The girl felt it in every nerve; it was as though some soft-footed, noiseless, shapeless creature, whose presence she only dimly divined, was approaching nearer--/nearer/. The heavy outer stillness was in some way made more terrifying by the rustle of the papers her husband was reading, by the creaking of his chair as he moved, and by the little fidgeting grunts and half-exclamations which from time to time broke from him. His wife's hand shook at every unintelligible mutter from him, and the slight habitual contraction between her eyes deepened.
All at once she threw her work down on to the table. "For heaven's sake--/please/, John, /talk/!" she cried. Her eyes, for the moment's space in which they met the startled ones of her husband, had a wild, hunted look, but it was gone almost before his slow brain had time to note that it had been there--and was vaguely disturbing. She laughed a little unsteadily.
"Did I startle you? I'm sorry. I"--she laughed again--"I believe I'm a little nervous. When one is all day alone--" She paused without finishing the sentence. The man's face changed suddenly. A wave of tenderness swept over it, and at the same time an expression of half- incredulous delight shone in his pale eyes.
"Poor little girl, are you really lonely?" he said. Even the real feeling in his tone failed to rob his voice of its peculiarly irritating grating quality. He rose awkwardly, and moved to his wife's side.
Involuntarily she shrank a little, and the hand which he had stretched out to touch her hair sank to his side. She recovered herself immediately, and turned her face up to his, though she did not raise her eyes; but he did not kiss her. Instead, he stood in an embarrassed fashion a moment by her side, and then went back to his seat.
There was silence again for some time. The man lay back in his chair, gazing at his big, clumsy shoes as though he hoped for some inspiration from that quarter, while his wife worked with nervous haste.
"Don't let me keep you from reading, John," she said, and her voice had regained its usual gentle tone.
"No, my dear; I'm just thinking of something to say to you, but I don't seem--"
She smiled a little. In spite of herself, her lip curled faintly.
"Don't worry about it; it was stupid of me to expect it. I mean--" she added, hastily, immediately repenting the sarcasm. She glanced furtively at him, but his face was quite unmoved; evidently he had not noticed it, and she smiled faintly again.
"O Kathie, I knew there was /something/ I'd forgotten to tell you, my dear; there's a man coming down here. I don't know whether--"
She looked up sharply. "A man coming /here/? What for?" she interrupted, breathlessly.
"Sent to help me about this oil-boring business, my dear."
He had lighted his pipe, and was smoking placidly, taking long whiffs between his words.
"Well?" impatiently questioned his wife, fixing her bright eyes on his face.
"Well--that's all, my dear."
She checked an exclamation. "But don't you know anything about him-- his name? where he comes from? what he is like?" She was leaning forward against the table, her needle, with a long end of yellow silk drawn half-way through her work, held in her upraised hand, her whole attitude one of quivering excitement and expectancy.
The man took his pipe from his mouth deliberately, with a look of slow wonder.
"Why, Kathie, you seem quite anxious. I didn't know you'd be so interested, my dear. Well,"--another long pull at his pipe,--"his name's Brook--/Brookfield/, I think." He paused again. "This pipe doesn't draw well a bit; there's something wrong with it, I shouldn't wonder," he added, taking it out and examining the bowl as though struck with the brilliance of the idea.
The woman opposite put down her work and clinched her hands under the table.
"Go on, John," she said, presently, in a tense, vibrating voice; "his name is Brookfield. Well, where does he come from?"
"Straight from home, my dear, I believe." He fumbled in his pocket, and after some time extricated a pencil, with which he began to poke the tobacco in the bowl in an ineffectual aimless fashion, becoming completely engrossed in the occupation apparently. There was another long pause. The woman went on working, or feigning to work, for her hands were trembling a good deal.
After some moments she raised her head again. "John, will you mind attending to me one moment, and answering these questions as quickly as you can?" The emphasis on the last word was so faint as to be almost as imperceptible as the touch of exasperated contempt which she could not absolutely banish from her tone.
Her husband, looking up, met her clear bright gaze, and reddened like a school-boy.
"Whereabouts '/from home/' does he come?" she asked, in a studiedly gentle fashion.
"Well, from London, I think," he replied, almost briskly for him, though he stammered and tripped over the words. "He's a university chap; I used to hear he was clever; I don't know about that, I'm sure; he used to chaff me, I remember, but--"
"Chaff /you/? You have met him then?"
"Yes, my dear,"--he was fast relapsing into his slow drawl again,--"that is, I went to school with him; but it's a long time ago.
Brookfield--yes, that must be his name."
She waited a moment; then, "When is he coming?" she inquired, abruptly.
"Let me see--to-day's--"
"/Monday/;" the word came swiftly between her set teeth.
"Ah, yes--Monday; well," reflectively, "/next/ Monday, my dear."
Mrs. Drayton rose, and began to pace softly the narrow passage between the table and the tent wall, her hands clasped loosely behind her.
"How long have you known this?" she said, stopping abruptly. "O John, you /needn't/ consider; it's quite a simple question. To-day?
Yesterday?
Her foot moved restlessly on the ground as she waited.
"I think it was the day before yesterday," he replied.
"Then why, in heaven's name, didn't you tell me before?" she broke out, fiercely.
"My dear, it slipped my memory. If I'd thought you would be interested--"
