“Loaded?”
“Yes, but not on the cock. Cock them before you go to bed. It is paying you a great compliment, captain, to lend you these. Were you one of the awkward squad you should not have them.”
“I will take care. You need delay no longer, Mr. Helstone. You may go now. – He is gracious to me to lend me his pistols,” she remarked, as the rector passed out at the garden gate. “But come, Lina,” she continued, “let us go in and have some supper. I was too much vexed at tea with the vicinage of Mr. Sam Wynne to be able to eat, and now I am really hungry.”
Entering the house, they repaired to the darkened dining room, through the open windows of which apartment stole the evening air, bearing the perfume of flowers from the garden, the very distant sound of far-retreating steps from the road, and a soft, vague murmur whose origin Caroline explained by the remark, uttered as she stood listening at the casement, “Shirley, I hear the beck in the Hollow.”
Then she rang the bell, asked for a candle and some bread and milk – Miss Keeldar’s usual supper and her own. Fanny, when she brought in the tray, would have closed the windows and the shutters, but was requested to desist for the present. The twilight was too calm, its breath too balmy to be yet excluded. They took their meal in silence. Caroline rose once to remove to the window sill a glass of flowers which stood on the sideboard, the exhalation from the blossoms being somewhat too powerful for the sultry room. In returning she half opened a drawer, and took from it something that glittered clear and keen in her hand.
“You assigned this to me, then, Shirley, did you? It is bright, keen-edged, finely tapered; it is dangerous-looking. I never yet felt the impulse which could move me to direct this against a fellow creature. It is difficult to fancy that circumstances could nerve my arm to strike home with this long knife.”
“I should hate to do it,” replied Shirley, “but I think I could do it, if goaded by certain exigencies which I can imagine.” And Miss Keeldar quietly sipped her glass of new milk, looking somewhat thoughtful and a little pale; though, indeed, when did she not look pale? She was never florid.
The milk sipped and the bread eaten, Fanny was again summoned. She and Eliza were recommended to go to bed, which they were quite willing to do, being weary of the day’s exertions, of much cutting of currant-buns, and filling of urns and teapots, and running backwards and forwards with trays. Ere long the maids’ chamber door was heard to close. Caroline took a candle and went quietly all over the house, seeing that every window was fast and every door barred. She did not even evade the haunted back kitchen nor the vault-like cellars. These visited, she returned.
“There is neither spirit nor flesh in the house at present,” she said, “which should not be there. It is now near eleven o’clock, fully bedtime; yet I would rather sit up a little longer, if you do not object, Shirley. Here,” she continued, “I have brought the brace of pistols from my uncle’s study. You may examine them at your leisure.”
She placed them on the table before her friend.
“Why would you rather sit up longer?” asked Miss Keeldar, taking up the firearms, examining them, and again laying them down.
“Because I have a strange, excited feeling in my heart.”
“So have I.”
“Is this state of sleeplessness and restlessness caused by something electrical in the air, I wonder?”
“No; the sky is clear, the stars numberless. It is a fine night.”
“But very still. I hear the water fret over its stony bed in Hollow’s Copse as distinctly as if it ran below the churchyard wall.”
“I am glad it is so still a night. A moaning wind or rushing rain would vex me to fever just now.”
“Why, Shirley?”
“Because it would baffle my efforts to listen.”
“Do you listen towards the Hollow?”
“Yes; it is the only quarter whence we can hear a sound just now.”
“The only one, Shirley.”
They both sat near the window, and both leaned their arms on the sill, and both inclined their heads towards the open lattice. They saw each other’s young faces by the starlight and that dim June twilight which does not wholly fade from the west till dawn begins to break in the east.
“Mr. Helstone thinks we have no idea which way he is gone,” murmured Miss Keeldar, “nor on what errand, nor with what expectations, nor how prepared. But I guess much; do not you?”
“I guess something.”
“All those gentlemen – your cousin Moore included – think that you and I are now asleep in our beds, unconscious.”
“Caring nothing about them – hoping and fearing nothing for them,” added Caroline.
Both kept silent for full half an hour. The night was silent too; only the church clock measured its course by quarters. Some words were interchanged about the chill of the air. They wrapped their scarves closer round them, resumed their bonnets, which they had removed, and again watched.
Towards midnight the teasing, monotonous bark of the house-dog disturbed the quietude of their vigil. Caroline rose, and made her way noiselessly through the dark passages to the kitchen, intending to appease him with a piece of bread. She succeeded. On returning to the dining room she found it all dark, Miss Keeldar having extinguished the candle. The outline of her shape was visible near the still open window, leaning out. Miss Helstone asked no questions; she stole to her side. The dog recommenced barking furiously. Suddenly he stopped, and seemed to listen. The occupants of the dining room listened too, and not merely now to the flow of the mill stream. There was a nearer, though a muffled, sound on the road below the churchyard – a measured, beating, approaching sound – a dull tramp of marching feet.
It drew near. Those who listened by degrees comprehended its extent. It was not the tread of two, nor of a dozen, nor of a score of men; it was the tread of hundreds. They could see nothing; the high shrubs of the garden formed a leafy screen between them and the road. To hear, however, was not enough, and this they felt as the troop trod forwards, and seemed actually passing the rectory. They felt it more when a human voice – though that voice spoke but one word – broke the hush of the night.
“Halt!”
A halt followed. The march was arrested. Then came a low conference, of which no word was distinguishable from the dining room.
“We must hear this,” said Shirley.
She turned, took her pistols from the table, silently passed out through the middle window of the dining room, which was, in fact, a glass door, stole down the walk to the garden wall, and stood listening under the lilacs. Caroline would not have quitted the house had she been alone, but where Shirley went she would go. She glanced at the weapon on the sideboard, but left it behind her, and presently stood at her friend’s side. They dared not look over the wall, for fear of being seen; they were obliged to crouch behind it. They heard these words,—
“It looks a rambling old building. Who lives in it besides the damned parson?”
“Only three women – his niece and two servants.”
“Do you know where they sleep?”
“The lasses behind; the niece in a front room.”
“And Helstone?”
“Yonder is his chamber. He was burning a light, but I see none now.”
“Where would you get in?”
“If I were ordered to do his job – and he desarves it – I’d try yond’ long window; it opens to the dining room. I could grope my way upstairs, and I know his chamber.”
“How would you manage about the women folk?”
“Let ’em alone except they shrieked, and then I’d soon quieten ’em. I could wish to find the old chap asleep. If he waked, he’d be dangerous.”
“Has he arms?”
“Firearms, allus – and allus loadened.”
“Then you’re a fool to stop us here. A shot would give the alarm. Moore would be on us before we could turn round. We should miss our main object.”
“You might go on, I tell you. I’d engage Helstone alone.”