LADY BETTY’S SEARCH
THOUGH the stars were out, the night was black as pitch and the
courtyard of the inn was only lighted by the broad bands of red that
flared across it from the gaping doors of hall and kitchen, serving to
make the surrounding darkness more palpable. So it was that Lady Betty
and Alice—cloaked and hooded—nearly stumbled against young Mackie,
and would not have known him but for his exclamation of impatience. He
took them for kitchen wenches, and when Lady Betty cried out his name,
he stopped short with a gasp of sheer amazement.
“Oh, Sir Edward, ’twas you—of all men—I wanted to see!” she cried.
Poor Mackie, if he could have taken her at her word! But, alas, her
tone belied her words and his heart sank drearily.
“You here, my lady!” he exclaimed, “what has happened? I am at your
service; I pray you—”
But she cut him short.
“Where is he?” she whispered.
She mentioned no name, but the young man understood.
“His servant removed him two hours ago, Lady Clancarty,” he replied
quietly, “whither, I know not. The man, a wild Irish clown, would not
trust me, though, ’pon my honor, I meant to serve—Mr. Trevor,” his
voice faltered so at the name that she was again assured that he had
divined their secret and a weight slipped from her heart.
“Was he dying?” she asked very low, but the tremor in her voice
thrilled her listener.
“I do not know,” he stammered, “I pray not, my lady, for he is a brave
man.”
She laid her hand on his arm.
“Thank you,” she said simply, “he is my husband.”
Young Mackie bent his head and kissed her fingers reverently.
“He also trusted me, madam,” he said, and she did not see the pain in
the boy’s eyes; “I shall endeavor to deserve it.”
But Betty was not thinking of him.
“I must find him,” she said shivering, “I must find him!” and a sob
choked her voice.
Young Mackie was silent. From the kitchen came the hubbub of voices,
the clatter of dishes; while, looking over Betty’s shoulder, he saw
Spencer and Savile cross the main hall, arm in arm, their heads
together. Sir Edward knew well enough that Savile had tried to kill
Clancarty and he set his teeth, for he saw her cloaked figure sway and
quiver in the passion of emotion that shook her. He was a generous
fellow and he forgot himself.
“I will try to find him, my lady,” he said in a low tone, glancing
cautiously at the hall door, “he can’t be very far away, he could not
travel; that man has hidden him somewhere because of the stir made by
the duel—I think his identity was very near discovery.”
“I know it,” she said, “but how to find him—oh, Sir Edward, I must do
it! He—he may be in need of a surgeon—of care—of everything!” she
broke off wildly, and then, “Come, Alice, we must go on.”
But he detained her. “Whither, madam?” he asked gravely, “not in a vain
search—at night—for—for him?”
She drew herself up proudly. “Do you think I will let my husband die
thus?—and stir no finger to help him?” she asked bitterly.
“Then you will let me go with you,” he said quietly, taking his place
beside her.
She hesitated and quickly assented. “If you will,” she replied, “since
it is late and we are only two women—but we must make haste,” and she
ran down the old stone steps into the garden, taking the very path she
had walked with Clancarty. