THE FLIGHT.
“Fly, lady, fly before the wind!
The moor is wild and waste,
The hound of blood is close behind,
Haste! gentle lady, haste!”
After closing the sliding panel behind him, and carefully adjusting it
in its place, Malcolm took the hand of his companion to guide her down
the narrow, steep and dangerous steps that led to the secret passage.
This caution was the more needful, as it was so dark that only Malcolm’s
previous knowledge of the passage enabled him to feel his own way and
guide his companion through it.
Something like an hundred perpendicular steps brought them down to a low
and narrow archway, not unlike the entrance to a rudely constructed
tunnel.
Although it was still quite dark, and Malcolm, drawing his companion
after him, was obliged to grope his way along this tunnel, yet
occasional sharp drafts of wind proved that there existed certain
irregular crevices in the rocks overhead that in the daytime admitted a
little light as well as air, although their winding or crooked formation
might prevent any one on the ground above seeing or suspecting the
existence of the subterranean passage beneath their feet. As this tunnel
took nearly a straight line to the old nunnery, a walk of about ten
minutes brought Malcolm and Eudora to the other terminus that admitted
them to the lower cellars under the ruins.
When they had emerged from the tunnel into these cellars, Malcolm paused
and carefully collected bricks, stones, and other fallen portions of the
building, with which he choked up and concealed the narrow opening.
Then taking the hand of Eudora, he led her from the cellars up into the
outer air.
Here, in the ruined chapel, they found the pony-chaise fastened to a
young oak-tree that grew within what had once been the grand altar of
the chapel of the convent.
He led the horse out to the road, and then returned and conducted Eudora
to the chaise, placed her in it, took the seat by her side, and drove
rapidly off. A drive of ten minutes brought them to a rural railway
station.
Up to this time no word had been spoken between them, so intense had
been the anxiety of both. But now, when he had alighted and fastened his
horse to a tree, and came to the chaise to hand her out, he whispered:
“Draw down your veil, Eudora, and keep it down.”
She silently obeyed, and he handed her out and led her into the office
of the station.
“Two first-class tickets to London,” he said to the clerk behind the
little office-windows.
They were supplied to him.
“When does the London train pass here?” he next inquired.
“In half an hour, sir.”
“That will do,” replied Mr. Montrose. Then, drawing the arm of Eudora
within his own, he conducted her to the waiting-room.
It was empty.
“Remain here, dearest Eudora, until I return. I shall be back in twenty
minutes. It is not likely that any one will come in here during my
absence, as very few first-class lady passengers take the train at this
station at this hour; nevertheless, keep your veil down,” said Malcolm,
as he placed her in a chair in a dark corner of the room. He then
pressed her hand, left her, and hurried out to the place where he had
left the pony-chaise.
He unhitched the horse, mounted the driver’s seat, and drove madly off
towards Allworth. So fiercely he drove that in ten minutes he reached
the stables, and returned the horse bathed in sweat and covered with
foam to his stall. He replaced the chaise in the carriage-house, and
then set off in a run toward the railway station. He could not run quite
so fast as a horse could gallop, and so the distance accomplished by the
pony in ten minutes occupied him fifteen.
It wanted, therefore, but about five minutes to the passing of the train
when he rejoined Eudora in the waiting-room.
Besides Eudora, he found two gentlemen and one lady in the same room.
They seemed, also, to belong to the same party, for they walked and
talked together; and the subject of their conversation was that which
then formed the topic of the whole neighborhood, and which was destined
soon to form the topic of the whole kingdom—the tragedy of Allworth
Abbey!
“They say,” observed the lady, “that it is incontrovertibly proved that
this Asiatic girl, Eudora Leaton, was the poisoner, and that her motive
was the inheritance of the estate. One can scarcely believe in such
depravity in one so young as this girl is represented to be.”
“Crime is of no age or sex, madam; and from all that we can hear, it
seems abundantly proved that this young girl actually _did_ poison the
whole family,” replied the old gentleman addressed, whom Malcolm now,
with extreme anxiety, recognized as a neighbor, Admiral Brunton, of the
Anchorage, near Abbeytown.
“Good Heaven, what a fiend she must be! But she is young, beautiful,
high-born, and very accomplished. Do you think that if she is convicted
they will really hang her?”
