“So,” said Sir David, “we sum up our conclusions. ’Twas the
notorious Mr. Cutwater, _alias_ Turk, that represented the syndicate
that robbed Luvaine’s father of the stone.”
“One,” said Miss Angela, using her tender knuckles after the fashion
of an auctioneer’s hammer.
“’Twas somewhere here--on this estate bought out of the proceeds of
his robberies--that he secreted the treasure.”
“Two,” said Miss Angela.
“And here his confederates sought him out, murdered him yonder, and
made fruitless search for what he had sacrificed his life to hold.”
“Three,” said Miss Angela, “and right worshipfully concluded.”
“Peace, you bantam! ’Tis but the introduction to the argument.”
“Oh! I crave your honour’s indulgence”--and she looked round merrily
at Dennis, who stood respectfully to the back of her chair.
“Now we gather,” said Sir David, with importance, “that of the ancient
gang, only Mr. Fern hath cheated the gallows, to return at this
eleventh hour to the search; but that he hath confided his plot to two
or more----”
“Lacking the greatness of the first rank of criminals,” put in Whimple
impulsively--and so reddened to a fine after-glow of shame immediately
he had spoken.
They all laughed; and quoth Miss Angel:
“How I love your inconsequence, Mr. Dennis. I think that sympathy with
giant wickedness a very admirable foil to your humanity.”
She had taken a great interest in the servant since her mediation had
procured him justice. What if he _had_ been a figure familiar to her
experience for years past? Only recent circumstance had presented him
in the light that could appeal to her effectively--the melancholy
twilight, in fact, of romance. Now she was bethinking herself how this
mystic hermit of the thickets had lived out his twenty years or so of
haunted solitude that he might at the end serve her sensibilities with
a little passing thrill of excitement; and she felt grateful to him
and very considerate of his hectic cheeks.
“Their roses might have withered in the frost of death but for me,”
she would ponder tenderly; and then her heart would take some
resentment over the confident tyranny of his lord, that he had dared
to sit in judgment on his intellectual superior.
“For that the poor man is,” she thought. “And the other must learn
that with us women, brute strength unadorned is not the highest appeal
to our favour.”
Here she dealt a little arbitrarily with justice; for the master was
perhaps less a fool than the servant was an athlete. But the sentiment
served her mood, and showed her the way to many small condescensions
towards the poor fellow who had suffered such misjudgment.
Mr. Tuke could not but be conscious of this saucy subordination of his
claims as a man of position. It entertained or aggravated him,
according to his humour, to watch this variable maid playing off his
servant against himself in the innocuous subtilties of coquetry. He
could not be expected to take the effrontery seriously, and he was not
so deeply in love but that he could see the humour of the girl’s
capricious attitude towards him. “But I am called upon to be aware of
it,” he thought; “and I must effect to puzzle my brain over the
question of what I can have done to imperil myself in her favour.”
So he looked distressed--when he remembered to--and all the time
thought none the less of Miss Royston for so representing the charming
whimsies of the fascinating of her sex.
“This rascally crew,” said Sir David, “we make it our business to
anticipate, if a thorough ransackin’ of the whole house will serve our
purpose.”
Miss Angela jumped to her feet.
“Oh, Davy!” she cried, “have you reached it at last? And our wits
running ahead of yours from the first. What a solemn conclusion,
little man! Only we came to it before you opened your mouth to speak.
And here sits Mr. Tuke like a Lord Justice patiently waiting the
verdict he hath directed.”
“You are a very knowin’ magpie,” said her brother, with a wag of his
round head, “but you ain’t as clever as you’d take the credit for.
I’ve given you the steps to a conclusion, that’s all; and now I’ll
warrant you’ll go flingin’ off the last into space.”
“Brava!” cried the lady, clapping her hands. “All that is obvious goes
for nothin’, as the philosopher would say: for, like all philosophers,
he is a little shaky in his finalities. And now for the profound
deduction.”
“You impident baggage!” exclaimed the lord of “Chatters.” He had been
quite in his element, taking judicial charge of the affair, drawing
inferences and suggesting methods; and this irrepressible sister of
his would do her worst to make him appear ridiculous.
