"My dear Hilary,--Fate has placed us on opposite sides, and though she
has now thrown us together, I am compelled to hold aloof until you can
say to me, `Here is my parole of honour not to betray you or to
escape!' or `I see that I am on the side of a usurper, and abjure his
service. From henceforth I am heart and soul with you.' When you can
send me either of those messages, Hilary, Adela and I are ready to
receive you with open arms. Till then we must be estranged; but all
the same, my dear boy, accept my gratitude and love for your bravery
in saving our lives.--Affectionately yours, Henry Norland."
"Then we shall have to remain estranged," said Hilary as he stood by the
open window refolding the letter and thinking of his position.
"Hil! Hil!" came from below.
"Ahoy!" he answered. "Well, little lady?" and he leaned out.
"Isn't it a beautiful morning, Hil," said Adela, looking up. "Lovely."
"Why don't you come down and have a run with me in the woods?"
"For one reason, because I am locked up," said Hilary. "For another,
because I have not made my hands and face acquainted with soap and water
since I was aboard the cutter; my hair is full of bits of straw and dead
leaves, and my clothes are soaked and shrunken, and muddied and torn.
Altogether, I am not fit to be seen."
"Well, but Hil, dear, why don't you wash yourself?"
"Because your esteemed friends here do not allow me soap, water, and
towel. I say, Addy, if I lower down a piece of string, will you send me
a jug of water?"
"Same as I did the milk? Oh, of course!" said the girl laughing.
"All right," said Hilary; "get it, please."
He took out his knife, and without hesitation nicked and tore off the
hem of one of his sheets, knotted two lengths together, lowered them
down, and in turn drew up wash-hand jug, soap, brush and comb, and
afterwards a basin, by having it tied up in a towel, and attaching the
string to the knots.
Adela seemed to enjoy it all as fun, but she turned serious directly
after as she told her old companion how grateful she felt to him for his
bravery on the previous day, remarks which made Hilary feel
uncomfortable and go away from the window with the excuse that he wanted
to attend to his toilet.
For the next quarter of an hour Hilary was revelling in a good wash,
with all the enjoyment of one who has been shut off from the use of soap
and towel, with the result that after he had finished off with a brush,
he felt more himself, and ready to stare his position more comfortably
in the face.
He went to the window in spite of his resolutions not to be tempted, and
looked down; but Adela had gone, so he had a good look round at the
country.
Here he was facing due south, and before him, stretched in the bright
sunshine, wave after wave as it were of hilly land, pretty well clothed
with forest-trees. In the far distance there was a range of hills with
a church and a windmill, both of which he recognised as having seen from
the other side when upon the deck of the cutter, and this gave him a
good idea of where he was, and how to shape his course when he made his
escape.
That word set him thinking, and without more ado he proceeded to cut up
the sheets, knot together some of the strips, and then to lay them up,
sailor fashion, into a serviceable linen rope, for the sheets were
coarse and strong.
This he did with his ears attent to the coming of footsteps, and a place
ready in the bed to throw his work and cover it over should Allstone or
Sir Henry be at hand. But he need not have troubled, for he completed
about forty feet of good strong line from the pair of sheets, and coiled
it up after securing the ends ready for use.
His escape now was simplicity itself he thought, and his toil ended and
the shreds carefully swept up and blown from the window, he seated
himself upon the sill, and enjoyed the warmth of the afternoon sunshine,
planning out how he would slip down after securing one end of his cord
to the window-frame.
Sir Henry would, he felt sure, provide for the safety of Adela and
himself as soon as he found that the prisoner had escaped, for he felt
that he could not bring peril upon them. There was no cause for fear,
though, and he sat thinking of how grand it would be if he could escape
the moment it was dark and get down to the shore and find the _Kestrel_.
That seemed hopeless, though, and too much to expect; for it was not
likely that the cutter would be still cruising about and waiting for
him. If she was, though, he knew how he could bring a boat's crew
well-armed ashore, and that was by making a signal with a light in a
particular way.