“Hang her? Yes; the young demon! They will hang her as surely as they
did Palmer. English juries have no mercy on the secret poisoner. And the
fact of this one being a young, beautiful, and high-born girl, only
makes her crime the more unnatural and monstrous!”
“But, admiral, it is hard to believe that so lovely a creature could be
such a monster,” said the lady.
“Bah! bah! madam; you have not read history, or you have forgotten it.
Remember the Countess of Essex, Madame Brinvilliers, Lucretia Borgia,
Mary Stuart, and many other young, beautiful, and high-born devils.
Human nature is the same in all ages and countries. The youth, beauty,
and high-birth of this young Asiatic fiend will no more save her from
the gallows than the same sort of charms saved Brinvilliers or Mary
Stuart from the block!” replied the old gentleman, savagely.
Shudder after shudder passed over the frame of the unfortunate subject
of these severe remarks, as she sat an unsuspected hearer of the
conversation.
Malcolm, standing by her side, with his back to the speakers, could only
seek to sustain her courage by an earnest pressure of her hand. It was
but an ordeal of five minutes, and then the shrill whistle of the
advancing train warned all the passengers to hurry to the platform.
The conversing party dropped their interesting subject, and hastened
away.
Malcolm, drawing Eudora’s arm within his own, hurried after them.
When they arrived upon the platform the train had stopped, and the
engine was noisily puffing and blowing like a short-winded alderman out
of breath after a run.
Passengers were hurrying into the various carriages.
“Can we have a _coupé_?” inquired Malcolm, slipping a crown into the
hands of one of the guards.
“Oh, yes, sir,” answered that functionary, opening a door and admitting
the fugitives into the desired privacy.
“Sweethearts!” he muttered to himself, as he locked the door and
pocketed the crown.
The train started, and Malcolm and Eudora, finding themselves alone in
the _coupé_, looked in each other’s faces wistfully.
“Oh, Malcolm,” said Eudora, “how terrible it is to be so wronged and
hated, and by one’s old family friends, too! Did you hear old Admiral
Brunton, how he spoke of me? Ah! little did he think how near at hand I
was to hear him.”
“Yes, dear Eudora, I heard him. His remarks were valuable, only to show
how right you are to fly until this storm shall pass,” replied the young
man.
“But to be wronged and hated so, Malcolm, and by my uncle’s old friends!
Oh! it is very, very cruel!”
“You must bear up under it bravely, dear love. The time will come when
your innocence will be proved, and then those very friends who wrong you
by their suspicions now will bitterly repent their injustice, and will
love and esteem you more than ever before,” answered the young man,
encouragingly.
The train rattled on. It was the express, and stopped at no other
station between Abbeytown and London, where it was expected to arrive at
five o’clock in the morning.
Malcolm and Eudora sank back in their seats, and fell into silence.
Eudora relapsed into despair, and Malcolm sank into thought. He had
taken her from confinement and immediate danger, but not perhaps from
quick pursuit and rearrest. In the plan of her instant deliverance his
decision and his action had necessarily been so prompt and rapid, that
no time had been left him to determine upon any fixed place of refuge
for the fugitive. His only general idea had been to fly with her, and
conceal her in the multitudinous wilderness of London, until he could
arrange her escape to the Continent. He wished above all things to make
her his own by marriage as soon as they should reach the city; but he
knew that to do so would expose her to certain discovery. He felt
therefore obliged to defer this purpose until he could escape with her
to the Continent.
To attempt to take her from England immediately he knew would be to
expose her to the certainty of arrest. For, according to the usual
practice, as soon as her escape should be discovered, which it must
inevitably be in a few hours, telegrams he knew would be despatched to
the police or every seaport to anticipate her arrival and to intercept
her passage.
To hide her, therefore, in the crowds of London until the first heat of
the pursuit should be over, then to escape with her to some foreign
country, and there unite his fate with hers for good or ill forever—and
then wait patiently until Providence should bring the truth to light, by
discovering the guilty and vindicating her innocence—seemed the only
plan that promised any success.
“But where in London should he leave her?” It must be in a part of the
town far distant from the terminus of the Great Northern Railway; it
must be in a thickly-populated neighborhood, where the presence even of
a remarkable stranger should not attract the slightest notice; it must
be in lodgings over some small busy shop, where the people should be too
much occupied with their own concerns to pry into those of others.
