FLIGHT.
The last entry in Beatrice’s journal was made by her in the hope that it
might be the last.
In her life at Brandon Hall her soul had grown stronger and more
resolute. Besides, it had now come to this, that henceforth she must
either stay and accept the punishment which they might contrive or fly
instantly.
For she had dared them to their faces; she had told them of their
crimes; she had threatened punishment. She had said that she was the
avenger of Despard. If she had desired instant death she could have said
no more than that. Would they pass it by? She knew their secret--the
secret of secrets; she had proclaimed it to their faces. She had called
Potts a Thug and disowned him as her father; what now remained?
But one thing--flight. And this she was fully resolved to try. She
prepared nothing. To gain the outside world was all she wished. The need
of money was not thought of; nor if it had been would it have made any
difference. She could not have obtained it.
The one idea in her mind was therefore flight. She had concealed her
journal under a looser piece of the flooring in one of the closets of
her room, being unwilling to encumber herself with it, and dreading the
result of a search in case she was captured.
She made no other preparations whatever. A light hat and a thin jacket
were all that she took to resist the chill air of March. There was a
fever in her veins which was heightened by excitement and suspense.
Mrs. Compton was in her room during the evening. Beatrice said but
little. Mrs. Compton talked drearily about the few topics on which she
generally spoke. She never dared talk about the affairs of the house.
Beatrice was not impatient, for she had no idea of trying to escape
before midnight. She sat silently while Mrs. Compton talked or prosed,
absorbed in her own thoughts and plans. The hours seemed to her
interminable. Slowly and heavily they dragged on. Beatrice’s suspense
and excitement grew stronger every moment, yet by a violent effort she
preserved so perfect an outward calm that a closer observer than Mrs.
Compton would have failed to detect any emotion.
At last, about ten o’clock, Mrs. Compton retired, with many kind wishes
to Beatrice, and many anxious counsels as to her health. Beatrice
listened patiently, and made some general remarks, after which Mrs.
Compton withdrew.
She was now left to herself, and two hours still remained before she
could dare to venture. She paced the room fretfully and anxiously,
wondering why it was that the time seemed so long, and looking from
time to time at her watch in the hope of finding that half an hour had
passed, but seeing to her disappointment that only two or three minutes
had gone.
At last eleven o’clock came. She stole out quietly into the hall and
went to the top of the grand stairway. There she stood and listened.
The sound of voices came up from the dining-room, which was near the
hall-door. She knew to whom those voices belonged. Evidently it was not
yet the time for her venture.
She went back, controlling her excitement as best she might. At last,
after a long, long suspense, midnight sounded.
Again she went to the head of the stairway. The voices were still heard.
They kept late hours down there. Could she try now, while they were
still up? Not yet.
Not yet. The suspense became agonizing. How could she wait? But she went
back again to her room, and smothered her feelings until one o’clock
came.
Again she went to the head of the stairway. She heard nothing. She could
see a light streaming from the door of the dining-hall below. Lights,
also, were burning in the hall itself; but she heard no voices.
Softly and quietly she went down stairs. The lights flashed out through
the door of the dining-room into the hall; and as she arrived at the
foot of the stairs she heard subdued voices in conversation. Her heart
beat faster. They were all there! What if they now discovered her! What
mercy would they show her, even if they were capable of mercy?
Fear lent wings to her feet. She was almost afraid to breathe for fear
that they might hear her. She stole on quietly and noiselessly up the
passage that led to the north end, and at last reached it.
All was dark there. At this end there was a door. On each side was
a kind of recess formed by the pillars of the doorway. The door was
generally used by the servants, and also by the inmates of the house for
convenience.
The key was in it. There was no light in the immediate vicinity. Around
it all was gloom. Near by was a stairway, which led to the servants’
hall.
She took the key in her hands, which trembled violently with excitement,
and turned it in the lock.
Scarcely had she done so when she heard footsteps and voices behind
her. She looked hastily back, and, to her horror, saw two servants
approaching with a lamp. It was impossible for her now to open the door
and go out. Concealment was her only plan.
But how? There was no time for hesitation. Without stopping to think
she slipped into one of the niches formed by the projecting pillars, and
gathered her skirts close about her so as to be as little conspicuous as
possible. There she stood awaiting the result. She half wished that she
had turned back. For if she were now discovered in evident concealment
what excuse could she give? She could not hope to bribe them, for she
had no money. And, what was worst, these servants were the two who had
been the most insolent to her from the first.
She could do nothing, therefore, but wait. They came nearer, and at last
reached the door.
“Hallo!” said one, as he turned the key. “It’s been unlocked!”
“It hain’t been locked yet,” said the other.
“Yes, it has. I locked it myself an hour ago. Who could have been here?”
“Any one,” said the other, quietly. “Our blessed young master has, no
doubt, been out this way.”
