CHAPTER XXV
THE FLIGHT IN WILD WEATHER
The morning of Lucy Darleton's letter of reply to her friend Clara wasfair before sunrise, with luminous colours that are an omen to thehusbandman. Clara had no weather-eye for the rich Eastern crimson, nora quiet space within her for the beauty. She looked on it as her gateof promise, and it set her throbbing with a revived belief in radiantthings which she had once dreamed of to surround her life, but heraccelerated pulses narrowed her thoughts upon the machinery of herproject. She herself was metal, pointing all to her one aim when inmotion. Nothing came amiss to it, everything was fuel; fibs, evasions,the serene battalions of white lies parallel on the march with daintyrogue falsehoods. She had delivered herself of many yesterday in herengagements for to-day. Pressure was put on her to engage herself, andshe did so liberally, throwing the burden of deceitfulness on theextraordinary pressure. "I want the early part of the morning; the restof the day I shall be at liberty." She said it to Willoughby, MissDale, Colonel De Craye, and only the third time was she aware of thedelicious double meaning. Hence she associated it with the colonel.
Your loudest outcry against the wretch who breaks your rules is inasking how a tolerably conscientious person could have done this andthe other besides the main offence, which you vow you could overlookbut for the minor objections pertaining to conscience, theincomprehensible and abominable lies, for example, or the brazencoolness of the lying. Yet you know that we live in an undisciplinedworld, where in our seasons of activity we are servants of our design,and that this comes of our passions, and those of our position. Ourdesign shapes us for the work in hand, the passions man the ship, theposition is their apology: and now should conscience be a passenger onboard, a merely seeming swiftness of our vessel will keep him dumb asthe unwilling guest of a pirate captain scudding from the cruiser halfin cloven brine through rocks and shoals to save his black flag. Bewarethe false position.
That is easy to say: sometimes the tangle descends on us like a net ofblight on a rose-bush. There is then an instant choice for us betweencourage to cut loose, and desperation if we do not. But not many menare trained to courage; young women are trained to cowardice. For themto front an evil with plain speech is to be guilty of effrontery andforfeit the waxen polish of purity, and therewith their commandingplace in the market. They are trained to please man's taste, for whichpurpose they soon learn to live out of themselves, and look onthemselves as he looks, almost as little disturbed as he by theundiscovered. Without courage, conscience is a sorry guest; and if allgoes well with the pirate captain, conscience will be made to walk theplank for being of no service to either party.
Clara's fibs and evasions disturbed her not in the least that morning.She had chosen desperation, and she thought herself very brave becauseshe was just brave enough to fly from her abhorrence. She waslight-hearted, or, more truly, drunken-hearted. Her quick naturerealized the out of prison as vividly and suddenly as it had sunksuddenly and leadenly under the sense of imprisonment. Vernon crossedher mind: that was a friend! Yes, and there was a guide; but he woulddisapprove, and even he, thwarting her way to sacred liberty, must bethrust aside.
What would he think? They might never meet, for her to know. Or one dayin the Alps they might meet, a middle-aged couple, he famous, sheregretful only to have fallen below his lofty standard. "For, Mr.Whitford," says she, very earnestly, "I did wish at that time, believeme or not, to merit your approbation." The brows of the phantom Vernonwhom she conjured up were stern, as she had seen them yesterday in thelibrary.
She gave herself a chiding for thinking of him when her mind should beintent on that which he was opposed to.
It was a livelier relaxation to think of young Crossjay's shame-facedconfession presently, that he had been a laggard in bed while she sweptthe dews. She laughed at him, and immediately Crossjay popped out onher from behind a tree, causing her to clap hand to heart and standfast. A conspirator is not of the stuff to bear surprises. He feared hehad hurt her, and was manly in his efforts to soothe: he had been up"hours", he said, and had watched her coming along the avenue, and didnot mean to startle her: it was the kind of fun he played with fellows,and if he had hurt her, she might do anything to him she liked, and shewould see if he could not stand to be punished. He was urgent with herto inflict corporal punishment on him.
"I shall leave it to the boatswain to do that when you're in the navy,"said Clara.
"The boatswain daren't strike an officer! so now you see what you knowof the navy," said Crossjay.
"But you could not have been out before me, you naughty boy, for Ifound all the locks and bolts when I went to the door."
"But you didn't go to the back door, and Sir Willoughby's private door:you came out by the hall door; and I know what you want, MissMiddleton, you want not to pay what you've lost."
"What have I lost, Crossjay?"
