SEARCH.

Great was the consternation which prevailed at Cranston Hall as the day

wore on and Hubert did not return.

When first it was reported that his room was undisturbed and his bed had

not been slept in, Mrs Dorrien's chief care was to keep the knowledge

from her husband, but soon her fears got the better of her prudence on

her son's behalf, and it became necessary to acquaint the General with

the fact, with a view to a search being instituted.

Very sternly and concisely the latter at once proceeded to enquire into

the circumstances of the case, but, beyond the fact that the missing one

had left home with the expressed intention of attending evening service

at Cranston Church, no one at the Hall could throw any light on the

matter.

"I don't know what could possibly have happened to Hubert between this

and the village," he said to his wife. "Why, it's barely twenty

minutes' walk. I really don't know what to think about it, Eleanor. It

is extremely painful to be obliged to say so, but it looks strangely as

if Hubert had started on an unlawful errand, inventing a pretext for

covering it. I have not found him invariably truthful, you know."

She burst into a storm of tears, her hard nature stirred to its very

depths; her cold heart sorely wounded in its one vulnerable point.

"Oh, my boy, my boy?" she sobbed. "I shall never see you again,

something tells me I shall not. And you"--turning fiercely upon her

husband--"you were always so stern, so severe with him. He may have

left his home, left it for good. Couldn't you remember that he was

young, and make allowances--and in delicate health? Yes, it is you who

have driven him away, even as you drove away the other. Oh, my boy, my

darling boy! I shall never see him again!"

A deep frown came over the General's brow at this reproach.

"Pray calm yourself, Eleanor," he said sternly. "The reproaches you

allow yourself to make are most ill-chosen, and, in fact, inexcusable.

However, to confine ourselves strictly to the matter in hand, I shall

ride down at once to the village and make enquiries, and, if necessary,

shall institute a search without delay."

In less than an hour afterwards the General, aided by Mr Curtis, the

vicar of Cranston, had elicited the following information. His son had

been present at the village church the preceding evening, and had left

with the congregation. Here testimony began to wax uncertain, some

being ready to assert that they noticed Mr Hubert nearly at the park

gates, while others were equally certain they had seen him going in the

direction of Wandsborough. From this chaos of testimony it seemed

impossible to evolve anything like order, and the General and his

willing ally were nearly giving up all attempts at unravelling it, and

starting in search of a fresh clue, when light came in upon the subject

from an unexpected quarter.

A rustic couple was found who had been "sweet-hearting" in the lanes

outside Cranston, according to the manner of rustic couples, after

evening church. These were ready to swear that Mr Hubert had passed

them, walking swiftly, and going in the direction of the cliffs. In

fact, they had had the curiosity to turn and watch him. It was a cold,

damp evening for any gentleman to be taking a walk on the cliffs all by

himself, but why Mr Hubert should do so rather than return home was a

speculation which aroused curiosity even in their thick, rustic pates.

The pair, a stolid, bovine brace of bumpkins, were in great awe during

the severe cross-questioning they underwent at the hands of the Squire

and the Vicar, both magistrates to boot, but stuck tenaciously to the

main point of their narrative. They were not mistaken, for not only had

they seen Mr Hubert's face distinctly in the moonlight, but they had

wished him "good-night," to which he had replied. As to time, well,

about that they couldn't be quite certain, they supposed it must have

been about nine--or, if anything, rather earlier; but anyhow, not long

after church.

It was clear that these people were the last who had seen Hubert, and

convinced that now they were on the right track, though with a direful

sinking of heart, the two gentlemen agreed that their next move must be

to betake themselves to Minchkil Bay, and enlist the services of the

hardy seafarers there in a regular search. If the missing man had found

his way to the cliffs, as both feared he had, he might have fallen over.

Possibly he might yet be alive, but in a situation of peril or

difficulty, from which he could not extricate himself, and in this case

the aid of these bold fishers, experienced cragsmen all, would be

indispensable.

As they rode up to the little fishing colony they descried a group of

three seated against a boat, and a tall young man leaning over them.

