“But, by all thy nature’s weakness,
Hidden faults and follies known,
Be thou, in rebuking evil,
Conscious of thine own.
“So, when thoughts of evil-doers
Waken scorn, or hatred move,
Shall a mournful fellow-feeling
Temper all with love.”
Whittier.
|Lady Mount Pleasant’s picnic proved a successful affair, and Sir
Matthew prevailed on her to dine with them at the Rigi Vaudois on her
way home. Minnie, running upstairs to change her dress after the gong
had sounded, had scant time to think of Evereld, she rang for hot water
and flew about her room making the hastiest of toilettes, it was only as
the chambermaid was just closing the door that she called after her.
“Marie! Wait a moment. Have you seen Miss Ewart? Is she better?”
“I have seen her, Mademoiselle, and she still has _migraine_,” said the
chambermaid.
“Well see that she has all she needs,” said Minnie hurriedly pinning a
cluster of roses in her dress.
“Yes, Mademoiselle. But she left word expressly that she did not want to
be disturbed.”
“Ah, then I will not go in,” said Minnie, flying along the corridor, and
running downstairs.
“But I will just ask if the _pauvre petite_ would like a _tisane?_”
reflected the chambermaid knocking at Evereld’s door. “No response!
’Tis strange, I will knock again. Mademoiselle! It is I, Marie. Well,
’tis useless to wait. Without doubt she sleeps. These English are
always heavy sleepers, and after all, sleep is the best cure for _la
migraine_.”
But next morning when to repeated knocks there was still no answer,
Marie began to feel anxious. She consulted Miss Mactavish.
“Miss Ewart often goes out early in the morning. I expect she has locked
her door and taken her key to the _bureau_,” was Minnie’s matter-of-fact
solution of the problem.
“No, Mademoiselle, the key is not in the bureau. It is on the inside of
the door. I fear Mademoiselle must be very ill.”
“Well, we can soon find out,” said Minnie, opening her window and
stepping on to the balcony.
To unbolt the _jalousies_ and open Evereld’s French window was the work
of a minute, but Minnie gave a gasp of surprise when she found the room
quite empty. Remembering however the curious eyes of the chambermaid she
controlled herself.
“Perhaps she is with Lady Mactavish, I will see,” she exclaimed, and
hastily ran down to the next floor in search of her father. She found
him in their private sitting-room, writing letters, and quickly told her
discovery.
“Can the child have been so foolish as to run away,” he exclaimed in
dismay. “Well she can’t have gone far, that is one comfort; we shall
soon track her. I will come up with you and see if we can find any clue.
Run on first and tell the maid it is all right and get her out of the
way.”
He followed more leisurely, and passing through his daughter’s room went
by the balcony to Evereld’s deserted chamber.
“The bed has been slept in,” he remarked in a tone of satisfaction, “she
has not gone far.”
It did not occur to him that it had never been made on the previous day,
that was just one of those small points of detail which would escape an
ordinary man. Minnie instantly thought of it, but she held her tongue,
and began hurriedly to see what clothes Evereld had taken with her.
“Her little travelling bag has gone,” she said, “and her hat and cloak.
See, too, here is a letter just inside her portmanteau directed to you,
Papa.”
Sir Matthew who began to look seriously disturbed tore open the letter
and hastily read the following lines:--
“My Dear Sir Matthew:
“Nothing will induce me to marry Mr. Wylie, and as you insist on my
accepting his proposal within the next two days, and refuse to pay any
heed to what I say as to my future marriage with Ralph, you force me
to act for myself. Please do not be anxious about my safety--I am going
straight to friends who will take every care of me, and it will be
useless to try to make me live again under your roof.
“If you make any attempt to force me back I shall put myself under the
protection of the Lord Chancellor, and ask for a thorough investigation
of my affairs. My love to Lady Mactavish and Minnie. I am sorry to vex
you all, but you have left me no alternative.
“Yours affly,
“Evereld Ewart.”
He handed the letter to his daughter, and paced the room, dumb for the
time with anger and surprise.
“Where can she have gone?” said Minnie. “And how on earth can we hush it
up here?”
“Easily enough,” said her father with contempt in his tone, “say that
she has joined some friends in Montreux, and we can all leave to-morrow.
Indeed I shall go straight home to-day and track her out. Little
minx! Who would have thought her capable of such resistance! A little
blue-eyed slip of a girl, who had hardly a word to say for herself!”
