“At last!”
Those two words seemed to be breathed, as it were, close to Brace Norton’s ear, as, almost brushing him, the figure came close to where he stood, listened, apparently, for a few moments, and then, drawing himself up, climbed the low oak palings, and began to thread his way amongst the trees.
“At last!” What did that mean? Who was this? No servant or keeper, evidently. Was he poacher? He had no gun, and he was alone, which fact also militated against his being burglar.
There is no concealing the fact: Brace Norton was glad of the excuse for getting once—even but for a few minutes—close to the house, with the hope of seeing if only her window; and, telling himself that this nocturnal visitor could mean no good towards the inhabitants of the Castle, he, too, softly climbed the palings, and tried to follow the figure.
If he could only have some opportunity given him of showing his zeal—of rescuing somebody from danger! Or could it be—was this to be—an endeavour to carry off Isa? His heart beat swiftly, and his breath came thick and fast for a few seconds, till his better sense prevailed, and he smiled at the silly romance that, he told himself, he had allowed to obtain entrance to his breast.
But, meanwhile, he had pressed cautiously on, peering anxiously before him, and trying hard to make out the direction the figure had taken. In vain, though: the dark shadow had passed amongst the trees, and was gone. He tried in different directions, but with only one result—ill-success; and, for a moment, as he stood upon the grass, listening eagerly, he felt disposed to place all to imagination. He knew, though, that it was not; and determining to go nearer to the house, he drew forth his watch, and tried to make out the hour.
That, however, was impossible; so, opening it, he passed his fingers over the hands, to find that it was after one.
Would they be sitting up for him at home? He could not help it. This was his last night, it might be, for years—as he should try, on a certain event happening, to avoid the place—perhaps for ever.
Suddenly a thought struck him. If the man he had seen was some wrong-doer, and sought the house, he must, he knew, cross the bridge; for Brace had from a distance often studied the configuration of the grounds, and knew that from the side where he stood the bridge road was the only way up to the mansion.
Young and active then, he started off over the short crisp turf at a sharp run, purposely making a slight circuit, and arrived cautiously at length by the bridge end, to find that he was too late to see the figure pass, for he was already on the bridge, his step sounding hollowly upon the old worn planks.