SAM was doomed to be late in starting on his round that morning. The
moment Kitty’s mind grasped the significance of the windfall her tongue
was loosed. She talked excitedly, even wildly. The sender of the
notes—she wished he had given his name—must be some one whom her father
had helped in the old days. Her father was always lending money that
never came back. That was why there was none when he died. She hoped
she might some day discover the sender, otherwise he could never realize
how much more than kind, how truly wonderful, was the thing he had done.
For he had given a desperate, persecuted girl her freedom!
“But what are ye going to do, Miss?” Sam ventured at last.
“I’m going to trust you,” she said, with a broken laugh.
“Aye, surely ye can do that. But I hope ye’re no’ for being reckless.
Your eyes are shining something terrible.”
She laughed again, and said, “I’m going to London!”
“London!”
“To-night!”
It took Sam some moments to recover. “But what’s taking ye a’ the road
to London?”
“I’ve always wanted to go. I’ve always said I would go if I had the
money—and now I’ve got it!”
“Ha’ ye friends in London?”
“I’ve no enemies.”
“Oh, but this’ll never do!” he cried. “What’ll happen to ye?”
“Perhaps I’ll have some adventures—I hope so—an’—”
“Adventures, guid God!”
“—And I may make my fortune.”
He threw up his hands muttering, “Oh, dear! the money has turned her
head!”
She laid her hand on his arm. “I want you to help me,” she said softly;
“that is, if you can do it without getting yourself into trouble. The
express stops at Kenny Junction at five minutes to nine, but that’s six
miles away, and I must take some luggage—”
“Mercy on us!” he exclaimed, “how can ye think it out so quick?”
“I’ve thought it out, and dreamed of it, and cried about it, Sam, oh, a
hundred times! Now, can you get some one with a cart, or anything on
wheels, to meet me, secretly, outside of the village, at seven o’clock?”
He gave her a long look. “Will ye no’ think over it, Miss?” he asked at
last.
“I’m going to-night. Can’t you imagine what life here, with those
people, must be?”
“Aye,” he said slowly. “No’ to be endured, I dare say. But—”—he became
timid—“I mun ask ye a question, Miss, whether it offends ye or no.
It—it’s about young Mr. Hayward. Ye’re no’ running away wi’ him, are
ye?”
Once more she laughed. “I had forgotten all about him,” she said
truthfully. “What a question to ask!” Then she flushed a little.
He looked abashed as he murmured—
“Young folks do stupid things in haste, and it was for both your sakes I
asked the question. Well, well,” he went on, “if your mind’s made up, I
suppose I canna change it.”
“And you’ll see about a cart, Sam?” she said eagerly.
“No, I’ll no’ do that!”
“What? . . . why?”
“Because when ye leave your uncle’s house, when ye leave Dunford, ye mun
leave wi’ your head high and your name fair. Think, Miss! What’ll it
mean if ye creep away as if—as if ye was guilty? Why, it would mean that
your uncle would be free to make a scandal, aye, and maybe do something
worse—”
“But he can prove me guilty as it is! And do you think for a moment he
would let me go?”
“Will ye trust me, Miss?”
“Of course, Sam.”
“Ye promise?”
“Yes; if you won’t keep me from going?”
“Then ye’ve promised! Now listen, for we’ll maybe no’ get another chance
to arrange it. At seven o’clock to-night ye’ll ha’ your bag and things
ready, and ye’ll come down the stair, wi’ neither fear nor trembling, and
ye’ll open the door, and ye’ll find me waiting wi’ a cart—”
“But, Sam, Sam—”
“And if your uncle or your aunt asks where ye’re going, answer the truth.
But if they try to stop ye, leave them to me. That’s all. If ye canna
trust me—”
“Oh, but I will—I do!” she cried, “though I don’t understand—”
“Then it’s settled, and I just hope I’m no’ doing a bad thing for ye in
helping ye. . . . And now the folk’ll be wondering what’s come over
their letters.”
Kitty was not sorry to discover that she had only five minutes left for
breakfast. She was all apprehension lest her nerves or her looks should
betray her. The slightest appearance of cheerfulness, she felt, would
alone be fatal. Fortunately, her uncle had left the table, and was
immersed in the morning paper at the fireside. Zeniths had fallen half a
crown, and it seemed to him the beginning of the end. His niece’s
engagement to Symington twelve hours hence would not take place a moment
too soon. He never doubted that the girl would give in.
Miss Corrie, silent, her face a melancholy mask, was beginning to tidy up
things.
Not a word was spoken during the girl’s brief stay at the table, but when
she rose to go to open the office her uncle spoke from behind the paper.
“Ye’ll mind what I told ye?”
Without response she made for the door. And just then her mind was
suddenly confronted with a new difficulty. She was expected to be on
duty in the post office until 8 p.m. . . . and yet she must have her
things packed and be ready for Sam an hour earlier. At the door she
turned, feeling it was now or never. In a voice that shook naturally
enough she said—
“I don’t think I can stop in the office till eight to-night. I’m too
tired.”
There was a silence full of acute suspense, until he returned grudgingly—
“Very well. Your aunt can take charge after tea.”
