The laugh which checked Vandermere in his first intention of following Lois and Saton up the field, was scarcely a mirthful effort. Saton had bent toward his companion, and his tone had been almost threatening.

“You must not look at anyone like that while I am with you,” he said. “You must not look as though you were frightened of me. You must seem amused. You must laugh.”

She obeyed. It was a poor effort, but it sounded natural enough in the distance.

“Come,” Saton continued, “you are not very kind to me, Lois. You are not very kind to the man whom you are going to marry, whom you have said that you love. It has been very lonely these last few days, Lois. You have not come to me. I have watched for you often.”

“I could not come,” she answered. “Lady Mary has been with me all the time. I think that she suspects.”

“Surely you are clever enough,” he answered, “to outwit a little simpleton like that. Has Rochester been interfering?”

“If he knew that I even spoke to you,” she answered, “I think that he would send me away.”

“It is not kind of them,” he said, “to be so bitter against me.”

She shrank from him.

“If they knew!” she said. “If they only knew that I even thought of marrying you, or—or—”

Saton shrugged his shoulders.

“Ah, well,” he said, “they know as much as it is well for them to know! After all, you see, no harm has happened to your guardian. I saw him to-day, on his way home from hunting. He looked strong and well enough. Tell me, Lois,” he continued, “has he had any visitors from London the last few days? I don’t mean guests—I mean people to see him on business?”

“Not that I know of,” she answered. “Why?”

Saton’s face darkened.

“It is he, I am sure,” he said, “who is interfering in my concerns. Never mind, Lois, we will not talk about that, dear. Give me your hand. We are engaged, you know. You should be glad to have these few minutes with me.”

Her fingers which he clasped were like ice. He was puzzled at her attitude.

“A month ago,” he said softly, “you did not find it such a hardship to spend a little time alone with me.”

“A month ago,” she answered, “I had not seen you on your knees with a gun, seen your white face, heard the report, and seen Mr. Rochester fall. I had not seen you steal away through the bracken. Oh, it was terrible! You looked like a murderer! I shall never, never forget it.”

He laughed softly.

“These things are fancies,” he said—“dreams. You will forget them, my dear Lois. You will forget them very soon.”

They entered the house, and in the hall he drew her into his arms. She wrenched herself free, and crouched back in the corner, with her hands stretched out in front of her face.

“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t! If you kiss me, I shall go mad. Can’t you see that I don’t want to come with you, that I don’t want to be with you? You shall let me go! You must let me go!”

He stood frowning a few feet away. To tell the truth, he was honestly puzzled at her attitude. At last, with a little shrug of the shoulders, he threw open the door of the sitting-room.

“Rachael,” he said, “Lois has come to see you for a few minutes.”

Lois went timidly into the room. Rachael, with a shawl around her shoulders, was sitting in front of a huge fire. She turned her head and held out her long withered hand, as usual covered with rings.

“Sit opposite me, child. Let me look at you.”

Lois sat down, gazing with fascinated eyes at the woman whose presence she found almost as terrifying as the presence of Saton himself.

“My son—I call Bertrand my son,” she said, “because I have adopted him, and because everything I have, even my name if he will have it—will be his—my son, then, tells me that he has not seen you for several days.”

“It is very difficult,” Lois said, trembling.

“Why?” Rachael asked.

“My guardian, Mr. Rochester, does not allow Bertrand to come to the house,” Lois said, hesitatingly, “and Lady Mary tries not to let me come out alone.”

Rachael nodded her head slowly, her eyes glittered in the firelight. Wrapped in her black shawl, she looked like some quaint effigy—something scarcely human.

“Your guardian and his wife,” she said, “are foolish, ignorant people. They do not understand such men as Bertrand. You will understand him, child. You will know him better when he is your husband, know him better, and be proud of him. Is it not so?”

“I—I suppose so,” Lois said.

“I am glad that you came this afternoon,” Rachael continued. “Bertrand and I have been talking. We think it well that you should be married very soon.”

“I am not of age,” Lois said, breathlessly.

