"I most surely did not. I was rousted out of myself. I reckon he didn't know what he was doing either when he struck. He ought to have known I was not the person to hit. I'll show you, just stand before me for a moment."

Phyl faced him. He pretended to strike at her and she started back.

"There you are," said he; "you know I wasn't going to touch you but you had to dodge. Your mind had nothing to do with it, just your instinct.

That was how I was. When he landed his blow I went for my knife by instinct. If you tread on a snake he lets out at you just the same way. He doesn't think. He's wound up by nature to hit back."

"But you are not a snake."

"How do you know what's in a man? I reckon we've all been animals once, maybe I was a snake. There are worse things than snakes. Snakes are all right, they don't meddle with you if you don't meddle with them. They've got a bad name they don't deserve. I like them. They're a lot better citizens, the way they look after their wives and families, than some others and they know how to hit back prompt--say, where are you going to?"

"I don't know," said Phyl. "I just came for a walk--I'm leaving Charleston."

She spoke with a little catch in her voice. All Silas's misdoings were forgotten for the moment, the fact that the man was dangerous as Death to himself and others had been neutralised in her mind by the fact, intuitively recognised, that there was nothing small or mean in his character. Despite his conduct in the cemetery, despite his lunatic outburst of the night before, in her heart of hearts she liked him; besides that, he was part of Charleston, part of the place she loved.

Ah, how she loved it! Had you dissected her love for Richard Pinckney you would have found a thousand living wrappings before you reached the core.

Vernons, the garden, the birds, the flowers, the blue sky, the sunlight, Meeting Street, the story of Juliet, Miss Pinckney, even old Prue.

Memories, sounds, scents, and colours all formed part of the living thing that Frances Rhett had killed.

"Leaving Charleston!" said Silas, speaking in a dazed sort of way.

"Yes. I cannot stay here any longer."

"Going--say--it's not because of what I did last night."

"You--oh, no. It has nothing to do with you." She spoke almost disdainfully.

"But where are you going?"

"Back to Ireland."

"When?"

"To-day."

Then, suddenly, in some curious manner, he knew. But he was clever enough, for once in his life, to restrain himself and say nothing.

"I will go this afternoon," said she, as though she were talking of a journey of a few miles.

"Have you any friends to go to?"

Phyl thought of Mr. Hennessy sitting in his gloomy office in gloomy Dublin.

"Yes, one."

"In Ireland?"

"Yes."

"Can't you think of any other friends?"

"No."

"Not even me?"

"I don't know," said poor Phyl, "I never could understand you quite, but now that I am in trouble you seem a friend--I'm miserable--but there's no use having friends here. It only makes it the worse having to go."

"Do you remember the day I asked you to run off to Florida with me," said Silas, "and leave this d.a.m.ned place? It's no good for any one here and you've found it out--the place is all right, it's the people that are wrong."

Phyl made no reply.

"You're not going back," he finished.

She glanced at him.

"You're going to stay here--here with me."

"I am going back to Ireland to-day," said Phyl.

"You are not, you are going to stay here."

"No. I am going back."

She spoke as a person speaks who is half drowsy, and Silas spoke like a person whose mind is half absent. It was the strangest conversation to listen to, knowing their relationship and the point at issue.

"You are going to stay here," he went on. "If I lost you now I'd never find you again. I've been wanting you ever since I saw you that day first in the yard-- D'you remember how we sat on the log together?--you can't tramp all the way back to Charleston-- Come with me and you'll be happy always, all the time and all your life--"

"No," said Phyl, "I mustn't--I can't." Her mind, half dazed by all she had gone through, by the mesmerism of his voice, by the brilliant light of the day, was capable of no real decision on any point. The dark streets of Dublin lay before her, a vague and nightmare vision. To return to Vernons would be only her first step on the return to Ireland, and yet if she did not return to Vernons, where could she go?

Silas's invitation to go with him neither raised her anger nor moved her to consent. Phyl was an absolute Innocent in the ways of the world. No careful mother had sullied her mind with warnings and suggestions, and her mind was by nature unspeculative as to the material side of life.

Instinctively she knew a great deal. How much knowledge lies in the sub-conscious mind is an open question.

They walked on for a bit without speaking and then Silas began again.

"You can't go back all that way. It's absurd. You talk of going off to-day, why, good heavens, it takes time even to start on a journey like that. You have to book your pa.s.sage in a ship--and how are you to go alone?"

"I don't know," said Phyl.

His voice became soft. It was the first time in his life, perhaps, that he had spoken with tenderness, and the effect was perfectly magical.

"You are not going," he said, "you are not; indeed, I want you far too much to let you go; there's nothing else I want at all in the world. I don't count anything worth loving beside you."

No reply.

He turned.

The coloured groom was walking the horses, they were only a few yards away. He went to the man and gave him some money with the order to return to Charleston and go back to Grangersons by train, or at least to the station that was ten miles from Grangerville.