Short Fiction · Trooping with Crows (4/5) (3/3)

Then he struck a cigar-match, and by its light Lettice’s weary eyes managed to make out the following words in the captain’s bold hand:⁠—

“Miss Tremarten is safe and well, but thoroughly worn out.

“You’ve put two r’s together in Ardvaroch,” said Lettice, brightening up for an instant, “and there’s only one. Oh, and please tell them to send for me the first thing in the morning. Oh dear me,” she added, with another sigh, “I shall soon get back to dear papa now.”

The captain returned to the window and recommenced writing. “The first thing in the morning,” he repeated, as though he were writing the words; then he turned again to Lettice. “Miss Tremarten,” he said kindly, “the next room to this will be unoccupied, for the good woman of the house will be in and out attending to Lilla all night; will you like to lie down there? We’ll call you directly your people come in the morning. Stay, you must have some brandy-and-water and a biscuit or something before you lie down.” He hastily mixed some in his flask and handed it to her.

Lettice rose wearily. “I am so ashamed of myself to break down like this; I will just lie down for a little while, and then I’ll come back and help nurse Lilla through the rest of the night.” She stooped over Lilla and smoothed her hair, kissing her affectionately, then Captain Ivie held back the door of the little room for her to pass out, and opening another which joined it on the dark narrow landing, with many apologies introduced Lettice to her room.

“It’s such horrible accommodation, Miss Tremarten; not even a light to be found in the house. I suppose these good people are always in bed by sunset.” He bent, reverently almost, over her little hand, which he retained for a minute in his own, looking up in her face with a gaze so intense that Lettice thrilled and trembled under it, and could scarcely command her voice to bid him “Good night” as she shut the door of the room.

What was it made her draw the bolt which she felt under the handle of the door, and then try the door itself to see that it really was properly secured? What strange feeling of distrust or dread was it that made her take a close survey of the tiny ill-furnished room to see if there were any cupboards or hiding-places in it? and why was it that when she threw herself on the low hard bed which stood under a narrow high window, instead of falling, as she had anticipated, at once into a heavy dreamless sleep, her heart beat so fast, and her breath came and went so quickly, that rest was impossible?

“It’s so hot and close,” she murmured to herself; “and I’m sure if I had a light I should see it is all frightfully dirty. Oh dear! what a funny day this has been!”

Then she stood up on the bed and tried if the window would open wider; it was a narrow casement, and the people of the house had evidently never felt the need of fresh air, for one half of the window remained from disuse so firmly fixed that it resisted all her efforts to open it, so she gave up the attempt, and was about to throw herself once more on the little hard bed when Captain Ivie’s voice, speaking softly to the woman of the house in the paved yard under the window, fell upon her ear.

“As the inn is so near, my good woman, I should much prefer your sleeping there. You see it’s of the first importance to my sister that the house should be perfectly quiet; she’s a little sick and faint, that’s all, with overriding, and a good night’s rest will set her up again all right. Your husband has gone over to the inn already with the horses, and tell him, please, to bring them round the first thing in the morning at sunrise. Good night; I won’t forget to pay you well for turning you out of your house in this unceremonious way. Oh, stay⁠—bring me a candle.” Then he came in.

What was this? Lettice’s brain was in a feverish whirl, and her heart beat violently. What was this maze of lies and contradictions?⁠—the woman sent out of the house to sleep, Lilla “only a little sick and feverish,” the man despatched, not to Lochiel, but to the little inn, and, after all, a candle in the house; were they deceiving her⁠—playing off some trick on her for a purpose of their own? Her breath came and went rapidly, and she trembled from head to foot as now she could hear Captain Ivie’s step mounting the narrow stairs.

He paused for a moment outside her door, as though he were listening for her movements, then he went on to his sister’s room, and Lettice heard the door close after him.

And suddenly, to her amazement, a streak of light, narrow and faint at first, but afterwards wider and brighter, showed on the partition which separated her room from Lilla’s, and, groping softly her way towards it, she found it came through a division in the skirting-board from the wall, and through this crack also came to her the sound of voices⁠—Lilla’s and Captain Ivie’s.

“I tell you, Ivie,” the former was saying in low but positive tones⁠—“I tell you I know perfectly well what to do without any advice from you. Haven’t I arranged the whole thing from beginning to end, and isn’t it all owing to me that you’ve got on so well so far?”