After much close thought, Malcolm fixed upon the Borough as the
neighborhood of their destination. Lodgings of the description he wished
to find for Eudora were not scarce in that locality.
Having settled this point to his satisfaction, the next thing to be
considered was under what name and character, and with what pretext, he
should leave her in her destined lodgings. To introduce her by her real
name would be certain destruction, since, before another twenty-four
hours, that name—connected with a horrible crime—would be widely blown
over England. To pass her under an assumed name, though the extreme
exigency of the circumstances might almost seem to justify the
deception, was an idea abhorrent to his truthful, honorable and
high-toned nature. The longer he thought of this difficulty the more
insurmountable it seemed. Occupied with this problem, which any one of
less delicate scruples would have quickly solved, Malcolm did not once
speak again to his companion, even to attempt to rouse her from the fit
of despondency into which she had again fallen.
Meantime the train flew over the sterile heaths of Yorkshire, and in due
time entered the more cultivated country nearer the great metropolis.
At last, rousing himself desperately, he said to his companion:
“Eudora, dearest, have you any middle name?”
“Yes; I was christened Eudora Milnes; but I never use my middle name,
and, indeed, never did; it is quite a dead letter,” replied the girl, in
surprise at the question.
“So much the better. I cannot endure the idea of your passing under a
fictitious name, and yet you must not be known as Eudora Leaton. I shall
therefore call you Miss Milnes; do not forget it. And if your other name
is marked upon any of your clothing, do not fail to cut it out, lest it
should meet the eye of your laundress. As you bring no clothing with
you, you will have to procure a small supply from some outfitter, and be
sure to order them marked ‘E. Milnes.’ They will think ‘E’ stands for
Emily, or Eliza, or some such common name. Dear girl, I trust these
precautions will not long be needful,” said Malcolm, endeavoring to
infuse into her heart a hope that he himself was far from feeling.
The train flew onward, and soon the lights of London were seen to the
southward before them.
Day was dawning when the train arrived at the King’s-cross station.
“Now, my dearest Eudora, you must trust yourself entirely to me,
believing that I will do all that is best for your safety,” said
Malcolm, as the train stopped.
“I am sure that you will, my best and only friend; besides, who in the
world have I now to trust in but yourself?” said Eudora, in deep
emotion.
“You shall never regret the confidence you place in me, Eudora,” replied
Malcolm, earnestly.
At this moment the guard opened the door. He was the same man who had
put them into the _coupé_ at the Abbeytown Station; and in grateful
remembrance of the crown-piece given him by Mr. Montrose, he now
politely inquired if the gentleman wanted a cab, and offered to call
one.
Malcolm perceived at once that this man would be sure to remember
himself and his black-veiled companion, and would be able to describe
her appearance if inquiries should be made of him, as they were nearly
certain to be. He felt, therefore, the necessity of throwing the man off
the scent of his own purposed course. With this design, he inquired:
“When does the next train start for Liverpool?”
“At five thirty, sir.”
“Then you may call me a cab at once,” said Mr. Montrose, handing his
companion from the _coupé_, and leading her through the station.
The cab drew up.
The officious guard held the door open until Mr. Montrose had put his
companion in and taken his seat beside her.
“Where shall I order the man to drive, sir?” asked the guard.
“To Euston-square Station, of course,” replied Mr. Montrose.
“A runaway match, as sure as shooting. They didn’t even stop to take
their luggage,” said the guard to himself, as he closed the door.
The order was given, and the carriage started.
It was a dark, foggy morning, into which broad day seemed unable to
break. The streets were at this hour half-deserted, and very dreary. The
carriage rattled noisily over the stones between closed shops and
darkened houses, and drew up before Euston-square Station.
Here the scene was much busier. A crowd of carriages of all descriptions
were continually drawing up or driving off. A multitude of people were
pouring in and out of the building, for one train had just arrived, and
another was just about to start.
Mr. Montrose alighted, handed out his companion, and paid and dismissed
the cab. And at the same moment a newly-arrived traveller stepped up,
engaged the same cab, and ordered the man to drive to “Mivart’s.”