He turned away in search of Bruce Wylie, and was glad to see that his
friend was shocked and perplexed by the news. To do the lawyer justice
he was really anxious about Evereld’s safety.
“Upon my soul, Mactavish, it’s an ugly business,” he said uneasily,
“a young girl fresh from school, innocent and ignorant and quite
unprotected, crossing Europe alone! I hope to goodness she has gone to
those friends of hers at Champéry. I will set off this morning and see.
She would naturally think of them.”
“It’s possible,” said Sir Matthew, with a look of relief. “You go there,
and I will go straight to London making close inquiry all along the
route. Perhaps we may be able to learn something from the people in the
hotel without rousing their curiosity too much. We must avoid getting
the girl talked about. That would be fatal.”
“It’s a hateful business,” said Bruce Wylie frowning, “I wish I had
never meddled with it.”
“There was more in the child than we dreamt of,” said Sir Matthew, “She
was quiet and gentle and affectionate and I never thought it possible
she would show so stubborn a front. Look at the letter. Why old Ewart
himself might have penned it. As ill luck would have it, she heard the
day before yesterday that changes have been made as to the investment of
her money, and I fear she suspects that all is not right. How on earth
she came to know anything about the Lord Chancellor and her power of
appeal to him I can’t conceive.”
“Probably through ‘Iolanthe’ and the ‘such a susceptible Chancellor,’”
said Bruce Wylie with a mirthless laugh, “or through some of her beloved
Charles Dickens’ novels. The fact is, Mactavish, we educate our girls
now-a-days, but expect them to remain fools. Unless we can track
Evereld, and force her to obey you, she has the game in her own hands.
Great Heaven! just think of it! That little girl can absolutely ruin our
career, can give the pinprick which will burst the whole bubble.”
It was exasperating to the last degree, and to men who had always taken
the lowest view of womanhood, it was wholly perplexing. They went down
to the _salle à manger_ trying to look unconcerned, but Miss Upton’s
keen eyes read their perturbation.
She enjoyed it hugely.
“I guess you had a good time yesterday up at the Rochers de Naye?” she
said blithely.
“Very, thank you,” said Sir Matthew, “though we were all disappointed
that my ward was not with us. Have you seen anything of her?”
The American girl met his keen gaze without flinching in the least.
“She was in the garden for a little while yesterday.”
“Ah, indeed,” Sir Matthew was all on the alert. “Did you have any talk
with her?”
“Well--I inquired after her headache,” said Miss Upton casually. “How is
she this morning?” and with perfect _sang froid _she began to eat an
egg American fashion, a proceeding which she well knew would make Sir
Matthew shudder.
“Thank you, she is better,” he said, taking refuge in his cup of coffee.
“I’m so glad,” said Miss Upton sweetly. “We must have some more
thought-reading this evening, Mr. Wylie. Perhaps Miss Ewart will be able
to show me the experiment you were speaking of the other night. You are
always successful with her, are you not?”
Dick Lewisham at an adjoining table bent low over his newspaper to hide
his amusement.
“Unfortunately,” said the solicitor, “we are obliged to leave to-day, or
it would have given me the greatest pleasure.”
“What a mistake to leave just when we are all such a nice, congenial
party,” said the American. “Is Miss Ewart really fit to go? She looked
so white and ill when I saw her yesterday.”
“She has been travelling about in Switzerland some time,” said Sir
Matthew, “and will, I think, be glad to settle down at home.”
“I can understand that,” said Miss Upton. “I don’t think the hotel life
was quite congenial to her. Now, we Americans are brought up to live
in public from our childhood, it’s second nature to us, and we are
accustomed to so much more liberty than you allow your girls. I suppose
though your English girls are much more tractable and obedient than we
are.”
Sir Matthew winced.
“Comparisons are odious,” said Bruce Wylie, with ready politeness, and
after a very scanty breakfast the two men retired discomforted, while
Dick Lewisham and the bright-eyed American enjoyed a quiet laugh at
their expense.
To get any clue as to Evereld’s movements seemed impossible, and Sir
Matthew did not care to put the matter into the hands of the police, or
to employ a private detective. In his own mind he felt convinced that
Evereld had gone to England, and he travelled home with the utmost
speed, having first telegraphed to his confidential clerk to meet him at
Victoria by the boat train on the following afternoon.
“All well I hope, sir,” said Smither, the clerk, as Sir Matthew gave him
a pleasant greeting.
“Quite, thank you; did you get that address?”
