A CHASE.
WE will now return to the wedding guests at the Hall.
"Mr. Allfrey! Mr. Allfrey!" whispered the voice of Rosa May.
And the tall young squire, who had been standing surveying the most
magnificent pile of white sugar, silver leaves, and orange-blossom that
had ever appeared in that part of the Country, turned slowly round to
meet the eager, animated gaze of the bridesmaid.
"Now's your time! He has just left the house. After him, and see where
he goes."
"What! Stolen away—and on a night like this?" The rain was pattering
against the windows.
"Hist!" whispered Rosa May. "You do not mind weather, I suppose?"
"No more than a duck," said the squire. "I've been out in many a pretty
pelting. But how can I know that the young fellow has not quietly gone
to his room?"
"He left this house a moment ago, I tell you, and turned to the left,
as if he were going to the garden. Be quick, or the track will be lost!
Just steal out without attracting any notice; leave the cake to those
who care for such things."
So, in obedience to a lady's command, John Allfrey stalked out into the
rain, turned to the left as directed, and proceeded for about twenty
paces. He then stopped, as he could see nothing of Wilfred, and felt
himself to be in rather a foolish position, standing there all alone
to get drenched with the rain on a stormy night. Soon, however, the
squire's ear caught the noise made by Wilfred in clambering over the
wall.
"There he goes! Hark! Follow," cried the jovial sportsman. "The fox is
taking to the fields." And Allfrey proceeded to the nearest point at
which he himself could climb the wall. The tall young man, however,
took longer in doing this than the active boy had done, and, before he
had jumped down on the opposite side, Allfrey had again lost the track
of Wilfred.
"There's a gate on t'other side of the field, he'll be making for
that," said John to himself; he knew every yard of the country round.
The young squire's height gave him a great advantage in striding
through the long grass. Before he had reached the gate, however, he
heard the crashing of boughs to the right, where Wilfred was breaking
through the hedge.
"The boy must want to get to the river. I will go on to the gate,
spring over it, and be round in two minutes by the bank; then he will
not hear my approach."
On to the gate, and over the gate, went John Allfrey, while Wilfred
was anxiously groping about for something with which to weight his
parchment. With slow stealthy steps the hunter crept round towards him,
unable in the dim light to distinguish what the boy could possibly be
doing. Allfrey saw then—or rather heard—that something was thrown into
the stream, which, in a minute afterwards, Wilfred seemed to be eagerly
trying to recover.
"If he lean over so, he'll be in, as sure as a gun!" muttered the
watcher, and, even as the words were on his lips, Wilfred fell
splashing into the stream.
Well was it for the unhappy young Marsden that a strong man and
bold swimmer was near. Not that John Allfrey was an impetuous
philanthropist, eager to rush forward to the rescue on seeing a
fellow-creature in danger. He took off his hat and drew off his coat
and boots preparatory to the plunge before he made it. Allfrey expected
to see Wilfred rise to the surface of the river, but he expected in
vain, so sprang into the water, and dived at the spot where he had seen
young Marsden disappear. But the boy had been carried a short way down
by the current, the swimmer could not find him at once; several minutes
elapsed before the gasping Allfrey reappeared, dragging with him by the
hair the senseless body of the boy.
"This has been a strange, and might have been a fatal adventure,"
muttered the squire, as he laid the youth on the bank, with his face
to the ground, so that the water might flow freely from his nostrils
and mouth. "I must get him back at once to the house, there a hot drink
and warm bed will set all to rights, I hope, before morning. What is
it that he holds in his hand? A long roll—a parchment deed!" The young
man disengaged the will from the grasp of the cold livid fingers. "It
must have been this which he was so anxiously fishing out of the water.
Mysteries never will end! Well, whatever it be, it must not be lost,
since he almost threw away his life to get it."
Allfrey was now hastily drawing on his own coat, and he secured the
long roll, wet as it was, under his outer garment; then, raising poor
Wilfred in his arms, the strong man carried him as if he had been a
young child, not over the field, but round by the road and the front
drive of Cortley Hall—a way longer, indeed, but far easier, as no wall
would have to be climbed.
While with long, rapid strides John Allfrey went on his road, he turned
over in his mind what he should say in regard to the night's adventure.
"I've a notion—" thus flowed the current of his thoughts—"that the
whole secret, whatever it may be, lies in that wet roll of sheep-skin
as the kernel lies in a nut. Shall I give it to Rosa May? I don't
see," pursued honest John, "what right she has to possess it, nor what
mischief might be done by her seeing it. There's a world of trouble
often comes from meddling with bits of old parchment! Shall I look into
the roll, and judge for myself? It does not seem to me that to do so
would be the act of a gentleman. It is not mine—I have no right to read
it. I'll keep the whole matter quiet. If this poor fellow recovers, as
I hope that he will, he shall have his roll back unopened; if not, I
shall make it over to his father."
And having thus settled the question in his mind, and at the same time
reached the door of the Hall, Allfrey shouted out with stentorian voice
to bring the household to his assistance.
The scene that followed may readily be imagined. Great were the alarm
and surprise in the Hall when the tidings spread that John Allfrey had
just entered, dripping with water, and bearing in his arms the only
son and heir of the master of the house, senseless—perhaps lifeless.
There was running to and fro, loud ringing of bells, voices calling for
flannels, brandy, hot water. Anxiety, curiosity, or wonder, were marked
upon every face. A horse was saddled at once, and Edward Lyle rode off
at full speed for a doctor.
Wilfred Marsden was borne to his room in the arms of his father,
undressed, swathed in hot flannels, his cold limbs chafed with anxious
care. No means of restoring circulation were left untried by Mr.
Marsden and his weeping daughter.
The guests below, who could not share the labours of the sick-room,
eagerly gathered around John Allfrey, and the young man was overwhelmed
by a perfect torrent of questions. How had he tracked Wilfred Marsden?
What had taken the boy to the river? How could he possibly have
fallen in? Allfrey replied to some of the questions, others he left
unanswered. He wanted to get to a fire, and change his wet clothes, and
not be kept, as he said, like a poor wretch in a witness-box, after a
sudden cold bath in the river.
It was some time before Allfrey was suffered to make his retreat to Mr.
Marsden's room, in which a fire had been lighted, and where, while he
changed his clothes for some of his host's, he took the opportunity of
drying—not reading—the parchment.