She ran to the window. The housemaid’s step-ladder stood below, but Polly’s window was two or three feet above.
“We’ll manage with a bit of rope and the bedroom towels,” said Maggie, eagerly. “It’s nothing at all, getting down—it’s what I did was the danger. Now, be quick, Miss Polly; let’s get away while they’re at dinner.”
It did not take an instant for Polly to decide. Between the delights of roaming the country with Maggie, and the pleasure of continuing to read through the M’s in Webster’s Dictionary, there could be little choice. On the side of liberty and freedom alone could the balance fall. The bedroom towels were quickly tied on to the old rope, the rope secured firmly inside the window-sill, and the two girls let themselves swing lightly on to the step-ladder. They were both agile, and the descent did not terrify them in the least. When they reached the ground they took each other’s hands, and looked into each other’s faces.
“You might have thought of bringing a hat, Miss Polly.”
“Oh, never mind, Maggie. You do look shabby; your frock is torn right open.”
“Well, Miss, I got it a-coming to save you. Miss Polly, Mrs. Power’s back in the kitchen. Hadn’t we better run? We’ll talk afterwards.”
So they did, not meeting any one, for Mrs. Cameron and the children were all at dinner, and the servants were also in the house. They ran through the kitchen garden, vaulted over the sunken fence, and found themselves in the little sheltered green lane, where Polly had lain on her face and hands and caught the thrushes on the July day when her mother died. She stood almost in the same spot now, but her mind was in too great a whirl, and her feelings too excited, to cast back any glances of memory just then.
“Well, Maggie,” she said, pulling up short, “now, what are your plans? Where are we going to? Where are we to hide?”
“Eh?” said Maggie.
She had evidently come to the end of her resources, and the intelligent light suddenly left her face.