Terrified at such a prospect, the young officer escaped from the barracks, by connivance of the guard, there was reason to suppose, although this was never completely proved; at anyrate, he got clear away, and disappeared. Immediate advantage was taken of this fatal although very natural step, and a reward was at once offered for his apprehension. If he could get out of the country, he would be safe, as there were then no engagements for giving up criminals, so the ports were watched, an easier thing to do when there was not such a tremendous outflow of emigration as now.
Public sympathy was, naturally, strongly in favour of Captain Laurenston, and against the major, who would be compelled, it was generally said, to leave the service. But this would not save the captain from being cashiered, nor from fourteen years’ transportation, as he was certain to be made an example of, if only for the purpose of showing that officers would be protected when they refused to accept a challenge.
I had taken an interest in all these details, as my mates had done, and, as with them, my sympathies were on the side of Captain Laurenston, yet only as a stranger, for I had never, to my knowledge, heard of him before. But after a while it began to be said that the captain was the officer who had been so long a visitor at Elm Knoll, and was the accepted suitor of Miss Cleabyrn. This gave me more interest in the affair, and I sincerely hoped he might make good his escape.
Miss Beatrice had returned to Elm Knoll; but she rarely left the house, and still more rarely rode out, although it was the hunting season, so that I hardly ever saw her.
I was on night-duty at the signals; and when I went there one evening to relieve the day man, he told me that there were several London detectives ‘hanging about the place’—he knew this from one of the guards who had formerly been in the police, and so recognised them. I naturally asked if the Company suspected anything wrong among their people, and my mate said no, not at all. The detectives of course would not say anything about their business; but the guard suspected that they were after Captain Laurenston, who was likely to try to see Miss Cleabyrn before leaving England. This appeared feasible enough; and I was able heartily to echo the wish of my mate, to the effect that the young fellow might give his pursuers the slip.
I have said that my signals and crossing were on a branch, of no great traffic; so, when the last down passengers’ and first night goods’ trains had passed—they followed each other pretty closely—there was nothing stirring for several hours. Traffic through the gates at the level crossing after dark, there was little or none, so my berth was dull and lonely enough. I did not much mind this, for I was fond of reading, and on this night—a stormy one it was—I was reading a terrible ghost story. I laugh at such things now, but I know right well that they made me ‘creep’ then. I daresay every one knows the sensation, and has felt it over ghost stories. I was in the midst of the most terrible part, when I heard a slight noise, and lifting up my eyes, saw at my little window, quite close to me, that which startled me more than any ghostly appearance ever will. I thought it was a ghost. The glare of my lamp fell upon the panes, and I recognised the large deep eyes which had so often thrilled me. I saw, and knew to a certainty that Beatrice Cleabyrn was looking at me. She knew by my electric start that she was recognised. The face vanished from my window, and as I sprang from my seat, there was a tap at my door. I threw it open. The furious blast of wind which entered almost blew out my lamp, and I felt the driving rain even as I stood within the hut. It was Miss Cleabyrn, and she at once stepped over my threshold. She had on a large cloak, the cape of which was turned up so as to form a hood, and this was dripping with wet; great drops of rain were on her face too. I pushed my stool, the only seat in my hut, towards her, and strove to ask what had brought her to such a spot on such a night; but I could get out no intelligible words. She had closed the door after her, and in her very manner of doing so, there was something which suggested fear and danger, so that I caught my breath in sympathetic alarm.
‘You are Philip Waltress, are you not?’ she said.
I had never heard her speak before, and either I was still under the influence of my old enchantment, or she really had the most melodious, most thrilling voice in the world; assuredly I thought so. Of course I replied in the affirmative.
‘We—I have heard you spoken of,’ she continued; ‘and always favourably. I am sure you may be trusted; I am sure you will be faithful.’
‘If I can serve you in any manner, Miss Cleabyrn,’ I managed to say, ‘I will be faithful to any promise I may give—faithful to death.’ This was a rather strong speech, but I could not help it. As I made it, I felt that she knew right well, without being led by any report or mention of me—even if she had heard anything of the sort—why I might be trusted.