“It’s hard,” he muttered, savagely—“that I, who have never wronged any living creature knowingly, should be in this plight now. If I had had the chance that was given to my brother, should I have used it better—or have I merely kept out of temptation, because temptation kept out of me? Heaven knows! But, while I stand here cursing my fate, those wretches have got to work, I’ll be bound, and may be clear away again before I reach the place. Now to remember the roads I traversed before—and yet to keep out of the sight of all men, and”—he added, as an after-thought—“all women!”
With these words, he crept round, as near as he dared, to the front of the house, and struck off cautiously from there in the direction of the cottage.
Now it happened that night that Madge Barnshaw, being wholly occupied with sad thoughts, and having no friendly being in whom she could confide, or to whom she felt disposed to tell the tragic story which was by this time in every mouth, had gone early to her room, leaving Miss Vint—her distant cousin and guardian—nodding over the fire. Arthur Barnshaw, who had arrived from town only the day before, was in the room he called his “den,” reading and smoking, and the house was very quiet. Miss Vint, being very comfortable, fell asleep.
When she awoke, the fire had long gone out, and the room was chilly. Miss Vint rose, shuddering and yawning, and, having extinguished the light, went out into the hall; took her candle, and slowly and sleepily mounted the stairs to her chamber.
Passing a window on the staircase, immediately below the level of her own room, Miss Vint stopped suddenly, and became very wide awake. Clearly and distinctly, in the death-like silence which pervaded everything, Miss Vint had heard a voice—muffled and cautious—apparently proceeding from below. What the words were that were spoken, she could not say; but she had distinctly heard a voice—and that voice the voice of a man.
Before the worthy lady had had time to decide what to do, another voice—as muffled and cautious as the first—answered; only, in this case, it appeared to come from above—almost as though (but the idea was, of course, too ridiculous to be entertained) the first speaker had been outside, in the garden, and the second at an open window, speaking down at him.
Miss Vint’s first natural thought was to rush downstairs, and summon Arthur Barnshaw to her assistance. But it was a long way downstairs, and there was a dark and ghostly corridor to be traversed before she could reach him. On the other hand, her room was quite close; she had but to dash up three steps, open the door, plunge in, and find herself in safety.
Accordingly, Miss Vint took the plunge; flung open the door—shut it hurriedly—and locked it on the inside. At the same instant, Miss Vint’s candle was softly blown out, and a strong firm hand was placed over Miss Vint’s mouth—a hand which pressed her, not too ceremoniously, against the door she had locked.
“Not a word,” whispered a voice, huskily. “Scream—and I’ll knock yer bloomin’ brains out. I ain’t alone; there’s pals o’ mine outside, as mightn’t be so considerate of a lady’s feelin’s. Now—are yer goin’ to be quiet?”
Miss Vint nodded her head, as well as she could for the steady pressure of the hand upon her mouth, and the man relaxed his hold. She could just dimly discern his figure, looming large above her, in the dim light which came from outside the window.