If escape were only possible! Surely there was some window, some door, by which she could leave the house! She would not mind a little danger. Better a broken bone or two than the fate which would await her as Hugo's wife—or as Hugo's prisoner. She turned to the window with a resolute step, drew aside the curtains, unbarred the shutters, and looked out.
Disappointment awaited her. There was a long space of wall, and then the pointed roofs of some outhouses, which hid the courtyard and the road entirely from her sight. Beyond the roofs she could see the tops of trees, which, it was plain, would entirely conceal any view of her window from passers-by. It would be quite impossible to climb down to those sharp-gabled roofs; and, as if to make assurance doubly sure, the window was protected by strong iron bars, between which nobody could have squeezed more than an arm or foot. Moreover, the sash was nailed down. Kitty dropped the curtain with a despairing sigh.
After a little hesitation, she took a candle and opened the sitting-room door. All was dark in the passage outside; but from the top of the flight of stairs leading to a higher storey, she could distinguish a glimmer of light which seemed to come from a window in the roof. She went up the stairs and found two tiny rooms; one a lumber-room, the other a bed-room. These were just underneath the roof, and had tiny triangular windows, which were decidedly too small to allow of anyone's escaping through them. Kitty peered through them both, and got a good view of the loch, glimmering whitely in the starlight between its black, wooded shores. She retraced her steps, and explored an empty room on the floor with her sitting-room, the window of which was also barred and nailed down. Then she went down the lower flight of steps until she came to a closed door, which had been securely fastened from the outside by the man who brought up her box. She shook it and beat it with her little fists; but all in vain. Nobody seemed to hear her knocks; or, if heard, they were disregarded. She tried the baize door with like ill-success. Hugo had said the truth; she was a prisoner.
At last, tired and disheartened, she crept back to her sitting-room. The fire was nearly out, and the night was a cold one. She muffled herself in her cloak and crouched down upon the sofa, crying bitterly. She thought herself too nervous, too excited, to sleep at all; and she certainly did not sleep for two or three hours. But exhaustion came at last, and, although she still started at the slightest sound, she fell into a doze, and thence into a tolerably sound slumber, which lasted until daylight looked in at the unshuttered window, and the baize door moved upon its hinges to admit the girl who was to act as Miss Heron's maid.
The very sight of a girl—a woman like herself—brought hope to Kitty's mind. She started up, pressing her hands to her brow and pushing back the disordered hair. Then she addressed the girl with eager, persuasive words. But the kitchen-maid only shook her head. "Dinna ye ken that I'm stane-deef?" she said, pointing to her ears with a grin. For a moment Kitty in despair desisted from her efforts. Then she thought of another argument. She produced her purse, and showed the girl some sovereigns, then led her to the door, intimating by signs that she would give her the money if she would but open it. The girl seemed to understand, but laughed again and shook her head. "Na, na," she said. "I daurna lat ye oot sae lang's the maister's here." Hugo's coadjutors were apparently incorruptible.
The kitchen-maid proved herself equal to all the work required of her. She relighted the fire, cleared away the uneaten supper, and brought breakfast and hot water. Kitty discovered that everything she required was handed to the girl through a sliding panel in the door at the bottom of the stairs. There was no chance of escape through any chance opening of the door.
She had no appetite, but she knew that she ought to eat in order to keep up her strength and courage. She therefore drank some coffee, and ate the scones which the maid brought her. The girl then took away the breakfast-things, put fresh fuel on the fire, and departed by the lower door. Kitty would have kept her if she could. Even a deaf kitchen-maid was better than no company at all.
The view from the windows was no more encouraging by day than night. There seemed to be no way of communicating with the outer world. A letter flung from either storey would only reach the slanting roofs below, and lie on the slates until destroyed by snow and rain. Kitty doubted whether her voice would reach the courtyard, even if she raised it to its highest pitch. She tried it from the attic window, but it seemed to die away in the heights, and she could hardly hope that it had been heard by anyone either inside or outside the house.
She was left alone for some time. About noon, as she was standing by her window, straining her eyes to discover some trace of a human being in the distance, whose attention she perhaps might catch if one could only be seen, she heard the door open and close again. She knew the footstep: it was neither that of the deaf girl nor of the man Stevens. It was Hugo Luttrell coming once more to plead his cause or lay his commands upon her.
She turned round unwillingly and glanced at him with a faint hope that the night might have brought him to some change of purpose. But although the excitement of the previous evening had disappeared, there was no sign of relenting in his face. He came up to her and tried to take her hand.