She tottered to the door and turned the handle, but it was fast. She pressed against it, but it would not yield.
She made to the window. She remembered the iron staircase which led into the garden. The window was unfastened, but she, alas, was in full dress. She cast her eyes to the door wistfully, and thought she perceived the handle move; she hurried to it, and, kneeling down, tried to peer through the keyhole.
She heard a soft, low voice breathe her name, and she knew who was without watching for her.
She whispered in a low voice—
“Eva, darling Eva, not a moment is to be lost; hasten with my bonnet and my mantle to the slope beneath the library window.”
“Helen, dearest,” murmured the soft, low voice, “oh, you will not leave us again?”
“Sweet sister Eva, if you love me, do what I ask. I will be more explicit when we are together below,” she urged, almost frantically. “If you love me, Eva—oh, if you love me, sweet Eva.”
“I will do what you wish, dear Helen,” replied her sister, softly. “I will be down on the slope within a few minutes.”
To Helen the very mention of such a time seemed an age. She tied her handkerchief about her neck, and stole softly to the window, which had several times admitted Chewkle to her father’s presence secretly.
She opened it gently and looked out. It seemed very dark, and she instinctively shuddered. She turned, and looked round the library hastily—all was perfectly silent; yet it seemed to her that the door would suddenly fly open, and her father, with angry aspect, appear and pursue her.