She hurried away, her heart thumping with relief. She would have nearly
an hour and a half to herself before the hour of departure. Heaven help
her to keep her self-control till then. She told herself she did not
doubt Sam, and yet . . .
“John,” said Miss Corrie, “do ye think she’ll give in?”
“She darena face the other thing.”
After a pause—“John, what do ye think she wanted the five-pun’ note for?”
“Ye can ask her.”
“She might ha’ got a safer place to hide it than she did—”
“Will ye hold your silly tongue, woman! Zeniths went down two-and-six
yesterday. I’m going up to White Farm.”
* * * * *
Eleven hours later Kitty stood in her room ready to go. It was seven
o’clock, but she was allowing a minute or two to pass in order to make
sure of Sam’s being there. Her courage was at ebb, and she was very
pale. Yet she hoped she might escape from the house without being
noticed. The best of her worldly goods were contained in a bag and
hold-all, part of her luggage of five years ago.
At last she felt she must go or faint. She opened the door softly and
picked up her burdens. The bag was heavy. She was taking her father’s
manuscripts. Stealthily she stepped across the small landing, and began
to descend. But it was impossible to move, laden as she was, on that
narrow, wooden stair without making considerable noise. And as she
reached the bottom she was confronted by her uncle, who had just shut the
shop for the night.
“What’s this?” he demanded with an awful frown, as he blocked the way to
the front door.
Kitty’s heart all but failed her. She cleared her throat, wet her lips,
and managed to utter the words—
“I’m going to London.”
For a moment the man was stupefied. Then his shout went down the passage
leading to shop and post office—
“Rachel!—here, quick!”
In desperation Kitty sought to push past. He seized her arm. He was
breathing hard; his face was the colour of putty.
Miss Corrie appeared.
“What is it? Oh!” she exclaimed, perceiving the luggage.
“She’s mad,” said her brother thickly, “says she going to London. Liker
to jail!”
“How can she go to London or any place?” cried the woman, “unless—did ye
check the cash, John?”
“Aunt Rachel!” exclaimed the girl.
“Take her luggage up the stair, Rachel,” Corrie ordered. “We’ll ha’ to
do something—”
The door was opened from the outside. Sam stood on the step. Beyond
him, at the gate of the little garden, was a pony cart he had borrowed or
hired.
“Are ye ready, Miss?” said Sam, cheerfully.
Corrie strode to the door, his face working with passion.
“What the — do ye mean?” he demanded threateningly.
“Miss Carstairs,” said Sam, without flinching, “is for London, and it’s
my pleasure to drive her to the junction.”
“He’s mad, too,” screamed Miss Corrie. “Shut the door in his face.”
Swiftly Sam stepped inside, and closed the door,
“Mr. Corrie,” he said quietly, “I would advise ye no’ to interfere.” To
Kitty—“I’ll take your luggage, Miss.”
Corrie, beside himself, raised his fist.
“Wait,” said the other, still calmly. “The folk in Dunford are maybe
dull, but I could tell them a thing, Mr. Corrie, that would make them
spit on ye in the street, and maybe pull your house and shop about your
ears. . . . Come, Miss.”
“Move a step, and I send for the policeman,” roared Corrie.
“In which case,” retorted the postman, “I’ll just ha’ to give ye in
charge. For what, I ask ye, was ye doin’ up the ladder yesterday, about
12.30 p.m.?”
“By God, postman. I’ll—”
“I’m askin’ ye a straight question. I was comin’ down the hill at the
time, but I’ve guid sight still, and what’s more I had a witness. Ye can
say ye was paying attention to yer ivy—an’ truth it needs it!—but in that
case, I would ask ye if the ivy was growing inside o’ this young lady’s
bedroom. . . . Come, Miss. He’ll no’ touch ye.” And opening the door,
and then gently pushing Corrie out of the way, he took possession of the
bag and hold-all.
And he and the girl passed out without hindrance.
When they had gone the woman turned a ghastly face on her brother.
“John, ye mun tell me what he meant about the ladder.”
As if he had not heard, Corrie staggered out of the house and took the
road to White Farm.
Sam put his charge into the express with many injunctions and a package
of sweets. Kitty had scarcely spoken during the drive, and now speech
failed her altogether. She could only cling to his rough hand, and nod
her promises to send her address, when she found one, and let him know if
ever she required help. He was a lonely man, and she had given him a new
and great interest in life.
They were too much engrossed at the last minute to notice a high-wheeled
gig dash up to the station gate and deposit a passenger who entered the
train lower down just as it was starting.
There were three other passengers in the compartment, all more or less
inclined to doze. Though deadly tired, Kitty had no inclination for
sleep. Nor could she give a thought to the future. Not so soon could
her mind and nerves recover from the strain and shock of the last two
days.
After Carlisle, however, she found herself alone, and the solitude began
to have a soothing effect. She lay back in her corner and closed her
eyes. The great train—the dear, kind monster she had so often watched
and longed to travel on—thundered out its miles southward, and at two in
the morning slumber was not far from the exhausted girl.
Kitty gave a little sigh of content—and opened her eyes.
The door of the compartment slid back. Alec Symington entered.