The sun was getting lower, and everything round the old place was still,
nothing but a couple of fowls that were pecking about in what had once
been a large garden between the old house and the moat, being visible.
It had once been a goodly residence, no doubt, but all now was ruin and
desolation, except that the warm sunshine made even the neglect and
weeds look picturesque. There were massive gables to right and left,
and the old tiles were orange and grey with a thick coating of lichen.
Just between his window and that of Adela there were the mouldering
remains of a carved shield, with surmounting helmet and crest, and a
decayed motto below, while to right and left the ivy had covered the
front with its dark-green glossy leaves, among which the cable-like
runners could be seen.
Anywhere, almost, along the front of the venerable place he could have
climbed down by the help of the ivy; in his neighbourhood, however, it
had been cleared away.
He wondered sometimes how it was that he had heard no more of Adela, and
that everything about the place should be so still, and concluded that
Sir Henry had forbidden her to hold counsel with him, and in this belief
he sat on waiting until the sun went down in a flood of orange glory.
Just then he heard Allstone's heavy step upon the stairs, and coming
away from the window Hilary threw himself upon his bed over the hidden
rope.
But he need not have feared that it would be seen, for Allstone simply
placed some food upon the table and went away directly after, locking
the door.
The repast though rough and plain was substantial, and very welcome.
Hilary felt somewhat agitated at the attempt he was about to make; but
he knew that he needed fortifying with food, and he ate heartily,
placing the remains of his meal in his pockets as a reserve for
by-and-by.
As the sun went down the moon began to make its presence known; but it
was early in its first quarter, and in the course of a couple of hours
it too had set, leaving the sky to the stars, which twinkled brightly,
doing little, though, to dispel the darkness.
In fact, by about nine, as he guessed it to be, the night was as
suitable as possible for such an enterprise as his, and after listening
to some distant sounds of talking in the back of the house, Hilary
proceeded with beating heart to take out and unroll his light coil of
rope.
By means of a little management he took one of the leaded panes from the
bottom of the casement so as to allow the rope to be securely tied round
the stout oak centrepiece of the window, and then, after watching
attentively for a few minutes, he lowered down the other end until the
full extent was reached, and as nearly as he could judge it touched the
ground.
Even if it did not, there was nothing to fear, for at the utmost he
would have had but a few feet to drop, and after a few moments'
hesitancy he passed one leg out of the window, took a good grip of the
rope, climbed right out, twisted his legs round in turn, and directly
after, while swinging gently, he let himself down foot by foot.
It was nothing to him. His sailor life made a descent by a rope one of
the merest trifles.
Down lower and lower, past Adela's window, and then coming into sight of
a broad casement where a light was burning.
The upper floors of the old building projected beyond the lower, so that
he had not been aware of this lighted room, and as he hung there turning
slowly round and round he could plainly see Sir Henry in a
comfortably-furnished place, seated at a table writing, while Adela was
gazing up into his face as she sat upon a low stool at his feet.
For a few moments Hilary hung there motionless, feeling that if Sir
Henry raised his eyes, as he was sure to do at the slightest sound, he
could not help seeing him gently spinning round and round.
Recovering himself though, directly, he let himself slide, and reached
the ground, but made so much noise that he heard Sir Henry speak, and he
had hardly time to dart aside, drawing with him the white rope, and
crouch down close to the house, before the window was opened, and he
knew that some one was looking out.
"No, papa," said a well-known voice, "I can see nothing."
"Look again," said Sir Henry. "Stop; I'll come."
There was the noise of a moving chair, and then Hilary felt that Sir
Henry was looking out of the window, and wondered whether he was seen.
He hardly dared to breathe, and it seemed like an hour before he heard a
sigh, and Sir Henry said, softly--
"What a lovely night, my child!"
Then there was the sound of the casement being closed, steps faintly
heard across the room, and, gliding from his place of concealment,
Hilary made for the bridge, crossed it, and then darted amongst the
bushes beside the narrow lane, for there was a buzz of voices behind
him, and from the other side of the house he could see the light of a
lantern, and then came the tramp of a horse and the sound of wheels.