All had their backs towards them, and were talking with animation,

unaware of the approach of strangers, for the sound of the horses' hoofs

was deadened by the soft turf.

"But I say, Jem Pollock," the young man was saying. "What did this

affair really look like? It may have been a cloud, you know."

"Well, you see, zur, it was a big black thing--yet not black so be it,

but zumtimes you could see through it like. No, zur, it weren't no

cloud. Why, thur worn't a cloud in the sky. And thur it was on top o'

The Skegs, and when I come 'ome I told Daddy here, and, `Jem,' he says,

`that what you've seen is the Dorrien wraith, and'--Oh, Lord, save us!"

All turned quickly. Not half a dozen yards off, the two gentlemen had

reined in their horses. General Dorrien's face was as white as a sheet,

and the hand which held his bridle reins, though clenched and rigid, was

trembling. That he had heard those last words was plain, but that one

of his stern temperament should be so strangely moved by a mere bit of

popular superstition seemed inexplicable.

"Your servant, gentlemen!" said old Mat Pollock, hobbling to his feet,

assisted by his stalwart son, Jem, which worthy seafarer looked sorely

abashed in the presence in which he so suddenly found himself, and which

coming about, too, so soon upon his narrative of the apparition,

disturbed his superstitious soul not a little.

Briefly, but clearly, Mr Curtis explained the situation, and how a

search party was needed without delay, and the white-haired patriarch of

the hamlet, though he had no love for the house of Dorrien, at once

issued his mandates accordingly. Most of the hands were away in the

boats, he said, but here were his two lads, Jem and David, who, by the

way, had both well turned forty. Then they might turn out a couple of

boys more--and there was--well, he didn't know whether he might make so

bold, but--And here he looked inquiringly at the young gentleman with

whom the three had been conversing.

"I trust, Mr Curtis, that General Dorrien will allow me to take part in

this search," said Eustace Ingelow, stepping forward--"I know this coast

thoroughly, and can keep my head at any height, as these good fellows

here will tell you," he added, eagerly looking from one to the other.

The General was about stiffly to decline, but Mr Curtis interrupted

quickly.

"We shall be only too glad, Eustace. We want all the hands and eyes we

can get, I'm afraid, and I know what a fellow you are for risking your

neck. Are you ready?" he went on, looking around. "Then the sooner we

start the better."

It was between one and two o'clock, and the day was cloudy and lowering.

Not many hours of daylight would remain to them, for the evenings

closed in fast at this time of year. Considerable excitement was rife

in the fishing village as the party moved off, women and children

standing about the doors talking volubly in their rude dialect. It was

arranged that Eustace Ingelow, with Jem Pollock and one of the boys,

should accompany General Dorrien along the top of the cliffs, while

David Pollock and the other boy and the parson thoroughly searched the

beach below, both divisions moving in concert. A couple of powerful

telescopes, three coils of rope, of sufficient stoutness and length,

with two strong crow-bars, constituted the equipment of the party; nor

must we omit to mention a flask of brandy, which Jem Pollock privately

hinted to Eustace, with a wink at the General, might be making the

Squire a party to a bit of smuggling.

And Eustace himself was thinking, as they ascended the steep, turfy

slopes, what a great piece of luck this was which had fallen in his way.

What if he should be the fortunate finder of the missing man? In

common decency the General could hardly give him the cold shoulder after

rescuing his son; but, on the other hand, it might be--probably would

be--only the poor fellow's dead body that they would find. For an

opinion had gained ground among the party that Hubert Dorrien had either

fallen over the cliffs, in which case there would be very little chance

for him, or that he had gone down on the beach and had been cut off by

the tide, a contingency equally fatal, the only hope being that in the

former event he might have fallen on to a ledge--for the cliffs were

broken and rugged, and such projections abounded; or that in the latter

he had gained some refuge whence he was unable subsequently to escape.