“No, he hasn’t. He hasn’t stirred from his whisky since eight o’clock.”
“Nonsense! You’re making a fuss about nothing. Lock the door and come
along.”
“Any how, I’m responsible, and I’ll get a precious overhauling if this
thing goes on. I’ll take the key with me this time.”
And saying this, the man locked the door and took out the key. Both of
them then descended to the servants’ hall.
The noise of that key as it grated in the lock sent a thrill through the
heart of the trembling listener. It seemed to take all hope from her.
The servants departed. She had not been discovered. But what was to be
done? She had not been prepared for this.
She stood for some time in despair. She thought of other ways of escape.
There was the hall-door, which she did not dare to try, for she would
have to pass directly in front of the dining-room. Then there was the
south door at the other end of the building, which was seldom used. She
knew of no others. She determined to try the south door.
Quietly and swiftly she stole away, and glided, like a ghost, along the
entire length of the building. It was quite dark at the south end as it
had been at the north. She reached the door without accident.
There was no key in it. It was locked. Escape by that way was
impossible.
She stood despairing. Only one way was now left, and that lay through
the hall-door itself.
Suddenly, as she stood there, she heard footsteps. A figure came down
the long hall straight toward her. There was not the slightest chance of
concealment here. There were no pillars behind which she might crouch.
She must stand, then, and take the consequences. Or, rather, would it
not be better to walk forward and meet this new-comer? Yes; that would
be best. She determined to do so.
So, with a quiet, slow step she walked back through the long corridor.
About half-way she met the other. He stopped and started back.
“Miss Potts!” he exclaimed, in surprise.
It was the voice of Philips.
“Ah, Philips,” said she, quietly, “I am walking about for exercise and
amusement. I can not sleep. Don’t be startled. It’s only me.”
Philips stood like one paralyzed.
“Don’t be cast down,” he said at last, in a trembling voice. “You have
friends, powerful friends. They will save you.”
“What do you mean?” asked Beatrice, in wonder.
“Never mind,” said Philips, mysteriously. “It will be all right. I dare
not tell. But cheer up.”
“What do you mean by friends?”
“You have friends who are more powerful than your enemies, that’s all,”
said Philips, hurriedly. “Cheer up.”
Beatrice wondered. A vague thought of Brandon came over her mind, but
she dismissed it at once. Yet the thought gave her a delicious joy, and
at once dispelled the extreme agitation which had thus far disturbed
her. Could Philips be connected with _him_? Was he in reality
considerate about her while shaping the course of his gloomy vengeance?
These were the thoughts which flashed across her mind as she stood.
“I don’t understand,” said she, at last; “but I hope it may be as you
say. God knows, I need friends!”
She walked away, and Philips also went onward. She walked slowly,
until at last his steps died out in the distance. Then a door banged.
Evidently she had nothing to fear from him. At last she reached the main
hall, and stopped for a moment. The lights from the dining-room were
still flashing out through the door. The grand entrance lay before
her. There was the door of the hall, the only way of escape that now
remained. Dare she try it?
She deliberated long. Two alternatives lay before her--to go back to her
own room, or to try to pass that door. To go back was as repulsive as
death, in fact more so. If the choice had been placed full before her
then, to die on the spot or to go back to her room, she would have
deliberately chosen death. The thought of returning, therefore, was the
last upon which she could dwell, and that of going forward was the only
one left. To this she gave her attention.
At last she made up her mind, and advanced cautiously, close by the
wall, toward the hall-door. After a time she reached the door of the
dining-room. Could she venture to pass it, and how? She paused. She
listened. There were low voices in the room. Then they were still awake,
still able to detect her if she passed the door.
She looked all around. The hall was wide. On the opposite side the wall
was but feebly lighted. The hall lights had been put out, and those
which shone from the room extended forward but a short distance. It was
just possible therefore to escape observation by crossing the doorway
along the wall that was most distant from it.
Yet before she tried this she ventured to put forward her head so as to
peep into the room. She stooped low and looked cautiously and slowly.
The three were there at the farthest end of the room. Bottles and
glasses stood before them, and they were conversing in low tones. Those
tones, however, were not so low but that they reached her ears. They
were speaking about _her_.
“How could she have found it out?” said Clark.
“Mrs. Compton only knows _one thing_,” said Potts, “and that is _the
secret about her_. She knows nothing more. How could she?”
“Then how could that cursed girl have found out about the Thug
business?” exclaimed John.
There was no reply.
“She’s a deep one,” said John, “d--d deep--deeper than I ever thought.
I always said she was plucky--cursed plucky--but now I see she’s deep
too--and I begin to have my doubts about the way she ought to be took
down.”
“I never could make her out,” said Potts. “And now I don’t even begin
to understand how she could know that which only we have known. Do you
think, Clark, that the devil could have told her of it?”