"Your wager."
"What was that?"
"You know."
"Speak."
"A kiss."
"Nothing of the sort. But, dear boy, I don't love you less for notkissing you. All that is nonsense: you have to think only of learning,and to be truthful. Never tell a story: suffer anything rather than bedishonest." She was particularly impressive upon the silliness andwickedness of falsehood, and added: "Do you hear?"
"Yes: but you kissed me when I had been out in the rain that day."
"Because I promised."
"And, Miss Middleton, you betted a kiss yesterday."
"I am sure, Crossjay--no, I will not say I am sure: but can you say youare sure you were out first this morning? Well, will you say you aresure that when you left the house you did not see me in the avenue? Youcan't: ah!"
"Miss Middleton, I do really believe I was dressed first."
"Always be truthful, my dear boy, and then you may feel that ClaraMiddleton will always love you."
"But, Miss Middleton, when you're married you won't be ClaraMiddleton."
"I certainly shall, Crossjay."
"No, you won't, because I'm so fond of your name!"
She considered, and said: "You have warned me, Crossjay, and I shallnot marry. I shall wait," she was going to say, "for you," but turnedthe hesitation to a period. "Is the village where I posted my letterthe day before yesterday too far for you?"
Crossjay howled in contempt. "Next to Clara, my favourite's Lucy," hesaid.
"I thought Clara came next to Nelson," said she; "and a long way offtoo, if you're not going to be a landlubber."
"I'm not going to be a landlubber. Miss Middleton, you may beabsolutely positive on your solemn word."
"You're getting to talk like one a little now and then, Crossjay."
"Then I won't talk at all."
He stuck to his resolution for one whole minute.
Clara hoped that on this morning of a doubtful though imperativeventure she had done some good.
They walked fast to cover the distance to the village post-office, andback before the breakfast hour: and they had plenty of time, arrivingtoo early for the opening of the door, so that Crossjay began to dancewith an appetite, and was despatched to besiege a bakery. Clara feltlonely without him: apprehensively timid in the shuttered, unmovingvillage street. She was glad of his return. When at last her letter washanded to her, on the testimony of the postman that she was the lawfulapplicant, Crossjay and she put out on a sharp trot to be back at theHall in good time. She took a swallowing glance of the first page ofLucy's writing:
"Telegraph, and I will meet you. I will supply you with everything youcan want for the two nights, if you cannot stop longer."
That was the gist of the letter. A second, less voracious, glance at italong the road brought sweetness:--Lucy wrote:
"Do I love you as I did? my best friend, you must fall into unhappinessto have the answer to that."
Clara broke a silence.
"Yes, dear Crossjay, and if you like you shall have another walk withme after breakfast. But, remember, you must not
say where you have gonewith me. I shall give you twenty shillings to go and buy those bird'seggs and the butterflies you want for your collection; and mind,promise me, to-day is your last day of truancy. Tell Mr. Whitford howungrateful you know you have been, that he may have some hope of you.You know the way across the fields to the railway station?"
"You save a mile; you drop on the road by Combline's mill, and thenthere's another five-minutes' cut, and the rest's road."
"Then, Crossjay, immediately after breakfast run round behind thepheasantry, and there I'll find you. And if any one comes to you beforeI come, say you are admiring the plumage of the Himalaya--thebeautiful Indian bird; and if we're found together, we run a race, andof course you can catch me, but you mustn't until we're out of sight.Tell Mr. Vernon at night--tell Mr. Whitford at night you had the moneyfrom me as part of my allowance to you for pocket-money. I used to liketo have pocket-money, Crossjay. And you may tell him I gave you theholiday, and I may write to him for his excuse, if he is not too harshto grant it. He can be very harsh."
"You look right into his eyes next time, Miss Middleton. I used tothink him awful till he made me look at him. He says men ought to lookstraight at one another, just as we do when he gives me myboxing-lesson, and then we won't have quarrelling half so much. I can'trecollect everything he says."
"You are not bound to, Crossjay."
"No, but you like to hear."
"Really, dear boy. I can't accuse myself of having told you that."
"No, but, Miss Middleton, you do. And he's fond of your singing andplaying on the piano, and watches you."
"We shall be late if we don't mind," said Clara, starting to a paceclose on a run.
They were in time for a circuit in the park to the wild doublecherry-blossom, no longer all white. Clara gazed up from under it,where she had imagined a fairer visible heavenliness than any othersight of earth had ever given her. That was when Vernon lay beneath.But she had certainly looked above, not at him. The tree seemedsorrowful in its withering flowers of the colour of trodden snow.