"Look over, Jem, lad, and see if you see nowt. There, on the ledge just

below the footway," bawled David Pollock from the beach, after intently

scanning with his glass the most dangerous point of the face of Hadden's

Slide. A thin mist had begun to drive along the cliff, but a black

object, not unlike the body of a man, might be discerned at the point

indicated.

Jem obeyed, and, lying down, peered long and anxiously from the dizzy

brink.

"It's nowt!" he shouted in return. "Only a heap o' grass or suchlike,"

and the search went on.

"I fear we shall soon be overtaken by the darkness," observed the

General, moodily looking round. They had passed a queer little cottage

in the hollow, and a woman came out to answer their enquiries, but could

add nothing whatever to their knowledge. Another false alarm, too, had

been raised by those on the beach.

"I'm afraid so, sir," answered Eustace. "But we shall have time to get

as far as Smugglers' Ladder," he added encouragingly, "and I don't think

your son would have had time to get much further than that, if he

intended coming back from his walk in fair time. See, it would be about

in line with the point where he was last seen, and he was going in that

direction."

They reached the little hollow. Before and around lay a few rocks and

boulders half embedded in the springy turf. A couple of hooded crows

flew up and winged their flight downward along the face of the cliffs,

uttering a harsh croak, and before them yawned the black chasm with its

jagged, slippery sides. Both Eustace and Jem Pollock fearlessly gazed

down into its depths.

Suddenly the former uttered an exclamation and sprang to his feet. On

the very brink of the fissure, hanging to a short tuft of rank, dry

herbage, was a piece of thin, black silk cord--such as is used for

securing an eyeglass. Closer inspection showed that the grass itself

had been violently crushed.

"I think we are getting nearer, sir," he gently remarked, showing it to

the General, who was visibly agitated, but made no reply. "Now, Jem,

give us a light here, quick."

The man obeyed, and forthwith large pieces of burning paper were dropped

into the chasm, bringing its rocky facets and roughly-hewn cells and

recesses into view to those above. Nothing was visible, however.

"Now, Jem, bear a hand with that belaying-pin; sharp's the word," cried

Eustace, waxing nautical again in his excitement, as he took the

stoutest of the crow-bars from the other's hand, and looking around for

a second, his quick eye lit upon a crevice in the rock, into which the

iron bar was promptly driven. "Here! shake out that brace--that's it.

Now. Is it long enough?" anxiously, as Jem Pollock dropped the coil of

rope into the chasm to test its length, keeping the other end in his

hand.

"Not quite, sir, but the two together will do it, easily. But better

let me go down, sir; I understand it better nor you."

"I daresay you do, but I'm lighter, you see, and you'd make a better

hand at working the apparatus up here than I should. Now heave it

over!"

"What are you going to do?" asked General Dorrien, who had been a silent

witness to these rapid preparations.

"I'm just going quietly down the Ladder, sir," answered Eustace. "The

poor fellow may have got into some place where we can't see him, and not

be able to call out."

"Really, Mr--a--Ingelow--I can't consent to your running this risk,"

answered the General, greatly moved. "Now, this man is accustomed to

it. Therefore let him go down."

"No risk at all, sir, I assure you. Only an easy climb. I wish it

might be successful," answered Eustace, as he threw off his jacket, and,

aided by the fisher lad, let himself carefully over.

"You'll ha' to be quick down there, 'cause of the tide," warned Jem

Pollock, who was devoting his energies to keeping the crow-bar steady.

"You can't come up again this way, I'm thinkin'. And jes' tell them

down there to hurry a bit, for she's a rollin' in fast and steady."

"All right," cried Eustace as he made his way down. The rope was a

regular climbing rope, knotted at intervals; but the depth was

considerable, and before he had got halfway, the athletic young fellow

began to feel that he would need all his powers. Indeed, although he

had made light of any idea of risk in the matter, he now realised that

there was plenty of it. The perspiration streamed from every pore, and

it was all he could do at times to avoid being hurled from his dizzy

position by the swaying of the rope and the consequent friction of his

knuckles against the hard surface of the rock.