“Yes, Lilla, quite true,” replied the captain in the same guarded tones, “you’ve made me a bigger villain than I ever thought it was in me to be.”

“Don’t be a fool,” interrupted Lilla. “Wait till you’ve got the girl and thirty thousand a year, and then⁠—”

“Ah, then,” said Ivie with a sneer, “I suppose you think you’ll have the earl and thirty thousand a year.”

“Why, Ivie, you’re getting quite clever,” said Lilla tauntingly; “you’ll be able to manage your own affairs soon. But, instead of standing here quarrelling, you had far better be practising how to make love to the young lady in the morning, for after I’ve gone, everything will rest on your own shoulders. Hark!” she broke off suddenly, “what noise was that? Can the girl be awake and moving about?”

What noise was that? Only a sob from poor Lettice, who, brokenhearted on the other side of the partition, listened to the revelation of her friends’ treachery. Ivie and his sister listened intently for a few seconds, and Lettice held in her breath and her sobs with a strong hand, for now she was determined to know the worst.

“It was your fancy,” said Ivie. “She is so thoroughly worn out, and the dose of brandy I gave her was so strong, she’ll sleep no doubt till the morning.”

“Very well, then, Ivie, for the last time let me tell you my plan, and see if you understand it all thoroughly. Now I shall leave here as soon as that man brings a horse round, go on to Auchterarder and take train to Perth, where I shall stay at the Loders’, at Ingleside. They think I am there at the present moment. No one imagines me here with you. Our little device as to Ingleside will make them lose a great deal of time, more especially as Ellis won’t give any message at all until he sees she’s missed. Then he’ll send up word by someone that Captain Ivie drove her to Ingleside, that she’s there at the present moment, and then he’ll make off as fast as he can. I can fancy the consternation there will be among the two old ladies and their old maid. Miss Judy will go into hysterics, and Aunt Rosamond will try to keep her quiet and hush up matters from Lord Lochiel and the other people in the house till they’ve sent to Ingleside to fetch the young lady. Then, when they come back without her, the old aunts won’t believe she isn’t there, and then they’ll go themselves and cross-question our people, who won’t know anything at all, and there’ll be a lot of time lost and it’ll be nearly ten o’clock at night, and too late to do anything till the morning, which gives the game into your hands, Ivie,” she finished, with a triumphant ring in her voice.

“I’m not so sure of that,” muttered Ivie, with no triumphant ring in his voice.

“Then you ought to be, with everything made straight and plain before you. What! do you mean to tell me that your powers of persuasion are so small that you really can’t talk a girl over when she is already halfway in love with you? Oh, if I had your part to play I’d do it to perfection. Swear to her you’re dying for her and all that sort of thing, tell her you’ve done it all⁠—plotted, lied, sinned⁠—all for her sweet sake, and are ready to do it over and over again to win her, etc., etc., etc., and so on ad infinitum, making the best possible use of your handsome eyes all the time. Frighten her with the terrible anger of her father and relatives, scare her with the thought of the censure society will fling upon her and the way in which she will be talked about if the whole caravanserai from Lochiel Castle come down and find her with you. Meantime have the horses brought round and hurry matters on; tell her you can hear the crack of the Lochiel riding-whips and Aunt Judy’s hysterics; and if in the end you don’t carry her off triumphantly in your chariot, why⁠—”

“Why what?” growled Ivie.

“Why you deserve to lose her. What does it matter even if they overtake you and bring her back, the girl will be fairly compromised, and that they’ll have the sense to see, and they’ll know perfectly well that if you don’t marry her no one else will. You can make your own terms on the matter. As I told you, the game is in your hands entirely now.”

“Lilla,” said her brother, as he opened the door to go downstairs, “I believe you are the fiend himself incarnate!”

“Thanks,” said Lilla indifferently, “your sister. Good night.”

For a few minutes Lettice lay like one stunned on the floor by the side of the partition. Her brain refused at first to take in the whole blackness and treachery of the plot which had been weaved against her, her blinding, choking tears ceased, and she felt almost as though her whole being had been turned into stone. Little by little, however, the truth began to creep into her mind that there she was with these two, literally in prison till the morning, and the morning light which brought her friends to the rescue would bring also upon her the scorn and censure of the world.

“Oh, papa! papa!” she moaned in her heart, “if you could only see your little girl now! And Dr. Herron I know would kill Captain Ivie if he could get at him.”