“Yes, sir,” and the clerk handed him a paper. “Da Costa the agent gave
it me.”
On the paper were inscribed the words, “Macneillie’s Company, September
20-27, Theatre Royal. Rilchester.” Sir Matthew promptly detached a key
from his ring and handed it to Smither.
“Just see my portmanteau through the Custom House,” he said, “I must
catch the next train at King’s Cross, and will only take my bag with
me.”
He drove off, but took the precaution of calling at the house in Queen
Anne’s Gate that he might see whether any clue as to Evereld’s movements
was to be had from Geraghty or Bridget. Their entire ignorance was
however so transparent, and Bridget’s inquiries after her young mistress
were so natural that he went off to King’s Cross more certain than ever
that Evereld had avoided London and had gone straight to her lover. He
dined in the train, arrived at Rilchester soon after ten o’clock that
evening, took up his quarters at the Station Hotel, and sent a messenger
to the stage door of the theatre to inquire as to Ralph Denmead’s
address, being careful to avoid giving his name. When however he had
obtained what he wanted and after some trouble had discovered the quiet
street to which he had been directed, it was only to find that Ralph was
still at the theatre.
“He’ll not be back for at least another half hour,” said the landlady.
“Can I give him any message?”
“I had better come in and wait,” said Sir Matthew.
The landlady hesitated a moment, but being impressed as most people were
by Sir Matthew’s manner and bearing, she admitted him and showed him
into a fairly comfortable room where the supper-table was laid for two
people.
“I have caught them,” said Sir Matthew to himself with an inward chuckle
of satisfaction. “The little fool with her grand talk of the Lord
Chancellor’s protection! She has ruined her case now. We shall have a
scene, that can’t be helped. All’s well that ends well.”
Picking up a newspaper he installed himself comfortably in an armchair,
and awaited Ralph’s return. Presently steps were heard outside, the
street door was opened, and two people entered the passage, he put down
his paper and listened. The voice speaking was certainly Ralph’s.
“It’s the worst house we have had this week, there weren’t a dozen
people in the Stalls. Ah! I see there’s a note for you here.”
There followed sounds as of the opening of an envelope and then the door
handle turned, and Sir Matthew looked up expectantly. Instead however
of his runaway ward, there entered a middle-aged man intently reading an
open letter; for a moment Sir Matthew failed to recognise the tired and
rather despondent face, then it flashed upon him that this must be Hugh
Macneillie. He moved somewhat uneasily, and the actor recalled to the
present, lifted his eyes from the letter and looked at him in mute
astonishment.
“I called to see Mr. Denmead,” said Sir Matthew, and at that moment
Ralph blithe and cheerful as ever came into the room giving an
astonished exclamation as he caught sight of his godfather. He greeted
him however with all proper formality and introduced Macneillie.
There was a momentary pause after that; the situation was somewhat
embarrassing.
“I hope Evereld is well?” he said, chiefly for the sake of breaking the
silence.
“I have come here to make inquiries about Evereld,” said Sir Matthew
grimly. “Have the goodness to tell me at once where she is.”
“Is she not in Switzerland with Lady Mactavish?” said Ralph,
astonishment and anxiety plainly to be seen in his face.
“My good fellow, I know you are an actor, but spare me this private
exhibition,” said Sir Matthew waving his hand in the old manner. “You
know that she has sought refuge with you, and the sooner you give her up
to her lawful guardian the better it will be for you both.”
“I think you must have gone out of your mind,” said Ralph, fuming. “How
should I know anything of Evereld’s movements? She is unfortunately
under your protection till she is of age. Do you mean that you have lost
her?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I do mean,” said Sir Matthew wrathfully. “She
merely left a letter behind her saying that she had gone to friends who
would take care of her, and she had had the audacity on the previous
day to tell me with her own lips that she would never marry any one but
you.”
“She is gone?” said Ralph in horror. “But where?”
“That is precisely what I want to learn from you?” said Sir Matthew with
a cold sarcastic smile.
“You brute!” said Ralph beside himself with passion. “How can you
torture me like this? Tell me when she left you, and why? You must have
treated her shamefully, or she would never have taken such a step.”
“You don’t impose upon me in the least by all this tragedy acting,”
said Sir Matthew. “I am satisfied that you know quite well where she is.
Probably she is in this house.”
Ralph seemed on the point of springing at his torturer’s throat, when
Macneillie laid a strong hand on his shoulder and drew him back.