Although dark enough from above, yet once in the fissure, sufficient

light penetrated from the outside to render all its recesses plainly

visible, and as the intrepid youth made his way down deeper and deeper,

the more strongly did the conviction take hold of him that he would

indeed find Hubert Dorrien at the bottom, but it would be in the form of

a shattered, ghastly and unrecognisable corpse. Not an encouraging or

nerve-steadying reflection for one in his perilous position, but Eustace

Ingelow, with his brave heart and good conscience, felt that it would

take more than this to cause his nerve to fail. And now all sounds were

hushed, and save for the laboured breathing of the climber and the

occasional rattle of dislodged stones, falling with a hollow echo to the

bottom of the abyss, the silence was almost oppressive.

"Is he safe?" whispered the anxious father to Jem Pollock, as the sound

of something heavy reaching the ground was borne upward.

"Ay, sir, he is," replied the other gravely. The stout fisherman had

never ceased to reproach himself for allowing a lad like that to venture

upon such an errand while he himself remained safe at the top. What

would he find down there, he wondered?

And Eustace was thinking the same, as, very much exhausted, he

thankfully realised that his feet were once more on solid ground. His

heart beat fast and irregularly as he peered about in the dim half

light, expecting every moment to meet with a horrible sight. But the

cave was empty. A big crab sidled away into a dark corner, with its

formidable nippers extended, menacingly, and shoals of smaller ones ran

spiderlike into the little pools of water left by the tide in the rocks

and sand. The green, slimy walls were hung with seaweed and studded

with pointed limpets, but of anything human there was no trace.

No trace. Stay--what was that? A gleam of something caught his eye--

something that lay half-buried in the sand. He picked it up, and his

heart gave a great jump. It was a small and curiously-wrought silver

matchbox.

A shout outside and Mr Curtis and his party joined him. In the flurry

of his excitement and the exhaustion following upon his perilous and

violent exertions, Eustace handed over his discovery to the vicar. The

next moment he would have given anything to have kept it quietly to

himself. Why, he could not for the life of him have told--one of those

strange and most unerring instincts.

"I fancy there's no doubt now as to the poor fellow's fate," said Mr

Curtis. "He must have fallen from above, and even if he lived after it,

must have been carried away by the tide. See, the high-water mark is a

good many feet above our heads as we stand here."

They looked up. It was as he said. Even at the highest point in the

fissure, wherever they could stand, the wet slimy water-line was beyond

their reach. A shout was heard above, and Jem Pollock's face could be

seen peering over the brink.

"The tide!" he shouted. "Get away out o' that as fast as ever ye can.

She's a comin' into the bight like a racer, and it'll take ye all your

time."

No further warning was necessary, and they hastened to act upon this

one. Hubert Dorrien's sad fate was established beyond doubt, and unless

his body was ultimately washed up on the beach, he would be no more seen

until the day when the sea should give up her dead.

An hour later the party joined hands on the cliff. Further search was

useless, for it was now quite dark. Next day it might be continued; and

then it would be not for the living, but for the mangled remnants of the

dead.

"I have greatly to thank you, Mr Ingelow," said the General, his face

very white and set and his speech forced. "Your help has been most

valuable, and of the courage and energy you have displayed I cannot

think too highly. And to you, too, my men, I must tender my thanks for

your efforts towards the rescue or recovery of my unfortunate son. I

cannot talk more about it at present, but you may be sure I shall not

forget it. Good-night."

He extended his hand to Eustace, who warmly grasped it.

"Believe me, General Dorrien, I would gladly have done more to have met

with better success," he said in a tone of sympathetic respect. And

Eustace, in the midst of that sorrowful scene, could not feel so

depressed as he told himself he ought, for athwart it there smiled upon

him, though mournfully now, Nellie's sweet face, and he felt she was

nearer within his reach than he had of late so much as dared to dream.

The party separated on the dark cliff's brow and the General and Mr

Curtis rode sadly home.

And that night in the stately mansion a bitter cry went up, and the

voice of great mourning--a mother sorrowing for her lost and

passionately loved son, whose voice she was destined never again to hear

on this side of the grave.