At nine o’clock Giles arrived with the pony-carriage for the young ladies and two of us: the other and Giles were to walk. But we didn’t see the fun of leaving so early. Giles said he could not wait long: he must be back to get old Jacobson’s gig ready, who was spending the evening at the Manor. The Jacobsons, being farmers, though they were wealthy, and lived in good old style, had been passed over when Mrs. Clement-Pell’s invitations went out. So Tod sent Giles and the carriage back again, with a message that we all preferred walking, and should follow shortly.
Follow, we did; but not shortly. It was past eleven when we got away. The dancing had been good, and no one was at hand to say we must leave. Helen and Anna Whitney came out with their cloaks on. What with the dancing and the sultriness of the weather, the night was about as hot as an oven. We were almost the last to leave: but did not mean to say so at home. It was a splendid night, though; very clear, the moon larger than usual. We went on in no particular order; the five of us turning out of the Parrifer gates together.
“Oh,” screamed Helen, when we were some yards down the road, “where’s the bag? Anna, have you brought the bag?”
“No,” replied Anna. “You told me you would bring it.”
“Well—I meant to do so. William, you must run back for it.”
“Oh, bother the bag,” said Bill. “You girls can’t want the bag to-night. I’ll come over for it in the morning.”
“Not want it!—Why, our combs and brushes and thin shoes are in it,” retorted Helen. “It is on a chair in that little room off the hall. Come, William, go for it.”
“I’ll go, Helen,” I said. “Walk quietly on, and I shall catch you up.”
The grounds looked quite deserted: the Chinese lanterns had burned themselves out, and the doors appeared closed. One of the side windows was open and gay with light; I thought it would be less trouble to enter that way, and leaped up the balcony steps to the empty room. Empty, as I took it to be.