CHAPTER XIII.
FOILED.
A fortunate chance seemed about to do for Preston, that which he had been deliberating about, and hesitating whether or no he should have it done. John Vale, having crossed the line of the enemy in disguise, was, according to the laws of war, a spy; and spies, when captured, are always hung. So reasoned Captain Reginald, and his satisfaction was intense. The family which stood between him and a competency would now disappear, sure enough.
The night had worn far on when Reginald, tossing aside the papers on which he had been engaged, for the moment resigned himself to his thoughts. “Let me see,” he discoursed to himself; “I must get a glimpse of my little beauty to-night, and see whether or no she will be reasonable. I must keep my temper, though, for it was a shame the way I went off into a passion the last time I saw her. One such exhibition will do more damage than a week’s bowing and kisses, and soft whispers, can well repair. I wish my arm was full strong again, for I am more than half afraid to enter single armed into a contest with a mad woman, armed with a heavy water-pitcher! Heavens! What a picture she made! I think I see her now, with her eyes flashing, and her arm thrown back, and I—ha! ha!—well! I adopted as a motto the old proverb that ‘discretion is the better part of valor,’ and let her alone. Here goes, then, for another visit to my rebel beauty. The hour is so late I wonder if she will be awaiting my coming?” Throwing on his cloak, he issued from his door and trod along the streets which led to Fagan’s cottage.
The night could scarce have been better suited to Hunt and his friends. Without raining, the heavy clouds lay in dense banks over the heavens, and it was but occasionally that a star could be seen to twinkle. The heavens were indeed propitious; and the lonely, unfrequented streets were unusually dreary and deserted.
As, however, Preston turned a corner, he thought he heard footsteps coming up the street which he had just passed. Peering anxiously behind he could just make out the figures of two men. They seemed to be conversing in whispers, for they leaned closely together. Preston could not hear what they said, and was glad to see them keep on their way up the street without interfering with him.
Waiting until the noise of their footsteps had fully died away, Reginald again pursued his lonely journey, nor stopped until he reached its end. Entering the cottage by means of a key which he carried with him, he closed the door carefully and relocked it; then mounted the stairs.
Soon the sounds of another’s footsteps were heard approaching the house and Nat Ernshaw, guided by a son of Simon Hunt’s, appeared by the door. Dismissing the boy, Nat looked around him as well as he could by the extremely faint light. “The window by the sycamore-tree which stands by the porch in front of the house. Then, if my eyes are not deceived, this must be it, and now for Kate.” So saying, Nat began the ascent of the tree.
All this Preston did not see, or even think of, for he had made his way to the room in which was confined her whom he sought. A light was burning in the room—it never was suffered to go out; and Kate had been sleeping, but on hearing the noise made by the bolt, she started from the bed, all dressed as she was, and cast a frightened glance toward the door. A sudden arousing from sleep makes cowards even of brave men. What wonder, then, that Kate, a poor weak, defenseless girl, was startled from her presence of mind? Standing erect, without a purpose, speechless and pale, she awaited the pleasure of him who, at this unseemly hour, broke in upon her slumbers.
“I have come once more on a friendly visit, my own Kate, and though, at an unusual hour, yet as a friend. I know you will receive me kindly even though I intrench upon your time for slumber. Have you entirely recovered from the sudden fit of illness which came upon you when I was last here?”
The cloven hoof will show itself, be it ever so nicely concealed; and the purpose of Reginald Preston could not be concealed even by his bland tones. Preston continued: