“I must! I must!”
“Lord, you are frightened!” the woman muttered, looking at her face. And then, catching the infection, “Is’t as bad as that?” she said. “Ay, give me the child, then. And for the Lord’s sake, be quick, miss. This pear is as good as a ladder, and the dog knows me as well as its own folk!”
“The child! The child!” Henrietta repeated. Again her ear had caught the sound of shuffling feet, and of whispering on the stairs. She carried the child, which seemed paralysed by fear, to the sill, and delivered it into the other’s arm.
The sill of the window was barely ten feet from the ground, and an old pear tree, spread-eagled against the wall, formed a natural ladder. The dog, which had been chained under the window to guard against egress, knew the woman and did no more than stand below and wag its tail. In two minutes Henrietta was safe on the ground, had taken the child from the other’s arms, and was ready for flight.
But the servant would not leave until she had made sure that her mistress had strength to close the window. That done, she turned to Henrietta.
“Now come!” she said. “And don’t spare yourself, miss, for if they catch us after this they’ll for certain cut our throats!”
Henrietta had no need of the spur, and at their best pace the two fled down the paddock, the servant-wench holding Henrietta by the elbow and impelling her. The moon had risen, and Mrs. Tyson, poor, terrified, trembling woman, watching them from the window, could follow them down the pale meadow, and even discern the dark line of the rivulet, along the bank of which they passed, and here and there a patch of higher herbage, or a solitary boulder left in the middle of the turf for a scratching-post. Perhaps she made, in leaning forward, some noise which irritated the dog; or perhaps the moonlight annoyed it. At any rate, it began to bay.
By that time, however, Henrietta and her companion had gained the shadow of the trees at the upper end of the wooded gorge through which the stream escaped. They stood there a brief while to take breath, and the woman offered to carry the child. But Henrietta, though she felt that her strength was uncertain, though she experienced an odd giddiness, was unwilling to resign her charge. And after a pause they started to descend the winding path which followed the stream, and often crossed and re-crossed it.
They stumbled along as fast as they could. But this was not very fast. For not only was it dark in the covert, but the track was beset with projecting roots, and overhead branches hung low and scraped their faces. More than once startled by a rabbit, or the gurgle of the falling water, they stopped to listen, fancying that they were pursued. Still they went fast enough to feel ultimate safety certain; and Henrietta, as she held an end of the other’s petticoat between her fingers and followed patiently, bade herself bear up a little longer and it would be over. It would soon be over, and she—she would put his child in his arms. It would soon be over, and she would be able to sink down upon her bed and rest. For she was very weary—and odd. Very, unaccountably weary. When she stumbled or her foot found the descent longer than she expected, she staggered and swayed on her feet.
But, “We shall soon be safe! We shall soon be safe!” she told herself. “And the child!”