And Mr. Montrose, glad that this possible witness to his next
proceedings was taken out of the way, led Eudora into the station. It
was very much crowded, and the space before the ticket-windows was
thronged. While Malcolm debated with himself whether he should carry his
_ruse_ so far as actually to lead Eudora up to the first-class window
and take tickets, he saw a gentleman and a young lady in deep mourning,
closely veiled, go up and get two first-class tickets to Liverpool.
“That will do,” said Malcolm to himself. “Should inquiries be pushed to
this extent, that party may pass very well for her they seek.”
Then drawing Eudora’s arm within his own, and joining the throng of
newly-arrived passengers that were passing from the station, he went
forth. Taking an opposite direction from that of the place at which they
had first been set down, he called another cab, placed Eudora in, took
his seat by her side, and ordered the man to drive to St. Paul’s
churchyard.
It was now broad daylight, and all London was waking up and throwing
open its windows. As they drove along, Mr. Montrose said to his
wondering companion:
“Now, my dearest Eudora, though you ask me no questions concerning this
strange proceeding, I must give you an explanation. I have acted thus in
order to throw your pursuers off the scent; for if that railway-guard
who attended us at Abbeytown and at the King’s-cross station, should be
examined by the police, as is most likely, though he may be able to
describe your person, dress, and appearance in such an accurate manner
as to leave no doubt upon their minds that it was yourself who came up
to London by the night train, yet, mark me, he will say that on reaching
the King’s-cross terminus you took a cab to the Euston-square Station to
catch the ‘five thirty’ down train to Liverpool. The cabman who took us
down will support his evidence, and even the clerk of the first-class
ticket-office will corroborate both testimonies by remembering a young
lady in deep mourning, who took a first-class ticket for that train to
Liverpool. Thus being thrown off the true scent by my ruse, they will
think that you have gone down to Liverpool with the purpose of escaping
by one of the outward-bound steamers, while you may repose unsuspected
and securely in London.”
“But,” said Eudora, anxiously, “since I have fled, had I not better
continue my flight? Had I not better escape at once to some foreign
country?”
“It would be impossible for you to do so at present, Eudora. I must tell
you why. In an hour or two from this time your flight will be discovered
at Allworth. In the same hour telegrams will be despatched to the police
of every seaport on the coast of England to intercept you if you should
attempt to pass. These telegrams will reach their destinations before
you could possibly arrive at any seaport, and you would be arrested
immediately upon your arrival.”
“Oh, Lord of Heaven! that I, that I should be so hunted! hunted as
though I were a wild beast!” exclaimed Eudora, shuddering with terror.
“Many a fair and good queen and princess has been so hunted before you,
dear girl! Even in recent times your own friend, the heroic Princess
Pezzilini, was obliged to fly for her life! Emulate her heroism, dear
girl,” said Malcolm, earnestly pressing her hand.
“Ah! but she was not dishonored by the charge of a foul and monstrous
crime. Her offence was a political one, and her very flight was
honorable. There is no parallel between her case and mine,” moaned the
poor girl.
“Take courage and have patience, dear Eudora, while I speak of our
future plans,” said Malcolm, affectionately pressing her hand.
“Ah, I will! I will be courageous and patient! I ought not to complain
of any affliction so long as Heaven has left me so true a friend!”
“Thank you, dear Eudora, for that tribute. Listen now, dearest; I will
take you to some safe and honorable retreat, and leave you there for the
present. When the first heat of the pursuit is over, when it will be
safe to do so, I will take you down to some one of the seaports, and
escape with you to America. There you will give me this dear hand in
marriage. There I will work for our mutual support until the course of
time and Providence shall have cleared you of this false and dreadful
charge, and paved the way for our happy return! This is my plan, Eudora!
How do you like it?”
“Oh, Heaven bless and reward you, Malcolm, who sacrifice yourself to
save the poor lost girl, whom there is none either to pity or to
succor!” exclaimed Eudora, fervently.
They had now turned into St. Paul’s churchyard, which was all alive with
the commencement of the business of the day. Malcolm kept his gaze out
of the window, as if in search of some particular place. At length, when
they had got just opposite to a ladies’ out-fitting establishment, he
stopped the cab, paid and dismissed it, and led Eudora towards the shop.
“I deem it safest, dearest, to change at every place we stop. Go in
there now, and purchase things as you may require, and have them packed
in a box, with your name, ‘Miss Milnes,’ written upon it. I will remain
outside until you have completed your business.”
