We had left Tom the stable-boy with the trap by the roadside, and I had privately resolved not to let my cousin penetrate farther into the ravine than I could help; but she was so charmed with its wealth of rare ferns, that she skipped from one point to another with an amount of dexterity and nimbleness I had never before given her credit for.
‘I do think we might collect quite a hamperful, Helen!’ she said, kneeling down as she spoke to dig up a root most energetically.
‘We had better come another day, then,’ I responded. ‘I don’t want to be late of getting back, so, if you don’t mind just taking a few specimens—when Jack is with us, we can come again.’
‘Now or never!’ gaily rejoined my cousin, little imagining how soon her own words were to be applicable to ourselves. She pounced joyfully upon her ferns, and had collected quite a small heap, when I suggested that we had better tell Tom to tie the pony to a gate, and come up to carry them down for her.
‘O no!’ said Cousin Susan. ‘I will carry them myself. Do help me here just a minute, Helen.’
By this time we were some distance up the ravine; the walk was narrow and winding; we had gone farther than even I had intended. I bent down to give her the assistance she wanted in raising up some lovely lichen from the trunk of a dead tree. As I did so, my eyes wandered some distance from where we were standing towards a fallen tree. I fancied—perhaps it was only fancy—I knew I was in a very nervous state, and apt to imagine, but I fancied I saw a movement just beyond the tree—it was within twenty paces of us. I felt my face grow icy cold; my veins seemed chilling; for a moment I feared I was going to faint. Death must be something like what I felt on that sunny day in August when I stood in the Devonshire ravine with my unconscious cousin. I looked again. There it was more distinctly visible than ever—a line of drab-coloured clothing, and presently a side-view of the most villainous-looking countenance it was ever my fortune to behold. If I could, without alarming her, get my cousin to retrace her steps about ten yards, we should have turned a corner, and then I could tell her enough to hurry her onwards. I knew she was nervous—more so, perhaps, than myself; but I knew we were in imminent peril while in such close proximity to this desperate and, from his very escape, doubly desperate man.
‘Susan,’ I said—my voice seemed so hard and dry and strange!—‘you have passed all the best ferns here.’
‘O no; I haven’t,’ said Susan joyously, approaching two steps nearer the crouching convict.
‘Am I to throw these away?’ I continued, holding out one of her best specimens, and, as carelessly and indifferently as I could, moving one, two, three steps nearer the corner.
‘No; of course not,’ she exclaimed, hurrying towards me now. ‘Why, Helen, what are you thinking of?’