The thought of these two so far away brought back a little strength and hope to her heart. Was there really no way of escape from the perils which beset her? Should she make an appeal to Ivie⁠—throw herself on his honour? Ah no! what could he do? He would, no doubt, pretend to aid her escape and rejoice to show himself anywhere and everywhere in her company only to draw her more closely into his toils. And Lilla? Could she trust one who had already bitterly deceived her? She clasped her hands together⁠—“My God! is there no way of escape?” She dared not move, scarce breathe, for fear of betraying herself, but, sitting there on the floor, she felt almost as though her reason were leaving her, so terrible was the strain of anguish she endured.

Presently the sounds of heavy breathing came to her from the next room, and she could tell that Lilla was asleep, still she dared not move, for she could hear Ivie walking slowly backwards and forwards in the room beneath her own. “Would he really play the gaoler thus right on till morning?” thought Lettice. She had not noticed the house sufficiently on entering to tell its exact geography, but she felt sure there was but one staircase to it, which ran straight down into the little sitting-room where Ivie was, and one back and one front door both opening out of the same apartment.

O the suspense, the terribleness of those minutes Lettice passed, crouched on the bare boards listening to Ivie’s regular soldier-like tread beneath! With each creak of his footsteps her heart seemed to bound and then stand still. Would they never cease⁠—would they never cease, or would the day dawn and find her still kneeling there hopeless and helpless?

But at length they did cease, and, thank Heaven! Lettice could hear Ivie pull off his boots, then there came the creak of an old wooden bedstead as though he had thrown himself heavily upon it, and then all was still.

Yet she dared not move; she crouched lower and lower to the floor till her ear almost touched the boards, and after a few seconds of anxious terror and suspense she could hear that he too, like his sister, slept.

With limbs stiffened and cold, with her brain scorching and burning, she rose from the floor, and then almost staggered and fell. What time had she before her? Ah, perhaps only an hour at most, for Captain Ivie might rouse at any moment, possibly would, to make sure his prey had not escaped him. Something shining on the rickety old table caught her eye⁠—the glass of brandy-and-water Ivie had mixed for her. Very thankfully she took a long draught of it, and felt some little strength and energy come back to her; then very softly, very slowly, she crept on to her bed once more, and leaning out of the window took a survey of the yard beneath.

A fresh wind was rising now, and an old fir-tree on the other side of the wall was beginning to creak and toss its arms, a few light clouds were flying across the somewhat pale watery moon, and a sound of rush and tumble in the distance told her there must be some falling water near.

And as her eyes became accustomed to the half-gloom of the autumn night she could trace the outline of some low-built outhouse close under her casement. Was it three feet below⁠—was it six feet? She could not tell⁠—her sight and brain were alike bewildered; all she felt and knew was she must reach it somehow, and then take her chance of whatever means of escape offered themselves. An old curtain hung by the window; could she trust it? Ah no! its supports were, no doubt, rotten like the rest of the house, and would come down with a crash and betray her. There was only one way, and she mounted on the narrow ledge, crept on hands and knees through the half-opened casement, and then, holding her breath and feeling her life in her hands, dropped noiselessly on to the roof beneath.

She paused for an instant to collect her courage. Not safe yet⁠—oh no! but outside the prison-bars at any rate⁠—and looking down with thankfulness she saw that the outhouse sloped gradually to the low stone wall which separated the courtyard from the road. Another light spring and she has gained the wall⁠—yet one more and Lettice stands free in the desolate Scotch road.

Not another house in sight, not a signpost or stone even to tell whither the road ran, or roads rather, for branching right and left of the cottage were two other roads leading⁠—whither?

Which way should she take? Which way had she travelled that very afternoon, which seemed now such long ages ago, so much had she lived through as she listened and lay on the floor? The fresh soft wind fanned her cheek, her brown hair had fallen down as she made her last spring and now hung low to her waist, her pretty archery dress showed oddly in the weak changing moonlight, and her silver belt gleamed and sparkled. Lettice knelt down on the wide flinty road. “O God!” she said, “I’m all alone and don’t know which way to turn; please show me.”

A little bird started out of a stunted hawthorn by the roadside and flew straight in front of her. Lettice hailed it as an omen. With a joyful cry she sprang forward to follow it. “Ah,” she said to herself, “I’m sure it came in answer to my prayer; that must be the way to Rosneath.”

Poor child! She did not know her little feet were swiftly and surely bearing her in an exactly opposite direction.