Otway; but it
seemed to me that I had no choice. When an unpleasant thing _has_ to
be done, I always try to do it quickly."
Piers was no longer red of face. A terrible sobriety had fallen upon
him; his lips quivered; cold currents ran down his spine. He looked
at Irene with the eyes of a dog entreating mercy.
"Had I"--his dry throat forced him to begin again--"had I better
go now?"
"That is as you think fit."
Piers stood up, bowed before her, gave her one humble, imploring
look, and walked away.
He went down, as though to the supper-room; in a few minutes, he had
left the house. He walked to Waterloo Station, and by the last train
returned to Ewell.
CHAPTER IX
At the head of Wensleydale, where rolling moor grows mountainous
toward the marches of Yorkshire and Westmorland, stands the little
market-town named Hawes. One winding street of houses and shops,
grey, hard-featured, stout against the weather; with little byways
climbing to the height above, on which rises the rugged church,
stern even in sunshine; its tower, like a stronghold, looking out
upon the brooding-place of storms. Like its inhabitants, the place
is harsh of aspect, warm at heart; scornful of graces, its honest
solidity speaks the people that built it for their home. This way
and that go forth the well-kept roads, leading to other towns, their
sharp tracks shine over the dark moorland, climbing by wind-swept
hamlets, by many a lonely farm; dipping into sudden hollows, where
streams become cascades, and guiding the wayfarers by high, rocky
passes from dale to dale.
Pages:
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115