. Her eyes were like stars as they were lifted to his face. And she did not appear to fear him in the very least.
”Well, it's a joke, isn't it, the difference between Dominic Le Mierre of a Sunday and Dominic Le Mierre in this place, my clothes all wet with sea-water. And now, tell me, witch, why do you think I'm here, in the Haunted House?”
”I couldn't say, I'm sure.”
He was silent, staring hard into the candid, fearless eyes; then impulsively he cried,
”I believe I can trust you! But, I warn you, if you let out why I'm here, I'll kill you.”
”You can trust me. I'd be killed before I'd let out.”
A soft shadow darkened the clearness of her eyes: her long eyelashes fell before his puzzled stare.
”But why, bah! it appears you're not afraid of me, then! Very well.
I'll tell you. It is the best way out of the difficulty. But sit up against this barrel, and drink a little brandy. I've stopped the bleeding in your head with a black enough cobweb.”
Ellenor tried to raise herself up, but loss of blood had made her giddy, and Dominic put his arm round her and steadied her roughly, but not unkindly. Her dark head rested a second against his blue jerseyed shoulder, and once more she lifted her eyes to his. With brusque and evidently totally unpremeditated pa.s.sion he kissed her red lips.
”There! didn't I say you are a witch! I could laugh at myself for this--I, Le Mierre, of one of the oldest families of St. Pierre du Bois to be kissing a girl like you, a girl who carries fish to market, tramp, tramp, all the way in the rain or in the sun! And, moreover, I, Le Mierre, oh, so respectable and fine of a Sunday, pulling a long face in my pew, and yet, behold, here I am a smuggler, keeping guard over brandy and lace and silks! And why the devil did I kiss you, for it isn't that you are a pretty girl or enticing, eh?”
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