Eudora entered the shop, and was promptly served with everything that
she needed.
When she appeared at the door, with a shop-girl bearing the box behind
her, Malcolm hailed an empty cab that was passing by, entered it with
Eudora and her purchases, and gave the brief order:
“To the White Swan Hotel, Borough.”
A rapid drive of twenty minutes brought them to the house.
Here Malcolm discharged the cab and entered the hotel, leading Eudora,
and followed by a porter carrying her box.
He asked to be shown into a private sitting-room, and ordered breakfast
immediately for two.
The waiter hastened to obey; and while breakfast was being prepared,
Malcolm persuaded Eudora to lay off her bonnet and shawl, and repose in
an easy-chair.
A comfortable meal of coffee, muffins, fresh eggs and ham was soon
spread, and Malcolm led his companion to the table, saying:
“Come, eat, dear Eudora; nature must be sustained, even through the
direst afflictions.”
She drank a cup of coffee, and ate an egg and a small piece of bread.
When breakfast was over, Malcolm said:
“You will stop and rest here for an hour, dearest, while I take a walk
in search of suitable lodgings for you. You will not be anxious or
frightened to be left alone?”
“I will try not to be so,” she answered.
He pressed her hand and left the parlor.
As he passed through the coffee-room on his way out, he heard the
visitors and loungers discussing the news in that morning’s _Times_.
Some topic of unusual interest seemed to occupy them. Malcolm’s heart
stood still as he caught some detached portions of their conversation.
“I recollect perfectly well when the baron died a few months ago. There
was a suspicion of his having been poisoned; and now to think of the
whole family being destroyed in that way!—and by one young girl to whom
they had been so very kind, too! What a young devil she must be!” said
one.
“Oh, she comes from India, it appears. And India is the native land of
devils, as we have good reason to know since the revolt of the Sepoys,”
said another.
“Well, it is a good thing that the unnatural young monster is in
custody. If she isn’t hung the gallows might as well be put down
altogether; but she is safe to be, for this beats Palmer all hollow.”
Malcolm heard no more. With a sinking heart he hurried out into the air,
and took his way down the street, and began to tread the narrow lanes
and alleys of the neighborhood in search of such lodgings as he desired
for Eudora. At length, about half way down, between the two crossings of
a narrow street, he paused before a small green-grocer’s shop bearing
the name of Mrs. Corder, over which a bill in an upper window announced
“Apartments.” He entered the shop, and behind the counter found the
proprietress, a fat, middle-aged, motherly-looking widow, with a large
number of children, who were continually toddling in and out between the
little dark back parlor and the front shop.
Stepping up to the counter, he asked the woman to show him the
apartments she had to let.
“Here, Charley,” said Mrs. Corder, calling her eldest hope, a red-haired
lad of about ten years old, “to take her place while she showed the
gentleman the rooms above.”
“The lodgers have a private entrance, sir,” she said, leading the way
out of the shop to a street door on its right hand, which admitted them
into a narrow passage, from which an equally narrow staircase led to the
second floor.
Mr. Montrose followed the landlady up-stairs to a pair of small, plainly
furnished, but clean rooms, connected by folding doors. The front one
was a parlor, the back one a chamber.
“What are your terms?” inquired Mr. Montrose, when he had glanced
approvingly around these rooms.
“Twenty-five shillings a week, sir, with attendance,” replied Mrs.
Corder.
“Have you other lodgers?”
“No others, sir, except a poor gentleman and his daughter as have the
rooms over these, and has never paid me a penny for ’em,” added the
woman, in a low tone, but loud enough to be heard.
“I will engage these rooms, for a lady, who will take possession
immediately; and here is four weeks’ payment in advance.”
Mrs. Corder curtsied lowly in acknowledgment of this liberality, and
promised to have fires lighted immediately to air the apartments.
And Mr. Montrose hurried back to the White Swan, where he found Eudora
still resting in the easy-chair, and awaiting him.
“I have found you lodgings, dearest, where I hope and believe you will
be both comfortable and safe. They are over a small green-grocer’s shop
kept by a stout, rosy good-humored-looking widow, with a large family of
young children. And with her shop, her children, and her lodgers to
attend to, she is much too busy to pry into other peoples’ private
affairs. You may get ready now while I call a carriage,” said Malcolm,
and without waiting to hear her warm thanks, he passed out.
