“Oh, papa! papa!” she moaned in her heart, “if you could only see your little girl now! And Dr. Herron I know would kill Captain Ivie if he could get at him.”
The thought of these two so far away brought back a little strength and hope to her heart. Was there really no way of escape from the perils which beset her? Should she make an appeal to Ivie—throw herself on his honour? Ah no! what could he do? He would, no doubt, pretend to aid her escape and rejoice to show himself anywhere and everywhere in her company only to draw her more closely into his toils. And Lilla? Could she trust one who had already bitterly deceived her? She clasped her hands together—“My God! is there no way of escape?” She dared not move, scarce breathe, for fear of betraying herself, but, sitting there on the floor, she felt almost as though her reason were leaving her, so terrible was the strain of anguish she endured.
Presently the sounds of heavy breathing came to her from the next room, and she could tell that Lilla was asleep, still she dared not move, for she could hear Ivie walking slowly backwards and forwards in the room beneath her own. “Would he really play the gaoler thus right on till morning?” thought Lettice. She had not noticed the house sufficiently on entering to tell its exact geography, but she felt sure there was but one staircase to it, which ran straight down into the little sitting-room where Ivie was, and one back and one front door both opening out of the same apartment.
O the suspense, the terribleness of those minutes Lettice passed, crouched on the bare boards listening to Ivie’s regular soldier-like tread beneath! With each creak of his footsteps her heart seemed to bound and then stand still. Would they never cease—would they never cease, or would the day dawn and find her still kneeling there hopeless and helpless?
But at length they did cease, and, thank Heaven! Lettice could hear Ivie pull off his boots, then there came the creak of an old wooden bedstead as though he had thrown himself heavily upon it, and then all was still.
Yet she dared not move; she crouched lower and lower to the floor till her ear almost touched the boards, and after a few seconds of anxious terror and suspense she could hear that he too, like his sister, slept.
With limbs stiffened and cold, with her brain scorching and burning, she rose from the floor, and then almost staggered and fell. What time had she before her? Ah, perhaps only an hour at most, for Captain Ivie might rouse at any moment, possibly would, to make sure his prey had not escaped him. Something shining on the rickety old table caught her eye—the glass of brandy-and-water Ivie had mixed for her. Very thankfully she took a long draught of it, and felt some little strength and energy come back to her; then very softly, very slowly, she crept on to her bed once more, and leaning out of the window took a survey of the yard beneath.
A fresh wind was rising now, and an old fir-tree on the other side of the wall was beginning to creak and toss its arms, a few light clouds were flying across the somewhat pale watery moon, and a sound of rush and tumble in the distance told her there must be some falling water near.
And as her eyes became accustomed to the half-gloom of the autumn night she could trace the outline of some low-built outhouse close under her casement. Was it three feet below—was it six feet? She could not tell—her sight and brain were alike bewildered; all she felt and knew was she must reach it somehow, and then take her chance of whatever means of escape offered themselves. An old curtain hung by the window; could she trust it? Ah no! its supports were, no doubt, rotten like the rest of the house, and would come down with a crash and betray her. There was only one way, and she mounted on the narrow ledge, crept on hands and knees through the half-opened casement, and then, holding her breath and feeling her life in her hands, dropped noiselessly on to the roof beneath.
She paused for an instant to collect her courage. Not safe yet—oh no! but outside the prison-bars at any rate—and looking down with thankfulness she saw that the outhouse sloped gradually to the low stone wall which separated the courtyard from the road. Another light spring and she has gained the wall—yet one more and Lettice stands free in the desolate Scotch road.
Not another house in sight, not a signpost or stone even to tell whither the road ran, or roads rather, for branching right and left of the cottage were two other roads leading—whither?
Which way should she take? Which way had she travelled that very afternoon, which seemed now such long ages ago, so much had she lived through as she listened and lay on the floor? The fresh soft wind fanned her cheek, her brown hair had fallen down as she made her last spring and now hung low to her waist, her pretty archery dress showed oddly in the weak changing moonlight, and her silver belt gleamed and sparkled. Lettice knelt down on the wide flinty road. “O God!” she said, “I’m all alone and don’t know which way to turn; please show me.”
A little bird started out of a stunted hawthorn by the roadside and flew straight in front of her. Lettice hailed it as an omen. With a joyful cry she sprang forward to follow it. “Ah,” she said to herself, “I’m sure it
