Within another
minute they had reached the heavy lumbering coach.
The coachman had seen them coming and descended from his box to open the
door. He was a big fellow who held himself erect like a soldier. His
swarthy complexion had a patch of purplish bloom spreading itself over
the cheek bones which told of constant tavern lounging. A pair of hawk's
eyes gleamed from under bushy beetling brows; wide loose lips and a
truculent, pugnacious lower jaw completed the picture of a ruffian.
Lavinia glanced at him and that glance was enough, it deepened her
distrust into repugnance. But she had no time to protest. She was
hurried into the coach, Dorrimore in fact lifting her inside bodily with
unnecessary violence for she was almost thrown into a corner of the back
seat. Dorrimore followed, turned, shut the door and almost immediately
the carriage moved. The coachman must have sprung to his box with the
quickness of a harlequin. The whip cracked and the horses broke into a
gallop.
CHAPTER IV
"IF WE'RE NOT TO BE MARRIED TELL ME"
The rattle of the wheels over the loose, roughly laid cobble stones, and
the swaying carriage hung on leathers, forbade talking. Lavinia heard
her companion's voice but she did not know what he was saying. Not that
it mattered for she was in too much of a flutter to heed anything but
her own emotions, and these were so confused that they told her little.
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