Chapter 31 - Page 2

the piazza. "They confer often together. Whittal hath just
come in from the woods, whither he is much inclined to pass an hour or
two, each evening. Thou wast saying that now we have our sister--?"

"I feel less desire to change my abode."

"Then why not stay with us for ever, Martha?"

"Hist!" interrupted his companion, who, though conscious of what she was
about to listen to, shrunk, with the waywardness of human nature, from the
very declaration she most wished to hear, "hist--there was a movement. Ah!
our Ruth and Whittal are fled!"

"They seek some amusement for the babe--they are near the out-buildings.
Then why not accept a right to remain for ever----"

"It may not be, Mark," cried the girl wresting her hand from his grasp;
"they are fled!"

Mark reluctantly released his hold, and followed to the spot where his
sister had been sitting. She was, in truth, gone; though, some minutes
passed before even Martha seriously believed that she had disappeared
without an intention of returning. The agitation of both rendered the
search ill-directed and uncertain, and there was perhaps a secret
satisfaction in prolonging their interview even in this vague manner, that
prevented them for some time from giving the alarm. When that moment did
come, it was too late. The fields were examined, the orchards and
out-houses thoroughly searched, without any traces of the fugitives. It
would have been useless to enter the forest in the darkness, and all that
could be done in reason, was to set a watch during the night, and to
prepare for a more active and intelligent pursuit in the morning.

But, long before the sun arose, the small and melancholy party of the
fugitives threaded the woods at such a distance from the valley, as would
have rendered the plan of the family entirely nugatory. Conanchet had led
the way over a thousand forest knolls, across water-courses, and through
dark glens, followed by his silent partner, with an industry that would
have baffled the zeal of even those from whom they fled. Whittal Ring,
bearing the infant on his back, trudged with unwearied step in the rear.
Hours had passed in this manner, and not a syllable had been uttered by
either of the three. Once or twice, they had stopped at some spot where
water, limpid as the air, gushed from the rocks; and, drinking from the
hollows of their hands, the march had been resumed with the same
speechless industry as before.

At length Conanchet paused He studied the position of the sun, gravely,
and took a long and anxious look at the signs of the forest, in order that
he might not be deceived in its quarter. To an unpractised eye, the arches