“It does not matter,” Rachael declared. “Your guardian can keep back your money, but that is of no consequence. It will come to you in time, and Bertrand has plenty himself. I am afraid that they might try and tempt you to be faithless to my son. You are very young and impressionable, and though I do not doubt but that you are fond of him, it is not easy to be faithful when you are alone, and with such people as Mr. Rochester and Lady Mary. I am going to London in a few days. I think it would be well if you went with me. Bertrand could get a special license, and you could be married at once.”

“No!” she shrieked. “No! No!”

Rachael said nothing. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Only her eyes flashed unutterable things.

Upon the somewhat hysterical silence came the sound of Saton’s voice—cold, decisive.

“Lois,” he said, “what my mother has advised would make me very happy. Will you remember that I wish it? Will you remember that?”

“Yes!” she faltered.

“I shall make you a good husband,” he added, coming a little nearer to her, sinking on one knee by her side, and taking her cold, unresisting hands into his. “I shall make you a good husband, and I think that you will be happy. We cannot go on like this. I only see you now by stealth. It must come to an end.”

“Yes!” she faltered.

“Next time we meet,” he continued, “I will tell you what plans we have made.”

She turned her head slowly, and looked at him with frightened, wide-open eyes.

“Why?” she asked. “Why do you want me to marry you? You do not care for me. You do not care for me at all. Is it because I am rich? But you—you are rich yourselves. I would offer you my money, but you cannot want that.”

He smiled enigmatically.

“No!” he said. “Money is a good thing, but we have money ourselves. Don’t you believe, Lois,” he added, bending towards her, “that I am fond of you?”

“Oh! yes,” she answered, “if you say so!”

“Of course I say so!” he declared. “I am very fond of you indeed, or I should not want to marry you. Come, I think that you had better say good-bye to my mother now. Your friend outside will be tired of waiting.”

She rose to her feet, and he led her from the room. They walked down the field side by side, and Lois felt her knees trembling. She was white as a sheet, and once she was obliged to clutch his arm for support. As they neared the gate, they saw that Vandermere was talking to someone on horseback. Saton’s face darkened as he recognised the tall figure. His first impulse was to stop, but with Lois by his side he saw at once that it was impossible. With the courage that waits upon the inevitable, he opened the gate and passed out into the lane.

“Good afternoon, Miss Champneyes!” he said, holding out his hand. “It was very good of you to come in and visit the Comtesse. She is always so glad indeed to see you.”

The girl’s fingers lay for a moment icy cold within his. Then she turned with a little breath of relief to Vandermere. They walked off together.

Rochester signalled with his whip to Saton to wait for a moment. As soon as the other two were out of earshot, he leaned down from his saddle.

“My young friend,” he said, “it seems to me that you are wilfully disregarding my warning.”

“I was not aware,” Saton answered, “that Miss Champneyes was a prisoner in your house, nor do I see how I am to be held responsible for her call upon the Comtesse.”

“We will not bandy words,” Rochester said. “I have no wish to quarrel with you, but I want you always to remember the things which I have said. Lois Champneyes is very nearly of age, it is true, but she remains a child by disposition and temperament. As her guardian, I want you to understand that I forbid you to continue your friendship or even your acquaintance with her!”

The quiet contempt of Rochester’s words stung Saton into a moment of fury.

“What sort of a creature am I, then,” he exclaimed, “that you should think me unworthy even to speak to your ward, or to the women of your household? You treat me as though I were a criminal, or worse!”

Rochester tapped his riding boot with the end of his whip. Saton watched him with fascinated eyes. There seemed something a little ominous in the action, in the sight of that gently moving whip, held so firmly in the long, sinewy fingers.

“What you are,” Rochester said, leaning a little down from his horse, “you know and I know. Let that be enough. Only remember that there comes a time when threats cease, and actions commence. And as sure as you and I are met here together this evening, Saton, I tell you that if you offend again in this matter, I shall punish you. You understand?”

Rochester swung his horse round and cantered down the lane. Saton stood looking after him with white, angry face and clenched hands.