Strength of limb and strength of purpose she had, in use and in
reserve. No power could have made her turn back willingly. Her anxious
eyes were set ahead in the blackness; her runaway feet were eager in
obedience to her will.
"Why couldn't I have put it off until morning?" she was saying to
herself as she passed down the gravelled drive and advanced to meet
the wall of trees that frowned blackly in her face. "What will he
think? What will he say? Oh, he'll think I'm such a silly, romantic
fool. No, he won't. He'll understand. He'll help me on to Plattsburg
to-morrow. But will he think I've done this for effect? Won't he think
I'm actually throwing myself at his head? No, I can't turn back. I'd
rather die than go back to that house. It won't matter what he thinks;
I'll be away from all of it to-morrow. I'll he out of his life and I
won't care what he thinks. England! Goodness, what's that?" She had
turned a bend in the drive and just ahead there was a light. A sigh of
relief followed the question. It came from the lantern which hung to a
stake in the road where the new stone gate-posts were being built by
workmen from town. Bazelhurst Villa was a quarter of a mile, through
the park, behind her; the forest was ahead.
At the gate she stopped between the half-finished stone posts and
looked ahead with the first shiver of dismay. Her limbs seemed ready
to collapse. The flush of anger and excitement left her face; a white,
desolate look came in its stead.
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