Crossjay resumed the conversation.
"He says ladies don't like him much."
"Who says that?"
"Mr. Whitford."
"Were those his words?"
"I forget the words: but he said they wouldn't be taught by him, likeme, ever since you came; and since you came I've liked him ten timesmore."
"The more you like him the more I shall like you, Crossjay."
The boy raised a shout and scampered away to Sir Willoughby, at theappearance of whom Clara felt herself nipped and curling inward.Crossjay ran up to him with every sign of pleasure. Yet he had notmentioned him during the walk; and Clara took it for a sign that theboy understood the entire satisfaction Willoughby had in mere shows ofaffection, and acted up to it. Hardly blaming Crossjay, she was acritic of the scene, for the reason that youthful creatures who haveceased to love a person, hunger for evidence against him to confirmtheir hard animus, which will seem to them sometimes, when he is notimmediately irritating them, brutish, because they can not analyze itand reduce it to the multitude of just antagonisms whereof it came. Ithas passed by large accumulation into a sombre and speechless load uponthe senses, and fresh evidence, the smallest item, is a champion tospeak for it. Being about to do wrong, she grasped at this eagerly, andbrooded on the little of vital and truthful that there was in the manand how he corrupted the boy. Nevertheless, she instinctively imitatedCrossjay in an almost sparkling salute to him.
"Good-morning, Willoughby; it was not a morning to lose: have you beenout long?"
He retained her hand. "My dear Clara! and you, have you notoverfatigued yourself? Where have you been?"
"Round--everywhere! And I am certainly not tired."
"Only you and Crossjay? You should have loosened the dogs."
"Their barking would have annoyed the house."
"Less than I am annoyed to think of you without protection."
He kissed her fingers: it was a loving speech.
"The household . . ." said Clara, but would not insist to convict himof what he could not have perceived.
"If you outstrip me another morning, Clara, promise me to take thedogs; will you?"
"Yes."
"To-day I am altogether yours."
"Are you?"
"From the first to the last hour of it!--So you fall in with Horace'shumour pleasantly?"
"He is very amusing."
"As good as though one had hired him."
"Here comes Colonel De Craye."
"He must think we have hired him!"
She noticed the bitterness of Willoughby's tone. He sang out agood-morning to De Craye, and remarked that he must go to the stables.
"Darleton? Darleton, Miss Middleton?" said the colonel, rising from hisbow to her: "a daughter of General Darleton? If so, I have had thehonour to dance with her. And have not you?--practised with her, Imean; or gone off in a triumph to dance it out as young ladies do? Soyou know what a delightful partner she is."
"She is!" cried Clara, enthusiastic for her succouring friend, whoseletter was the treasure in her bosom.
"Oddly, the name did not strike me yesterday, Miss Middleton. In themiddle of the night it rang a little silver bell in my ear, and Iremembered the lady I was half in love with, if only for her dancing.She is dark, of your height, as light on her feet; a sister in anothercolour. Now that I know her to be your friend . . . !"
"Why, you may meet her, Colonel De Craye."
"It'll be to offer her a castaway. And one only meets a charming girlto hear that she's engaged! 'Tis not a line of a ballad, MissMiddleton, but out of the heart."
"Lucy Darleton . . . You were leading me to talk seriously to you,Colonel De Craye."
"Will you one day?--and not think me a perpetual tumbler! You haveheard of melancholy clowns. You will find the face not so laughablebehind my paint. When I was thirteen years younger I was loved, and mydearest sank to the grave. Since then I have not been quite at home inlife; probably because of finding no one so charitable as she. 'Tiseasy to win smiles and hands, but not so easy to win a woman whosefaith you would trust as your own heart before the enemy. I was poorthen. She said. 'The day after my twenty-first birthday'; and that dayI went for her, and I wondered they did not refuse me at the door. Iwas shown upstairs, and I saw her, and saw death. She wished to marryme, to leave me her fortune!"
"Then, never marry," said Clara, in an underbreath.
She glanced behind.
Sir Willoughby was close, walking on turf.
"I must be cunning to escape him after breakfast," she thought.
He had discarded his foolishness of the previous days, and the thoughtin him could have replied: "I am a dolt if I let you out of my sight."
Vernon appeared, formal as usual of late. Clara begged his excuse forwithdrawing Crossjay from his morning swim. He nodded.
De Craye called to Willoughby for a book of the trains.
