Chapter 2 - Page 2

eyes,
unpractised manner, country dress, pink hands, empty wicker-basket,
and the handkerchief over her bonnet.

'Well,' he said, after his scrutiny, 'I need hardly have asked such a
question of one who is Nature's own image . . . Ah, but my good
little friend,' he added, recurring to his bitter tone and sitting
wearily down, 'you don't know what great clouds can hang over some
people's lives, and what cowards some men are in face of them. To
escape themselves they travel, take picturesque houses, and engage in
country sports. But here it is so dreary, and the fog was horrible
this morning!'

'Why, this is only the pride of the morning!' said Margery. 'By-and-
by it will be a beautiful day.'

She was going on her way forthwith; but he detained her--detained her
with words, talking on every innocent little subject he could think
of. He had an object in keeping her there more serious than his
words would imply. It was as if he feared to be left alone.

While they still stood, the misty figure of the postman, whom Margery
had left a quarter of an hour earlier to follow his sinuous course,
crossed the grounds below them on his way to the house. Signifying
to Margery by a wave of his hand that she was to step back out of
sight, in the hinder angle of the shelter, the gentleman beckoned to
the postman to bring the bag to where he stood. The man did so, and
again resumed his journey.

The stranger unlocked the bag and threw it on the seat, having taken
one letter from within. This he read attentively, and his
countenance changed.

The change was almost phantasmagorial, as if the sun had burst
through the fog upon that face: it became clear, bright, almost
radiant. Yet it was but a change that may take place in the
commonest human being, provided his countenance be not too wooden, or
his artifice have not grown to second nature. He turned to Margery,
who was again edging off, and, seizing her hand, appeared as though
he were about to embrace her. Checking his impulse, he said, 'My
guardian child--my good friend--you have saved me!'

'What from?' she ventured to ask.

'That you may never know.'

She thought of the weapon, and guessed that the letter he had just
received had effected this change in his mood, but made no
observation till he went on to say, 'What did you tell me was your
name, dear girl?'

She repeated her name.

'Margaret Tucker.' He stooped, and pressed her hand. 'Sit down for
a moment--one moment,' he said, pointing to the end of the seat, and
taking the extremest further end for himself, not to discompose her.
She sat down.

'It is to ask a question,' he went on, 'and there must be confidence
between us. You have