Chapter Nine.
They Begin to Mend.
Alas! for poor Betty, the little gate, her only hope of escape, was padlocked. At the first moment she scarcely realised this. She seized its upper bar by both hands and shook it violently, and for half a moment she fancied it yielded; all her faculties were confused by fright, and even the short distance over which she had run so fast had been enough to add materially to the overwhelming beating of her heart, the surging of blood into her ears, which all but deafened her.
But as her repeated shaking proved of no avail, and the tumult in her veins somewhat abated, terror notwithstanding, again, to her horror, she became conscious of the advancing footsteps behind. True, they did not sound like those of any one in pursuit; but what then?—ghosts didn’t run! The steady tread of the advancing presence was scarcely a source of consolation, till, frightened as she was, she began to perceive that the footsteps were firm and unfaltering—there was something commonplace and matter-of-fact about them, by no means ethereal or feeble, such as one would picture those of a ghostly visitor, especially the ghost of an old lady, who, in the many years during which she was supposed to have perambulated the Laurel Walk, was not likely to derive any increased energy from her fruitless peregrinations.
A sudden impulse of courage, though perhaps but the courage of desperation, flashed through Betty.
“I will face it,” she said to herself, “and know the worst.”
She turned. The advancing figure was now but a short distance from her, and—oh! thank Heaven—it was that of a man! Cold drops slowly gathered on her forehead in the intensity of her relief. At another time she might have been frightened at the very fact for which she was now so thankful. But all visions of tramps or other nefarious-minded intruders had been banished for the moment by the overpowering dread of the supernatural.
Her heart still beat uncomfortably, but she moved forward a few steps.