“Thank God!” murmured Lettice. Still she did not lift her face.
“I fear you will not be able to get back to Rosneath tonight,” the captain went on. “It is dark now—past eight”—and he tried by the dim light shining through the narrow panes to look at his watch—“the roads are so bad and my poor ponies so worn out—”
“No,” said Lettice faintly, “I feel I couldn’t travel tonight—I should break down on the road. I will stay here with Lilla, but someone must take a letter to Aunt Rosamond.”
She lifted her head wearily for an instant, then it fell back on the pillow once more, for in good truth she was utterly overdone.
“Poor child, she is worn out!” said Captain Ivie with something of remorse in his tone. Then he went to the narrow window, and by what little light was left scribbled a few hasty lines on a leaf of his pocketbook. This he held out to Lettice. “The man downstairs will take it. Will you read what I’ve written, Miss Tremarten,” he said, “and tell me if there’s anything else to say to your aunts?”
Then he struck a cigar-match, and by its light Lettice’s weary eyes managed to make out the following words in the captain’s bold hand:—
“McKenzie’s Cottage, Ardvarroch.
“Miss Tremarten is safe and well, but thoroughly worn out.
“You’ve put two r’s together in Ardvaroch,” said Lettice, brightening up for an instant, “and there’s only one. Oh, and please tell them to send for me the first thing in the morning. Oh dear me,” she added, with another sigh, “I shall soon get back to dear papa now.”
The captain returned to the window and recommenced writing. “The first thing in the morning,” he repeated, as though he were writing the words; then he turned again to Lettice. “Miss Tremarten,” he said kindly, “the next room to this will be unoccupied, for the good woman of the house will be in and out attending to Lilla all night; will you like to lie down there? We’ll call you directly your people come in the morning. Stay, you must have some brandy-and-water and a biscuit or something before you lie down.” He hastily mixed some in his flask and handed it to her.
Lettice rose wearily. “I am so ashamed of myself to break down like this; I will just lie down for a little while, and then I’ll come back and help nurse Lilla through the rest of the night.” She stooped over Lilla and smoothed her hair, kissing her affectionately, then Captain Ivie held back the door of the little room for her to pass out, and opening another which joined it on the dark narrow landing, with many apologies introduced Lettice to her room.
“It’s such horrible accommodation, Miss Tremarten; not even a light to be found in the house. I suppose these good people are always in bed by sunset.” He bent, reverently almost, over her little hand, which he retained for a minute in his own, looking up in her face with a gaze so intense that Lettice thrilled and trembled under it, and could scarcely command her voice to bid him “Good night” as she shut the door of the room.
What was it made her draw the bolt which she felt under the handle of the door, and then try the door itself to see that it really was properly secured? What strange feeling of distrust or dread was it that made her take a close survey of the tiny ill-furnished room to see if there were any cupboards or hiding-places in it? and why was it that when she threw herself on the low hard bed which stood under a narrow high window, instead of falling, as she had anticipated, at once into a heavy dreamless sleep, her heart beat so fast, and her breath came and went so quickly, that rest was impossible?
“It’s so hot and close,” she murmured to herself; “and I’m sure if I had a light I should see it is all frightfully dirty. Oh dear! what a funny day this has been!”
Then she stood up on the bed and tried if the window would open wider; it was a narrow casement, and the people of the house had evidently never felt the need of fresh air, for one half of the window remained from disuse so firmly fixed that it resisted all her efforts to open it, so she gave up the attempt, and was about to throw herself once more on the little hard bed when Captain Ivie’s voice, speaking softly to the woman of the house in the paved yard under the window, fell upon her ear.
“As the inn is so near, my good woman, I should much prefer your sleeping there. You see it’s of the first importance to my sister that the house should be perfectly quiet; she’s a little sick and faint, that’s all, with overriding, and a good night’s rest will set her up again all right. Your husband has gone over to the inn already with the horses, and tell him, please, to bring them round the first thing in the morning at sunrise. Good night; I won’t forget to pay you well for turning you out of your house in this unceremonious way. Oh, stay—bring me a candle.” Then he came in.
What was this? Lettice’s brain was in a feverish whirl, and her heart beat violently. What was this maze of lies and contradictions?—the woman sent out of the house to sleep, Lilla “only a little sick and feverish,” the man despatched, not to Lochiel, but to the little inn, and, after all, a candle in the house; were they deceiving her—playing off some trick on her for a purpose of their own? Her breath came and went rapidly, and she trembled from head to foot as now she could hear Captain Ivie’s step mounting the narrow stairs.
He paused for