"There's a card in the smoking-room; eleven, one, and four are thehours, if you must go," said Willoughby.
"You leave the Hall, Colonel De Craye?"
"In two or three days, Miss Middleton."
She did not request him to stay: his announcement produced no effect onher. Consequently, thought he--well, what? nothing: well, then, thatshe might not be minded to stay herself. Otherwise she would haveregretted the loss of an amusing companion: that is the modest way ofputting it. There is a modest and a vain for the same sentiment; andboth may be simultaneously in the same breast; and each one as honestas the other; so shy is man's vanity in the presence of here and therea lady. She liked him: she did not care a pin for him--how could she?yet she liked him: O, to be able to do her some kindling bit ofservice! These were his consecutive fancies, resolving naturally to theexclamation, and built on the conviction that she did not loveWilloughby, and waited for a spirited lift from circumstances. His callfor a book of the trains had been a sheer piece of impromptu, in themind as well as on the m
outh. It sprang, unknown to him, of conjectureshe had indulged yesterday and the day before. This morning she wouldhave an answer to her letter to her friend, Miss Lucy Darleton, thepretty dark girl, whom De Craye was astonished not to have noticed morewhen he danced with her. She, pretty as she was, had come to hisrecollection through the name and rank of her father, a famous generalof cavalry, and tactician in that arm. The colonel despised himself fornot having been devoted to Clara Middleton's friend.
The morning's letters were on the bronze plate in the hall. Clarapassed on her way to her room without inspecting them. De Craye openedan envelope and went upstairs to scribble a line. Sir Willoughbyobserved their absence at the solemn reading to the domestic servantsin advance of breakfast. Three chairs were unoccupied. Vernon had hisown notions of a mechanical service--and a precious profit he derivedfrom them! but the other two seats returned the stare Willoughby castat their backs with an impudence that reminded him of his friendHorace's calling for a book of the trains, when a minute afterward headmitted he was going to stay at the Hall another two days, or three.The man possessed by jealousy is never in need of matter for it: hemagnifies; grass is jungle, hillocks are mountains. Willoughby's legscrossing and uncrossing audibly, and his tight-folded arms and clearingof the throat, were faint indications of his condition.
"Are you in fair health this morning, Willoughby?" Dr. Middleton saidto him after he had closed his volumes.
"The thing is not much questioned by those who know me intimately," hereplied.
"Willoughby unwell!" and, "He is health incarnate!" exclaimed theladies Eleanor and Isabel.
Laetitia grieved for him. Sun-rays on a pest-stricken city, shethought, were like the smile of his face. She believed that he deeplyloved Clara, and had learned more of her alienation.
He went into the ball to look into the well for the pair ofmalefactors; on fire with what he could not reveal to a soul.
De Craye was in the housekeeper's room, talking to young Crossjay, andMrs. Montague just come up to breakfast. He had heard the boychattering, and as the door was ajar he peeped in, and was invited toenter. Mrs. Montague was very fond of hearing him talk: he paid her thefamiliar respect which a lady of fallen fortunes, at a certain periodafter the fall, enjoys as a befittingly sad souvenir, and therespectfulness of the lord of the house was more chilling.
She bewailed the boy's trying his constitution with long walks beforehe had anything in him to walk on.
"And where did you go this morning, my lad?" said De Craye.
"Ah, you know the ground, colonel," said Crossjay. "I am hungry! Ishall eat three eggs and some bacon, and buttered cakes, and jam, thenbegin again, on my second cup of coffee."
"It's not braggadocio," remarked Mrs. Montague. "He waits empty fromfive in the morning till nine, and then he comes famished to my table,and cats too much."
"Oh! Mrs. Montague, that is what the country people call roemancing.For, Colonel De Craye, I had a bun at seven o'clock. Miss Middletonforced me to go and buy it"
"A stale bun, my boy?"
"Yesterday's: there wasn't much of a stopper to you in it, like a newbun."
"And where did you leave Miss Middleton when you went to buy the bun?You should never leave a lady; and the street of a country town islonely at that early hour. Crossjay, you surprise me."
"She forced me to go, colonel. Indeed she did. What do I care for abun! And she was quite safe. We could hear the people stirring in thepost-office, and I met our postman going for his letter-bag. I didn'twant to go: bother the bun!--but you can't disobey Miss Middleton. Inever want to, and wouldn't."
"There we're of the same mind," said the colonel, and Crossjay shouted,for the lady whom they exalted was at the door.