“Yes,” said Clark. “Nobody but the devil could have told her that, and
my belief is that she’s the devil himself. She’s the only person I ever
felt afraid of. D--n it, I can’t look her in the face.”
Beatrice retreated and passed across to the opposite wall. She did not
wish to see or hear more. She glided by. She was not noticed. She heard
John’s voice--sharp and clear--
“We’ll have to begin to-morrow and take her down--that’s a fact.” This
was followed by silence.
Beatrice reached the door. She turned the knob. Oh, joy! it was not
locked. It opened.
Noiselessly she passed through; noiselessly she shut it behind her. She
was outside. She was free.
The moon shone brightly. It illumined the lawn in front and the tops
of the clumps of trees whose dark foliage rose before her. She saw all
this; yet, in her eagerness to escape, she saw nothing more, but sped
away swiftly down the steps, across the lawn, and under the shade of the
trees.
Which way should she go? There was the main avenue which led in a
winding direction toward the gate and the porter’s lodge. There was also
another path which the servants generally took. This led to the gate
also. Beatrice thought that by going down this path she might come near
the gate and then turn off to the wall and try and climb over.
A few moments of thought were sufficient for her decision. She took the
path and went hurriedly along, keeping on the side where the shadow was
thickest.
She walked swiftly, until at length she came to a place where the path
ended. It was close by the porter’s lodge. Here she paused to consider.
Late as it was there were lights in the lodge and voices at the door.
Some one was talking with the porter. Suddenly the voices ceased and a
man came walking toward the place where she stood.
To dart into the thick trees where the shadow lay deepest was the work
of a moment. She stood and watched. But the underbrush was dense, and
the crackling which she made attracted the man’s attention. He stopped
for a moment, and then rushed straight toward the place where she was.
Beatrice gave herself up for lost. She rushed on wildly, not knowing
where she went. Behind her was the sound of her pursuer. He followed
resolutely and relentlessly. There was no refuge for her but continued
flight.
Onward she sped, and still onward, through the dense underbrush, which
at every step gave notice of the direction which she had taken. Perhaps
if she had been wiser she would have plunged into some thick growth of
trees into the midst of absolute darkness and there remained still. As
it was she did not think of this. Escape was her only thought, and the
only way to this seemed to be by flight.
So she fled; and after her came her remorseless, her unpitying pursuer,
fear lent wings to her feet. She fled on through the underbrush that
crackled as she passed and gave notice of her track through the dark,
dense groves; yet still amidst darkness and gloom her pursuer followed.
[Illustration: “ONWARD SHE SPED, AND STILL ONWARD, THROUGH THE DENSE
UNDERBRUSH.”]
At last, through utter weakness and weariness, she sank down. Despair
came over her. She could do no more.
The pursuer came up. So dense was the gloom in that thick grove that
for some time he could not find her. Beatrice heard the crackling of the
underbrush all around. He was searching for her.
She crouched down low and scarcely dared to breathe. She took refuge in
the deep darkness, and determined to wait till her pursuer might give up
his search. At last all was still.
Beatrice thought that he had gone. Yet in her fear she waited for what
seemed to her an interminable period. At last she ventured to make a
movement. Slowly and cautiously she rose to her feet and advanced. She
did not know what direction to take; but she walked on, not caring where
she went so long as she could escape pursuit.
Scarcely had she taken twenty steps when she heard a noise. Some one
was moving. She stood still, breathless. Then she thought she had been
mistaken. After waiting a long time she went on as before. She walked
faster. The noise came again. It was close by. She stood still for many
minutes.
Suddenly she bounded up, and ran as one runs for life. Her long rest
had refreshed her. Despair gave her strength. But the pursuer was on
her track. Swiftly, and still more swiftly, his footsteps came up behind
her. He was gaining on her. Still she rushed on.
At last a strong hand seized her by the shoulder, and she sank down upon
the moss that lay under the forest trees.
“Who are you?” cried a familiar voice.
“Vijal!” cried Beatrice.
The other let go his hold.
“Will you betray me?” cried Beatrice, in a mournful and despairing
voice.
Vijal was silent.
“What do you want?” said he, at last. “Whatever you want to do I will
help you. I will be your slave.”
“I wish to escape.”
“Come then--you shall escape,” said Vijal.
Without uttering another word he walked on and Beatrice followed. Hope
rose once more within her. Hope gave strength. Despair and its weakness
had left her. After about half an hour’s walk they reached the park
wall.
“I thought it was a poacher,” said Vijal, sadly; “yet I am glad it was
you, for I can help you. I will help you over the wall.”
He raised her up. She clambered to the top, where she rested for a
moment.
“God bless you, Vijal, and good-by!” said she.
Vijal said nothing.
The next moment she was on the other side. The road lay there. It ran
north away from the village. Along this road Beatrice walked swiftly.