Mrs. Chetwode, torn between two influences, and always subject to the latest, bounded out of the room as if the limbs of twenty years ago had been miraculously granted her, and went stealthily enough down the long stairs to the servant's quarters.
In fifteen minutes she ventured back with a bottle of wine under her apron.
"He's ready, miss, and at the lower door. You needn't meet the colonel at all; he's just gone into the library, and shut himself in. Now, my poor miss, you must drink something before you go to strengthen you, and eat a bite."
"Nothing in this house—no!" cried Margaret, shuddering; "I cannot be sure of even the food!"
"Don't let them put you in a hasylum, deary love; be careful what you say, now won't you?"
"No fear of that with these papers," replied Margaret, holding up the satchel exultingly.
By dint of perseverance the housekeeper prevailed upon her to drink a glass of wine.
It is doubtful if she could have walked down stairs, and borne the ordeal of her terror, but for this stimulant. But she reached the lower door, and entered the carriage safely.
The colonel, after all his watching, was strangely derelict now, when he had most cause for vigilance, and seemed quite unconscious that his enemy was escaping to her friends, out of his reach.
Margaret's eyes traveled once over the towers and battlements of gloomy Castle Brand, as they left it behind. They seemed to look a long farewell—perhaps a farewell which would last forever; and then a turn in the narrow stable-road brought a grim brick wall between her and her castle, and she sank back upon the carriage-seat.