"You will be too tired for a ride this morning," De Craye said to her,descending the stairs.
She swung a bonnet by the ribands. "I don't think of riding to-day."
"Why did you not depute your mission to me?"
"I like to bear my own burdens, as far as I can."
"Miss Darleton is well?"
"I presume so."
"Will you try her recollection for me?"
"It will probably be quite as lively as yours was."
"Shall you see her soon?"
"I hope so."
Sir Willoughby met her at the foot of the stairs, but refrained fromgiving her a hand that shook.
"We shall have the day together," he said.
Clara bowed.
At the breakfast-table she faced a clock.
De Craye took out his watch. "You are five and a half minutes too slowby that clock, Willoughby."
"The man omitted to come from Rendon to set it last week, Horace. Hewill find the hour too late here for him when he does come."
One of the ladies compared the time of her watch with De Craye's, andClara looked at hers and gratefully noted that she was four minutes inarrear.
She left the breakfast-room at a quarter to ten, after kissing herfather. Willoughby was behind her. He had been soothed by thinking ofhis personal advantages over De Craye, and he felt assured that if hecould be solitary with his eccentric bride and fold her in himself, hewould, cutting temper adrift, be the man he had been to her not so manydays back. Considering how few days back, his temper was roused, but hecontrolled it.
They were slightly dissenting as De Craye stepped into the hall.
"A present worth examining," Willoughby said to her: "and I do notdwell on the costliness. Come presently, then. I am at your disposalall day. I will drive you in the afternoon to call on Lady Busshe tooffer your thanks: but you must see it first. It is laid out in thelaboratory."
"There is time before the afternoon," said Clara.
"Wedding presents?" interposed De Craye.
"A porcelain service from Lady Busshe, Horace."
"Not in fragments? Let me have a look at it. I'm haunted by an ideathat porcelain always goes to pieces. I'll have a look and take a hint.We're in the laboratory, Miss Middleton."
He put his arm under Willoughby's. The resistance to him was momentary:Willoughby had the satisfaction of the thought that De Craye being withhim was not with Clara; and seeing her giving orders to her maidBarclay, he deferred his claim on her company for some short period.
De Craye detained him in the laboratory, first over the China cups andsaucers, and then with the latest of London--tales of youngest Cupidupon subterranean adventures, having high titles to light him.Willoughby liked the tale thus illuminated, for without the title therewas no special savour in such affairs, and it pulled down his bettersin rank. He was of a morality to reprobate the erring dame while heenjoyed the incidents. He could not help interrupting De Craye to pointat Vernon through the window, striding this way and that, evidently onthe hunt for young Crossjay. "No one here knows how to manage the boyexcept myself But go on, Horace," he said, checking his contemptuouslaugh; and Vernon did look ridiculous, out there half-drenched alreadyin a white rain, again shuffled off by the little rascal. It seemedthat he was determined to have his runaway: he struck up the avenue atfull pedestrian racing pace.
"A man looks a fool cutting after a cricket-ball; but, putting on steamin a storm of rain to catch a young villain out of sight, beatsanything I've witnessed," Willoughby resumed, in his amusement.
"Aiha!" said De Craye, waving a hand to accompany the melodious accent,"there are things to beat that for fun."
He had smoked in the laboratory, so Willoughby directed a servant totransfer the porcelain service to one of the sitting-rooms for Clara'sinspection of it.
"You're a bold man," De Craye remarked. "The luck may be with you,though. I wouldn't handle the fragile treasure for a trifle."
"I believe in my luck," said Willoughby.
Clara was now sought for. The lord of the house desired her presenceimpatiently, and had to wait. She was in none of the lower rooms.Barclay, her maid, upon interrogation, declared she was in none of theupper. Willoughby turned sharp on De Craye: he was there.
The ladies Eleanor and Isabel and Miss Dale were consulted. They hadnothing to say about Clara's movements, more than that they could notunderstand her exceeding restlessness. The idea of her being out ofdoors grew serious; heaven was black, hard thunder rolled, andlightning flushed the battering rain. Men bearing umbrellas, shawls,and cloaks were dispatched on a circuit of the park. De Craye said:"I'll be one."
"No," cried Willoughby, starting to interrupt him, "I can't allow it."
"I've the scent of a hound, Willoughby; I'll soon be on the track."
"My dear Horace, I won't let you go."
"Adieu, dear boy! and if the lady's discoverable, I'm the one to findher."
