AT two o'clock in the the boy from Creston stopped his at the door of the red house, and Charity got out. Harney had taken of her at Creston River, the boy to drive her home. Her mind was still in a of misery, and she did not very what had happened, or what they said to each other, the since their from Nettleton; but the of the animal in pain was so in her that she had a of when Harney got out and she on alone.
The full moon over North Dormer, the that the the and above the fields. Charity a moment at the gate, looking out into the night. She the boy drive off, his horse's to and fro; then she around to the door and under the for the key. She it, the door and in. The was dark, but she a box of matches, a and upstairs. Mr. Royall's door, opposite hers, open on his room; he had not come back. She into her room, her door and slowly to the about her waist, and to take off her dress. Under the she saw the paper in which she had her new from eyes....
She for a long time on her bed, up at the moonlight on the low ceiling; was in the sky when she asleep, and when she the sun was on her face.
She and to the kitchen. Verena was there alone: she at Charity tranquilly, with her old deaf-looking eyes. There was no of Mr. Royall about the house and the hours passed without his reappearing. Charity had gone up to her room, and sat there listlessly, her hands on her lap. Puffs of air her window and against the panes.
At one o'clock Verena up to see if she were not to dinner; but she her head, and the old woman away, saying: “I'll up, then.”
The sun and left her room, and Charity seated herself in the window, the village through the half-opened shutters. Not a was in her mind; it was just a dark of images; and she the people along the street, Dan Targatt's team a of pine-trunks to Hepburn, the sexton's old white on the bank across the way, as if she looked at these familiar from the other of the grave.
She was from her by Ally Hawes come out of the Frys' gate and walk slowly toward the red house with her step. At the Charity her with reality. She that Ally was to about her day: no one else was in the of the to Nettleton, and it had Ally to be allowed to know of it.
At the of having to see her, of having to meet her and answer or her questions, the whole of the previous night's upon Charity. What had been a a cold and fact. Poor Ally, at that moment, North Dormer, with all its curiosities, its malice, its of evil. Charity that, although all relations with Julia were to be severed, the tender-hearted Ally still with her; and no Julia would in the of the of the wharf. The story, and distorted, was already on its way to North Dormer.
Ally's had not her from the Frys' gate when she was stopped by old Mrs. Sollas, who was a great talker, and spoke very slowly she had been able to used to her new teeth from Hepburn. Still, this would not last long; in another ten minutes Ally would be at the door, and Charity would her Verena in the kitchen, and then calling up from the of the stairs.
Suddenly it clear that flight, and flight, was the only thing conceivable. The to escape, to away from familiar faces, from places where she was known, had always been in her in moments of distress. She had a in the power of and new to her life and out memories. But such were to the cold which now her. She she not an hour longer under the of the man who had publicly her, and to with the people who would presently be over all the of her humiliation.
Her for Mr. Royall had been up in loathing: in her from the of the old man her in the presence of a of and street-walkers. Suddenly, vividly, she again the moment when he had to himself into her room, and what she had to be a now appeared to her as a in a and life.
While these were through her she had out her old school-bag, and was into it a articles of and the little packet of she had from Harney. From under her she took the library key, and it in full view; then she at the of a for the that Harney had her. She would not have to wear it openly at North Dormer, but now she it on her as if it were a to protect her in her flight. These had taken but a minutes, and when they were Ally Hawes was still at the Frys' talking to old Mrs. Sollas....
She had said to herself, as she always said in moments of revolt: “I'll go to the Mountain—I'll go to my own folks.” She had meant it before; but now, as she her case, no other open. She had learned any that would have her in a place, and she no one in the big of the valley, where she might have to employment. Miss Hatchard was still away; but had she been at North Dormer she was the last person to Charity would have turned, since one of the her to was the wish not to see Lucius Harney. Travelling from Nettleton, in the brightly-lit train, all of them had been impossible; but their drive from Hepburn to Creston River she had from Harney's of talk—again by the boy's presence—that he to see her the next day. At the moment she had a in the assurance; but in the of the hours that she had come to see the of meeting him again. Her of was over; and the on the wharf—vile and as it had been—had after all the light of truth on her minute of madness. It was as if her guardian's had her in the of the and to the world the of her conscience.
She did not think these out clearly; she the of her wretchedness. She did not want, again, to see anyone she had known; above all, she did not want to see Harney....
She the hill-path the house and through the by a short-cut leading to the Creston road. A lead-coloured sky over the fields, and in the the air was stifling; but she pushed on, to the road which was the way to the Mountain.
To do so, she had to the Creston road for a mile or two, and go a mile of the village; and she walked quickly, to meet Harney. But there was no of him, and she had almost the branch road when she saw the of a large white through the trees by the roadside. She that it a which had come there for the Fourth; but as she nearer she saw, over the folded-back flap, a large the inscription, “Gospel Tent.” The to be empty; but a man in a black coat, his over a white face, from under the and toward her with a smile.
“Sister, your Saviour everything. Won't you come in and your Him?” he asked insinuatingly, his hand on her arm.
Charity started and flushed. For a moment she the must have a report of the at Nettleton; then she saw the of the supposition.
