She looked wild enough.
"Jerome Carey was shot in a quarrel at Joe Esquint's to-night,"
she said. "He is dying--he wants you--I have come for you."
Elinor gave a little cry, and steadied herself on Tom's shoulder.
Tom said he knew he made some exclamation of horror. He had
never approved of Carey's attentions to Elinor, but such news was
enough to shock anybody. He was determined, however, that Elinor
should not go out in such a night and to such a scene, and told
Tannis so in no uncertain terms.
"I came through the storm," said Tannis, contemptuously. "Cannot
she do as much for him as I can?"
The good, old Island blood in Elinor's veins showed to some
purpose. "Yes," she answered firmly. "No, Tom, don't object--I
must go. Get my horse--and your own."
Ten minutes later three riders galloped down the bluff road and
took the river trail. Fortunately the wind was at their backs
and the worst of the storm was over. Still, it was a wild, black
ride enough. Tom rode, cursing softly under his breath. He did
not like the whole thing--Carey done to death in some low
half-breed shack, this handsome, sullen girl coming as his
messenger, this nightmare ride, through wind and rain. It all
savored too much of melodrama, even for the Northland, where
people still did things in a primitive way. He heartily wished
Elinor had never left Avonlea.
It was past twelve when they reached the Flats.
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