“Tuke,” he said, turning to that silent and amused gentleman, “when
you marry, marry a fool that knows herself to be one.”
“Indeed,” said the other, “that is easy; for any one that took me must
needs answer to that description. Never hold me conceited after that,
Miss Royston.”
Now, Heaven knows what Angela here chose to read between the lines;
but she responded most icily:
“I doubt I shall take much interest in the matter, sir; though
speaking generally, there seems to me no conceit like exaggerated
humility.”
She sat herself down again, her lips set forbiddingly. Sir David
grinned, mentally scoring a little spiteful victory, and Mr. Tuke
looked very much bewildered and abashed.
Indeed, this sprightly lady suffered from a very common infirmity of
poor humanity--an incapacity for graciously accepting such knocks as
she dealt to others. One might unconsciously check her flow of spirits
with the veriest straw of chaff, and only discover the enormity
haphazard. Sometimes her sensitive nature would build up a grievance
from a single word, so carelessly spoken and soon forgotten of the
offender that, when he would come to view the complicated fabric of
resentment that had sprung therefrom, he could only marvel at the
astounding pregnancy of his speech.
“My sister having pronounced,” said Sir David--with a point of his
little rude tongue in the direction of that incensed lady--“I come to
the upshot of the apostleates--or whatever they are called.”
“And that is?” murmured Mr. Tuke, quite shyly.
“Why, that it ain’t no good looking for the stone where it’s been
looked for before.”
Tuke stole a glance at Miss Royston, humbly and dumbly inviting her to
endorse or quash this opinion. She was rigidly silent.
“Well?” he asked, not in the least knowing what he was inquiring
about.
“Why, I’ve said it,” exclaimed the other. “We needn’t grub under the
floors, when, by your own account, the boards have been had up
already.”
“By Whimple’s account,” said Tuke. “But, you’re right. The rogues
would have searched thoroughly where they did search.”
“Then, where to look?”
“I propose we each take two or three rooms to a share; investigate as
we will, and meet and compare notes at dinner-time.”
“Capital. What d’ye say, Angel?”
“Oh! you can leave me out of the question.”
“What! you ain’t goin’ to take part in the fun?”
“I have contributed my mite to it, by serving as butt to the
witticisms of two ingenious gentlemen.”
“Miss Royston!” exclaimed Tuke aghast.
“Oh, sir!” responded the lady frigidly, “’twould argue a certain
community of interests that hardly exists, did I permit myself the
familiarity of an informal intrusion upon your privacy. But I can be
quite happy here, if you will vouchsafe me the society of Mr. Whimple,
who will take no advantage, I am sure, of my condescension, and who
will not judge frankness to be an invitation to impertinence.”
She capped this with quite an enigmatical little smile.
“Or, if you desire his services for yourself,” she said, “I can order
out my horse and return to ‘Chatters.’”
Sir David was softly chuckling, preliminary to a sad explosion of
laughter. Tuke saw it, and hastily put in a word.
“I beg you will not disappoint me of your promised company to dinner.
You are very welcome to what you ask; and your brother and I will hunt
in company.”
He bowed, drew the little man from the room and to the far end of the
passage without. There the latter suddenly detained him, his swollen
face falling to an expression of great gravity.
“Lookee here,” he said, “I am in the dark--I am in the dark, Tuke.
Will you take it friendly if I ask you to enlighten me. Are ye vexed
wi’ the wench’s whimsies?”
“I am distressed to have offended her.”
“That won’t serve. I don’t want to force your hand, and Angel hath the
wit to play her own game. But, d’you seek my countenance? There’s the
rub.”
The other broke into a smile.
“Well,” said he, “I won’t pretend to misconstrue you. I’m most sincere
in desiring Miss Royston’s condescension.”
“Then,” said Sir David, “here’s a lovers’ quarrel toward; and ‘A swan
can’t hatch without a crack of thunder’ is an old saw.”
His countenance contracted portentous.
“Not that I may not have a word to say by and by,” quoth he; “for I am
her guardian despite her independent jointure, and by the token am
determined to prudence. But, at the moment, to inquire would be
premature and unjustified.”
“Well, I shall hope to satisfy you,” said Mr. Tuke, with a
twinkle--“and so to our goose-hunt, by grace of your permission.”