“My dear boy, leave this to me” he said. “Surely Sir Matthew, you cannot
seriously believe that we know anything of Miss Ewart’s movements? From
the little I know of her I should imagine she was far too right-minded
and sensible to dream of attempting to seek refuge with her lover. I saw
her once or twice in August when she was staying with Mrs. Hereford at
Southbourne, and was struck by her quiet common-sense.”
Sir Matthew was obliged to alter his tone, for he saw at once that there
was force in what Macneillie said.
“She told me she had met you at Southbourne. I suppose it was there,
Ralph, that you had the presumption to ask her to marry you?”
Ralph had by this time recovered his self-control, he replied with a
sort of quiet dignity which Sir Matthew resented much more than the
outburst of anger.
“It was there that I told her I hoped some day to work my way up in the
profession. It was there I learnt that our love was mutual. Surely she
will have gone to Mrs. Hereford for protection. That would be her most
natural impulse.”
“Well, I had not thought of that. Are the Herefords in London?”
said Sir Matthew, feeling that there was a good deal of sense in the
suggestion.
“No, they will not be back till Parliament meets, but I know their
address in County Wicklow, and will telegraph to them to-morrow.”
Sir Matthew frowned: it galled him terribly to feel that he was
helpless.
“After all,” he exclaimed. “She may have had the sense to go to her old
Governess in Germany. She would be far more likely to confide in her
than in Mrs. Hereford. I will telegraph to Dresden and inquire.”
“And when you have learnt where she is what do you propose to do?” said
Ralph.
“Fetch her home, of course, and make her realise what people think of
such escapades.”
Ralph seemed about to reply but he checked himself.
“Did you imagine I was going to let her set me at defiance?” said Sir
Matthew. “Do you think a girl of nineteen will get the better of me?”
“Yes,” said Ralph, quietly. “I think she will.”
Sir Matthew laughed maliciously and rose to go.
“You’re a true Denmead,” he said. “Always sanguine, always foolish
and unpractical. Well, good-night, Mr. Macneillie. I am sorry to have
inflicted this visit on you. Good-night Ralph. Let me know at the
Station Hotel as soon as you get a reply from the Herefords.” Ralph
showed him to the door in silence, and returning to the sitting-room,
flung himself down in a chair by the supper-table, and buried his face
in his hands.
“What can I do!” he groaned. “Surely there must be something I could do
for her.”
“Eat boy, eat,” said Macneillie in his genial voice. “You can’t think to
any purpose when you are dog-tired and as hungry as a hunter. All very
well for Sir Mathew to come in here and rant at half past eleven when he
had dined luxuriously at eight, but for strolling players, who feed at
four and work like galley slaves all the evening, it’s not so easy.”
While he talked, he had been carving cold beef, and Ralph who at the
best of times was a small supper eater, and had never felt less inclined
for a meal, found himself forced to begin whether he would or not.
“Here’s a salad that I mixed this afternoon after Sydney Smith’s own
receipt,” said Macneillie. “It would be sudden death to most men of
this generation close upon midnight but it’s the reward of hard work
to acquire the digestion of the ostrich and to sleep the sleep of the
righteous.”
He talked on much in the way he had talked long ago in the Pass of Leny
when he had helped Ralph along the road to Kilmahog; it was the sort
of conversation which did not demand much response, but never failed to
hold the hearer’s attention, because it was racy and humourous. But by
and bye when they had lighted their pipes, he reverted to Sir Matthew’s
visit.
“Curious man, that ex-guardian of yours,” he said musingly. “I am not
surprised that you two never hit it off. I wonder what it was that drove
little Miss Ewart to take such a decided step.”
“I am certain it was some question of marriage,” said Ralph. “Probably
he wanted that brute Wylie to have the control of her fortune. I have
always detested that man. Governor! What am I to do? Will you spare me
for a week and let me see if I can help her?”
“No, my dear boy, I will not do anything of the sort,” said Macneillie
resolutely, yet with a most kindly look in his eyes. “I know it’s a hard
thing for you to stay here and go on with your work as if nothing had
happened, and while all the time you are sick with anxiety, but it’s
what we all of us have to put up with now and again. Besides, you could
do no good and you might do great harm. Those who know Miss Ewart best
are the ones who ought to have most confidence in her womanly wisdom.
Depend upon it she is perfectly safe. Such a quiet, well-bred girl as
that might go alone unharmed from one end of Europe to the other.”
Ralph pushed back his chair and paced the room restlessly. “The suspense
is the intolerable part of it,” he said, with a break in his voice.
