CHAPTER II.

When Eliza had been in her own room for about half an hour, her passion had subsided.  She was not glad of this; in perverseness she would have recalled the tempest if she could, but she knew not what to call back or how to call.  She knew no more what had disturbed her than in times of earthquake the sea water knows the cause of its unwonted surging.  She sat angry and miserable; angry with Harkness, not because he had called her heartless—­she did not care in the slightest for his praise or blame—­but because he had been the bearer of ill tidings; and because he had in some way produced in her the physical and mental distress of angry passion, a distress felt more when passion is subsiding.  She ranked it as ill tidings that her father’s land had risen in value.  She would rather that her worldly wisdom in leaving it had been proved by subsequent events than disproved, as now, by news which raised such a golden possibility before her ignorant eyes, that her heart was rent with pangs of envy and covetousness, while her pride warred at the very thought of stooping to take back what she had cast away, and all the disclosure that must ensue.  Above all, she counted it ill tidings that Bates was reported to be in the place.  She was as angry with him now as on the day she had left him—­more angry—­for now he could vaunt new prosperity as an additional reason why she had been wrong to go.  Why had he come here to disturb and interrupt?  What did the story about Father Cameron matter to him?  She felt like a hunted stag at bay; she only desired strength and opportunity to trample the hunter.

Partly because she felt more able to deal with others than with the dull angry misery of her own heart, partly because she was a creature of custom, disliking to turn from what she had set out to do, she found herself, after about an hour of solitude, rearranging her street toilet to walk to Mrs. Rexford’s house.

When she had made her way down to the lower flat of the hotel she found Harkness had spoken the truth in saying he intended to go, for he was gone.  The men in the cool shaded bar-room were talking about it.  Mr. Hutchins mentioned it to her through the door.  He sat in his big chair, his crutches leaning against him.

“Packed up; paid his bill; gone clear off—­did you know?”

“Yes, I knew,” said Eliza, although she had not known till that moment.

“Said he was so cut up, and that he wouldn’t stay to give evidence against poor Job, or be hauled before the coroner to be cross-questioned about the old man.  He’s a sharp ’un; packed up in less time than it takes most men to turn round—­adjustable chair and all.”

Eliza had come to the threshold of the bar-room door to hear all he said.  The sunshine of a perfect summer day fell on the verandah just outside, and light airs came through the outer door and fanned her, but in here the sweet air was tarnished with smoke from the cigars of one or two loiterers.