He stepped to the umbrella-stand. There was then a general questionwhether Clara had taken her umbrella. Barclay said she had. The factindicated a wider stroll than round inside the park: Crossjay waslikewise absent. De Craye nodded to himself.
Willoughby struck a rattling blow on the barometer.
"Where's Pollington?" he called, and sent word for his man Pollingtonto bring big fishing-boots and waterproof wrappers.
An urgent debate within him was in progress.
Should he go forth alone on his chance of discovering Clara andforgiving her under his umbrella and cloak? or should he prevent DeCraye from going forth alone on the chance he vaunted so impudently?
"You will offend me, Horace, if you insist," he said.
"Regard me as an instrument of destiny, Willoughby," replied De Craye.
"Then we go in company."
"But that's an addition of one that cancels the other by conjunction,and's worse than simple division: for I can't trust my wits unless Irely on them alone, you see."
"Upon my word, you talk at times most unintelligible stuff, to be frankwith you, Horace. Give it in English."
"'Tis not suited, perhaps, to the genius of the language, for I thoughtI talked English."
"Oh, there's English gibberish as well as Irish, we know!"
"And a deal foolisher when they do go at it; for it won't bearsqueezing, we think, like Irish."
"Where!" exclaimed the ladies, "where can she be! The storm isterrible."
Laetitia suggested the boathouse.
"For Crossjay hadn't a swim this morning!" said De Craye.
No one reflected on the absurdity that Clara should think of takingCrossjay for a swim in the lake, and immediately after his breakfast:it was accepted as a suggestion at least that she and Crossjay had goneto the lake for a row.
In the hopefulness of the idea, Willoughby suffered De Craye to go onhis chance unaccompanied. He was near chuckling. He projected a planfor dismissing Crossjay and remaining in the boathouse with Clara,luxuriating in the prestige which would attach to him for seeking andfinding her. Deadly sentiments intervened. Still he might expect to bealone with her where she could not slip from him.
The throwing open of the hall-doors for the gentlemen presented aframed picture of a deluge. All the young-leaved trees were steelyblack, without a gradation of green, drooping and pouring, and the songof rain had become an inveterate hiss.
The ladies beholding it exclaimed against Clara, even apostrophizedher, so dark are trivial errors when circumstances frown. She must bemad to tempt such weather: she was very giddy; she was never at rest.Clara! Clara! how could you be so wild! Ought we not to tell Dr.Middleton?
Laetitia induced them to spare him.
"Which way do you take?" said Willoughby, rather fearful that hiscompanion was not to be got rid of now.
"Any way," said De Craye. "I chuck up my head like a halfpenny, and goby the toss."
This enraging nonsense drove off Willoughby. De Craye saw him cast afurtive eye at his heels to make sure he was not followed, and thought,"Jove! he may be fond of her. But he's not on the track. She's adetermined girl, if I'm correct. She's a girl of a hundred thousand.Girls like that make the right sort of wives for the right men. They'rethe girls to make men think of marrying. To-morrow! only give me achance. They stick to you fast when they do stick."
Then a thought of her flower-like drapery and face caused him ferventlyto hope she had escaped the storm.
Calling at the West park-lodge he heard that Miss Middleton had beenseen passing through the gate with Master Crossjay; but she had notbeen seen coming back. Mr. Vernon Whitford had passed through half anhour later.
"After his young man!" said the colonel.
The lodge-keeper's wife and daughter knew of Master Crossjay's pranks;Mr. Whitford, they said, had made inquiries about him and must havecaught him and sent him home to change his dripping things; for MasterCrossjay had come back, and had declined shelter in the lodge; heseemed to be crying; he went away soaking over the wet grass, hanginghis head. The opinion at the lodge was that Master Crossjay wasunhappy.
"He very properly received a wigging from Mr. Whitford, I have nodoubt," said Colonel Do Craye.
Mother and daughter supposed it to be the case, and considered Crossjayvery wilful for not going straight home to the Hall to change his wetclothes; he was drenched.
Do Craye drew out his watch. The time was ten minutes past eleven. Ifthe surmise he had distantly spied was correct, Miss Middleton wouldhave been caught in the storm midway to her destination. By his guessat her character (knowledge of it, he would have said), he judged thatno storm would daunt her on a predetermined expedition. He deduced inconsequence that she was at the present moment flying to her friend,the charming brunette Lucy Darleton.
Still, as there was a possibility of the rain having been too much forher, and as he had no other speculation concerning the route she hadtaken, he decided upon keeping along the road to Rendon, with a keeneye at cottage and farmhouse windows.