“I have good reason to know how hard suspense is to bear,” said
Macneillie. “And yet it’s not the worst, for there’s always a large
mixture of hope in it. Come let us write out your telegram to the
Herefords, it will need careful wording.”
The next day was Sunday, but the telegraph office was open for two hours
in the morning, and upon the stroke of eight Ralph stood at the door
with his message to Ireland. He returned again between half past nine
and ten and waited drearily in the office for the reply. But the deep
bell of the cathedral boomed out the hour and still no answer came.
“Open again between five and six, sir,” said the official, showing
him to the door. And Ralph, miserably depressed, made his way to the
cathedral. Here for a time he found comfort; but during the psalms the
verger ushered a late-comer into the stall exactly facing him. He saw at
a glance that it was Sir Matthew, and after that there was no more peace
for him, but a dire struggle with his angry heart.
After service was over, Sir Matthew joined him in the Close, greeting
him just as if nothing had happened.
“Did you telegraph to the Herefords?” he asked.
“Yes, but as yet there is no reply,” said Ralph.
“And I have not heard back from Dresden. We shall both hear this
afternoon. Come and dine with me at eight o’clock and you shall hear the
result.”
“Thank you,” said Ralph. “But we leave for Nottingham by the eight ten.”
“Come to lunch now then.”
But to sit down and eat with the man who had wrought such havoc in his
life and had driven Evereld to take such a desperate step was more than
Ralph could endure. He excused himself, promising, however, to come
round at six o’clock to the hotel and report any news he might receive
from Ireland. His face when he arrived was not reassuring; he looked
pale and miserable.
“What news?” said Sir Matthew eagerly.
“None,” said Ralph, handing the telegram to his godfather. The words
struck a chill to Sir Matthew’s heart.
_“Know nothing about her at all. Imagined she was in Switzerland still
with her guardian.”_
“I have had a similar one from Dresden,” he replied. “She is not there
and wrote last nearly a month ago.”
“Is there any clue whatever in the letter she left behind for you?”
suggested Ralph, with a strong desire to see it. Sir Matthew took from
his breast-pocket a methodically arranged packet, and drew out Evereld’s
note.
“I can find no clue in it,” he said, “perhaps you may be able to do so.”
Ralph eagerly read the letter. There was not the slightest hint as to
the direction Evereld had taken, but something in the quiet assurance,
the guarded, dignified tone of the short note brought him comfort. It
revealed a side of his old play-fellow’s character which had hitherto
lain dormant.
“Well,” said Sir Matthew sharply. “You look relieved. What do you make
of it? Where do you think she has gone?”
“I have no idea,” said Ralph. “The letter tells nothing. Still she
wouldn’t have written so calmly and confidently if her plans had not
been well thought out. Evereld is not impulsive. Perhaps she had met
friends while you were travelling and has gone to them.”
“No, I had a telegram in London from Bruce Wylie who went over to
Champéry on purpose to interview a school friend she had met. She
had heard nothing whatever about her. I shall have to set a private
detective to work.”
Ralph flushed.
“You would surely not do that?” he said quickly.
“Why not? I must find her. And I intend to bring her back to my house.”
“Well,” said Ralph, “the one thing that remains absolutely certain is
that when Evereld says a thing she means it with her whole heart. She
will certainly appeal to the Lord Chancellor, and I don’t think he will
compel her to return to your house when he has heard the whole truth.”
“Do you dare to assert that I have not been in every respect a faithful
and kind guardian to her? I who was her father’s oldest friend?”
“I assert nothing,” said Ralph bitterly, as he moved to the door. “But I
can’t forget what your friendship for my father led to.”
Sir Matthew made no reply, but turned abruptly to the window, the
colour mounting to his temples. The closing of the door and the sound of
Ralph’s retreating footsteps came as a relief.
“If I had but guessed what a serpent’s tooth that boy would prove to
me I would have shipped him straight off to the Colonies instead of
educating him,” he thought to himself. “I was weak--pitiably weak! It
was the look of Denmead’s face as he lay there dead that unmanned me.
There was the ghastly quiet of the country, too, and the child with his
old-world politeness, and that old lawyer with his suspicions. If I had
only been sensible enough to stamp out all sentiment and do the
practical thing at once my plans would not be thwarted now by a chit of
a girl who has lost her heart to a penniless actor.”
His face grew dark with anxiety and trouble as he reflected on the
desperate position of his own affairs should Evereld succeed in baffling
him.