“I on'y wish't I had any to lay!” she retorted, with one of her of self-derision; and the man murmured, aghast: “Oh, Sister, don't speak blasphemy....”
But she had her arm out of his hold, and was up the branch road, with the of meeting a familiar face. Presently she was out of of the village, and into the of the forest. She not to do the fifteen miles to the Mountain that afternoon; but she of a place half-way to Hamblin where she sleep, and where no one would think of looking for her. It was a little house on a in one of the of the hills. She had it once, years before, when she had gone on a to the of it. The party had taken in the house from a storm, and she that Ben Sollas, who liked girls, had told them that it was said to be haunted.
She was and tired, for she had nothing since morning, and was not used to walking so far. Her light and she sat for a moment by the roadside. As she sat there she the of a bicycle-bell, and started up to into the forest; but she move the had around the of the road, and Harney, jumping off, was her with arms.
“Charity! What on earth are you doing here?”
She as if he were a vision, so by the of his being there that no came to her.
“Where were you going? Had you that I was coming?” he continued, trying to her to him; but she from his embrace.
“I was going away—I don't want to see you—I want you should me alone,” she out wildly.
He looked at her and his grave, as though the of a it.
“Going away—from me, Charity?”
“From everybody. I want you should me.”
He up and the road that away into sun-flecked distances.
“Where were you going?'
“Home.”
“Home—this way?”
She her defiantly. “To my home—up yonder: to the Mountain.”
As she spoke she aware of a in his face. He was no longer to her, he was only looking at her, with the she had in his after they had on the at Nettleton. He was the new Harney again, the Harney in that embrace, who so with the of her presence that he was careless of what she was or feeling.
He her hands with a laugh. “How do you I you?” he said gaily. He out the little packet of his and them her eyes.
“You them, you person—dropped them in the middle of the road, not from here; and the man who is the Gospel them up just as I was by.” He back, her at arm's length, and her with the minute of his short-sighted eyes.
“Did you think you away from me? You see you weren't meant to,” he said; and she answer he had her again, not vehemently, but tenderly, almost fraternally, as if he had her pain, and wanted her to know he it. He his through hers.
“Come let's walk a little. I want to talk to you. There's so much to say.”
He spoke with a boy's gaiety, and confidently, as if nothing had that or them; and for a moment, in the of her from pain, she herself to his mood. But he had turned, and was her along the road by which she had come. She herself and stopped short.
“I won't go back,” she said.
They looked at each other a moment in silence; then he answered gently: “Very well: let's go the other way, then.”
She motionless, at the ground, and he on: “Isn't there a house up here somewhere—a little house—you meant to me some day?” Still she no answer, and he continued, in the same of reassurance: “Let us go there now and and talk quietly.” He took one of the hands that by her and pressed his to the palm. “Do you I'm going to let you send me away? Do you I don't understand?”
The little old house—its sun-bleached to a gray—stood in an above the road. The garden had fallen, but the gate its posts, and the path to the house was marked by rose-bushes wild and their small above the grasses. Slender and an fan-light the opening where the door had hung; and the door itself in the grass, with an old apple-tree across it.
Inside, also, wind and weather had to the same tint; the house was as and pure as the of a long-empty shell. But it must have been well built, for the little rooms had something of their aspect: the with their were in place, and the of one a light of plaster tracery.
Harney had an old bench at the door and it into the house. Charity sat on it, her against the in a of lassitude. He had that she was and thirsty, and had her some of chocolate from his bicycle-bag, and his drinking-cup from a in the orchard; and now he sat at her feet, a cigarette, and looking up at her without speaking. Outside, the were across the grass, and through the empty window-frame that her she saw the Mountain its dark against a sunset. It was time to go.
She up, and he to his also, and passed his arm through hers with an air of authority. “Now, Charity, you're with me.”
She looked at him and her head. “I ain't going back. You don't know.”
“What don't I know?” She was silent, and he continued: “What on the was horrible—it's natural you should as you do. But it doesn't make any difference: you can't be by such things. You must try to forget. And you must try to that men... men sometimes...”
“I know about men. That's why.”
He a little at the retort, as though it had touched him in a way she did not suspect.
“Well, then... you must know one has to make allowances.... He'd been drinking....”
“I know all that, too. I've him so before. But he wouldn't have speak to me that way if he hadn't...”
“Hadn't what? What do you mean?”
“Hadn't wanted me to be like those other girls....” She her voice and looked away from him. “So's 't he wouldn't have to go out....”
Harney at her. For a moment he did not to her meaning; then his dark. “The hound! The low hound!” His up, him to the temples. “I dreamed—good God, it's too vile,” he off, as if his from the discovery.
“I won't go there,” she doggedly.
“No——” he assented.
There was a long of silence, which she that he was her for more light on what she had to him; and a of over her.
“I know the way you must about me,” she out, “...telling you such things....”
But once more, as she spoke, she aware that he was no longer listening. He came close and her to him as if he were her from some peril: his were in hers, and she the hard of his as he her against it.
“Kiss me again—like last night,” he said, pushing her as if to her whole up into his kiss.
