At First Light

II.

Hannah shrieked, and spun around.

"W-who's there!?"

"Me," said someone, from the darkness of the hut. He used the patronizing, over-enunciated sort of tone supercilious governesses used when explaining French grammar to little girls. "And you, I suppose." He waited a moment. "Is there anyone else?"

Presumably, the vague dark shapes against the wall of the hut hid no more people, for no one else spoke. Hannah's imagination, which had been trained on the most lurid of gothic novels, cast upon her the conviction that this stranger in the dark must be a rake, waiting to allay a confused young woman such as herself. Indeed, she could see a vague figure moving in the darkness now, coming towards her. Before it, she backed helplessly into the snow, which had become a storm.

"It's cold out there!"

The figure reached the doorway, and stood there. It was too dark now to see properly and she could tell only that he was taller than her – much taller – and swaying slightly. In fact, he took the door frame rather carefully in one hand, as though he needed it to stay upright. His breath, when he spoke next, brought with it the definite scent of strong spirits.

"You had better come back in, Miss!" He was shouting slightly, to be heard above the wind. When she made no move, he added. "Quickly!"

Hannah tried to reply with feminine dignity, but it was quite impossible when she, too, had to shout,"I should think – I am a lady, Sir! I cannot stay with you in this hut tonight!"

"Stuff!" the man yelled. "What else are we going to do? There isn't another shelter for miles!"

"But my reputation will suffer!"

"Of all the-" The man risked letting go of the doorway to raise his arms helplessly to the sky. He swayed, and hastily grabbed the doorpost again.

The wind shrieked, and snow splintered against Hannah's cheeks. Staring at the man, she could just tell that he was wearing a greatcoat, its hems flapping against his ankles. She also thought he was staring at her.

"If you'll go for a walk," she shouted, "I'm sure you'll find another shed."

"I won't go for a walk," the man shouted. "And I won't find another shed. Now get inside!"

And then, tiring of the argument, he reached out, attached a hand firmly to the collar of her pelisse, and pulled her bodily back into the hut, with such clumsy strength that she stumbled to her knees on the floor. A moment later, the door slammed, and the howling wind was shut out with it.

"Can't stand," the man muttered, "Woman's foolishness."

With the door shut, even the dim light from the sky was gone, and Hannah could see nothing now. She shuffled backwards on her behind over the splintering floor, in the direction away from the man's voice. Her back hit the wall of the hut, and she stopped there, pulling her knees defensively to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. But her fear of the man's rakishness may have been unfounded, at least as it pertained to her: she heard the soft pop of a cork being pulled from a bottle, and the pungent smell of spirits clouded the room.

The man swallowed and sighed contentedly. "Just like fire. Bless the West Indies. Do you want a drink, Miss?"

"No."

"It'll keep you warm," the man added. "That's why I ask. I can tell you're more the champagne type. Lady, I'm drunk."

"Yes."

There was the sound of fumbling. Something fell over and clattered on the floor. The man cursed. Then the man fell over too, and cursed again.

"My feet," he moaned, "Have betrayed me."