"The old hall clock!" whispered the girl—"my mother's clock—I wonder if I shall ever hear it again after to-night! I hope I may—I hope to Heaven I may!" And she slid gently on her knees, and raised her hands upwards. Gillett stood looking on in amazement, not unmixed with deep emotion.
"Miss Minnie, dear, shall I stay, or go?" she whispered, touching her arm. Minnie started up.
"Go," she said, hurriedly, looking towards the door—"go, and don't tell any one I have been agitated, or crying. Let me be quiet a short time, and—and—Heaven bless you, dear Gillett, for all your kindness—I never shall forget it!"
She threw her arms round the woman's neck, and kindly embraced her; then, opening the door, said hurriedly, "Now, go, dear Gillett, and leave me quiet awhile."
The simple woman, without the slightest suspicion of harm, quitted the room gently, and locked the door. Minnie stood one moment, with clasped hands, listening, then turning round, she seemed, by a great effort, to shake off all lethargy and doubt. Reverentially placing her mother's picture, and a gift of aunt Dorcas's, in her bosom, she drew from her pocket a key, and with hasty hands threw over her shoulders a shawl; then, putting on her bonnet, she stood one instant in deep thought—it was the final thought—one of war between resolution and doubt.
Near the old stile, in the holly-field, stood Miles Tremenhere. He was no longer the wild, excited man; a cold, stern resolution had replaced all other emotions. He stood there, resolved to do, even now, by force, should other means fail. It had been in vain he toiled with his brain to arrange things otherwise: all had seemed to go against him, trains, posters—all, and here he was, expecting Minnie at seven, knowing that at eight she would leave with her uncle, if his scheme failed.
"But it will not," he said between his teeth; "she has the key; they will be at table, and she can better escape down the stairs now than earlier. Should she not come, I will go up boldly and tear her from their power!"
He was desperate enough then to have attempted it. His face was cold and damp with the dew of suspense, his eyes strained with watching the way she should come; he had become so acutely wakeful, that he felt he could have heard her cry for help even there; and as moment after moment passed, and the heavy church clock in the distance chimed a quarter past seven, he groaned aloud. "Only three quarters more, and they will be there for her. Minnie! oh, Minnie! if they tore you from me now, I should smile on any deed to recover you! She does not come!"
He stood like a statue, only watching the way through the shrubbery. "I will go up and claim her," he cried at last, in desperation. "Hush! were those wheels? theirs, to complete their good work. Hush!" and he listened, while his heart audibly beat. A hand was on his arm, and a voice, weak and thrilling like a nestling bird's, whispered, "Miles, I am here—let us go—'tis late—I have been seen." With the first word and touch, a cry burst from him, and Minnie was in an embrace of iron. What force might tear her from it? Outside the hedge a chaise was waiting, and to this he almost carried the nearly fainting girl; they had not far to drive, but a few short miles at the pace of their good quadrupeds; and before the clock struck eight, Tremenhere's heart beat wildly with rejoicing, beside his run-away bride, flying at the rate of Gretna steam-power, and an express train, to the north. Eight o'clock struck, and with the last stroke wheels were heard creaking on the gravel at Gatestone.
"Now, Dalby," said Juvenal, "the time's come, mind you are resolute; no woman's work. I daresay she'll make a fuss, but it is for her ultimate benefit, and besides I will not have my authority questioned." Sylvia and Dorcas had retired, quite ignorant of all. "Tell Mrs. Gillett to come here, and accompany us to Miss Dalzell's room," said Juvenal to the footman.