Kitty Carstairs - J. J. Bell

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      “Get the police,” said Kitty. “They’re honest.”

      He all but lost control then. “Up to your room!” he roared. “Rachel, you maun come likewise.”

      Kitty turned and led the way. She felt that this was only the beginning of the ghastly farce, nothing could possibly be found in her room unless her uncle contrived to put it there while he was pretending to search, and she would see to it that he was not allowed to manage that!

      “If it’s no in there,” said Corrie, as they reached the small landing, “your aunt’ll ha’ to search your person. Go inside the two o’ ye. I’ll bide here. Rachel, you make search.”

      Kitty began to feel puzzled in a dull, dreary fashion. Her uncle could play no tricks from where he stood. Why should he make such a long business of the matter? He had failed to terrify her, and—

      “Where’ll I search?” wailed Miss Corrie.

      “Every place. It’s got to be found,” replied her brother. “It’s Government money.”

      “It’ll take a long, long time. Would ye no give her another chance to—to speak?”

      “She’s had her chance. Hurry up!”

      It was no doubt natural that Miss Corrie should start with the chest of drawers that served also for a dressing table, placed at an angle with the window and near it. She drew out the right-hand top drawer.

      “Turn it out on the floor,” he ordered.

      Kitty sat down on the bed and apathetically watched the scattering of her poor little fineries, gloves, ribbons, fancy buttons, and so on.

      “It’s no’ there, anyway,” remarked Rachel, rising at last.

      She opened the neighbour drawer, and Kitty winced, for it held her father’s manuscripts.

      “Oh!” gasped Rachel, and stood petrified.

      “Hurry up!” called her brother, and she started.

      “It—it’s here,” she whispered, and held it up.

      Corrie strode in, snatched it and held it close to his niece’s face.

      Kitty was white as death now. What dumb innocence, what loud defence, could stand against this?

      Her aunt slunk from the room.

      “Well,” said Corrie at last in a lowered voice, “I’ll let ye go free now; I’ll let ye go free till this time to-morrow—no, till ten o’clock to-morrow night. But if ye want to go free after that, ye know the way—the only way. Now ye can think over it. I’ll mind the office myself.”

      With that he went out.

      Had Kitty held a weapon of any sort then, she would certainly have tried to kill him.

      * * * * *

      In the evening her aunt brought her some tea, set it down, and retired without a word. But no restraint was put on her movements. Restraint was unnecessary. Where could she go, penniless? Later, when she heard Symington’s voice in the kitchen, she stole downstairs and out of doors.

      In the dusk, an hour afterwards, she stood at her old place, waiting the roaring approach, the thundering dash past, of the London mail. Colin Hayward would not be on board, she told herself, and wondered vaguely why, after all, he had left early in the morning. And now he would be in London, and things there would already be making him forget her. She did not love him as she judged a maid should love a man—but oh! how gladly she would have yielded now to his tender arms and his kind voice. …

      The train was coming—it was nearly on her. Something white fluttered from a window. But the signal could not be for her!—and yet with her heart in her eyes she gazed. And just for a tick of time she had a glimpse of Colin’s face. It was all over.

      She laid her arms on the fence, and bowed her face on them, and wept as never she had wept in all her one-and-twenty years—such tears of bitterness, such tears of loneliness.

      Perhaps Sam, quitting his post on the railway, may have wondered at the bowed figure, but he went off discreetly by his one way, a hundred yards further down the field.

      In the starry darkness Kitty came to herself, and slowly made her way to the only home she had. Emotion had weakened her physically, but her spirit yet struggled strongly in the toils. She had still nearly twenty-four hours of freedom, such as it was. To-night it was too late for any persecution from Alec Symington, who surely must have left the cottage some time ago, and gone home, for it was now nearing eleven o’clock.

      But on the road, at the gate of the field, he was waiting.

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      “Aren’t you going to shake hands?” he asked. He was leaning on the gate, smoking a cigarette.

      It was not so dark that the girl, who had halted a couple of yards away, could fail to see the smile accompanying the words. Symington’s was by no means an ill-looking countenance, though forty years, half of them strenuous after a fashion, had blurred the fineness of the well-shaped features; it would have been attractive, admirable even, but for something in the eyes, something about the mouth, under the nicely trimmed tawny moustache, that is not to be fully described by the word covetous. His was a face that no wise man would regard without doubts, that no wise woman would trust. Symington was tall and broad-shouldered, but in the light of day he had a softish look, and one imagined him as a “fat man” in the years soon to come. He was no hard-working farmer. White Farm had come to him for lack of a worthier and fitter heir, his two brothers having died not long before his father, and there were honest people in the neighbourhood who would tell you that the good old property was already on the road to ruin. Symington’s record was that of a man who had seen a good deal of life in different parts of the world, and learned little worth knowing, who had frequently touched the skirts of Fortune but never captured her, and who had gambled away more hours than he had toiled. And now, at forty, he was probably nearer to Fortune than he had ever been, and certainly nearer to love, as he understood it. For in Kitty Carstairs he had nothing to gain but youthful sweetness and fresh beauty; indeed, in a material sense, the possession of her was going to cost him dear—if he kept his bond with the contemptible John Corrie.

      “Aren’t you going to shake hands?” he asked again.

      “Please open the gate,” said Kitty, “or I must go home another way.”

      “It’s a lovely night, and your aunt knows I’m looking after you. I want to have a talk with you, Kitty.”

      She sighed. “I’m very tired—too tired to listen to any one. Please let me go.”

      “I won’t keep you long, and we can find a nice dry seat in the wood, since you’re so tired. Come, you needn’t be shy with me, Kitty—”

      “Are you going to open the gate?” she coldly asked.

      “Immediately, if you’ll promise—”

      He turned sharply. Some one had come out of the little wood, and was crossing the road.

      “Is that you, Miss?”

      “Oh, Sam!” cried the girl in a gasp of relief.

      “Can ye no’ get the gate open?” the postman inquired, as though no Symington had been there. He came forward and laid a hand on the bolt.

      “What the blazes do you want?” blurted Symington, suddenly erect.

      “I’m thinking Miss Carstairs is due home by now,” Sam said coolly. “What do ye say, Miss?”

      “Miss Carstairs is in my charge,

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