In two minutes he returned, and led his companion, who was quite ready,
to the carriage. Her box was put in, and the directions given to the
coachman, who drove on.
A quarter of an hour’s drive brought them to the private entrance of
Mrs. Corder’s house. The good-humored landlady stood at the door to
receive her new lodger.
Mr. Montrose alighted, handed Eudora out, and led her into the house,
followed by the coachman carrying the box, which he sat down in the
passage.
“Poor girl,” murmured the landlady to herself, as she noticed the deep
mourning and pale face of her guest. “Poor girl! an orphan, I dare
say—some clergyman’s daughter come up to London to get her living as a
daily governess or something. She do look like that. But lawk, she’ll
never be able to pay twenty-five shillings a week for her lodgings, and
that she’ll soon find out. Hows’ever, the gentleman has paid the first
month in advance, and maybe he may——. Lawk, I wonder whatever he is to
her——.”
“This is my cousin, Miss Milnes, who is to be your new lodger, Mrs.
Corder. Will you please to show her at once to her rooms?” said Mr.
Montrose, who, having settled with the man, now turned and presented his
companion to her landlady.
“Yes, certainly, sir; the rooms are quite ready. I’m proud to see you,
Miss Miller—that’s a real governessing name, is Miller,” added the
landlady, _sotto voce_, as she led the way up-stairs, and threw open the
door of the front parlor.
Malcolm and Eudora entered the room, and the landlady lingered to
receive orders.
“You may have the box sent up, if you please, Mrs. Corder,” said Mr.
Montrose, to get rid of the good woman, who dropped a curtsey and
withdrew.
“Now, dearest Eudora,” said the young man, “for your own sake I must
hasten to leave you. I must hurry back to Allworth Abbey, that no one
may suspect that I have been so far absent from the neighborhood, or
connect my absence with your disappearance. My presence is also
necessary to assist at the funeral obsequies at Allworth. So you
perceive, dearest, that I must immediately depart.”
“Oh, yes, I know that for every good reason you must go,” said Eudora.
“And this advice I must give in leaving you—keep yourself closely within
doors! send the landlady or her son out for whatever you may require—but
go not forth yourself. If time hangs heavily on your hands, send for
books from Mudie’s Circulating Library, a branch of which stands near
this. Do not risk writing to any one, not even to me, unless it should
be positively necessary; and, if you do write, be careful neither to put
address nor date at the top of your letter, nor name of any sort at the
bottom; and direct your letter to Howth, a post town about twenty miles
from Allworth. Do you mark me, dear Eudora?”
“Oh, yes, I mark, and I will remember and follow your directions.”
“I will write to you under your middle name of Milnes, and post my
letters at Howth. Now, dearest, trust in God—trust also in me; keep up
your spirits, and hope for the best. You will be quite safe here, as you
know the hunt for you will be led off in an opposite direction. Your
landlady is evidently a good-humored, obliging, unsuspicious creature,
who will endeavor to make you comfortable. If she should betray any
curiosity upon the subject of my interest in you, tell her so much of
the truth as that we are betrothed, but avoid telling her my name; she
will probably believe it to be the same as your own. Will you remember
all these things?”
“Oh, yes, yes, dearest Malcolm!” said Eudora, endeavoring to control her
emotions.
“And now, my beloved, I have not a moment more to stay, for I must catch
the train. Good-bye! good-bye! I leave you in the keeping of Him who
ever watches over the innocent,” said Malcolm, pressing her to his bosom
in a parting embrace. Then he put her gently back into her chair, and
hurried from the room.
On the stairs he met the boy bringing up the box, and in the passage
below he saw the landlady.
“I have taken leave of my cousin, Mrs. Corder; but I must commit her to
your best care. She has lost both her parents, and is in deep sorrow, as
well as in reduced circumstances; she never lived in lodgings before,
and is very inexperienced. Therefore, I must beg that you will be a kind
of mother to her,” said Mr. Montrose, slipping another five-pound note
into the hand of the woman as he took leave of her.
“Thank’ee, sir; lawks, sir, I’m a poor widder, with a large family, but
I don’t require no bribery to do my duty by my lodgers, nor likewise to
be good to a poor, dear, fatherless, motherless young creature like
her,” said the landlady, pocketing the money.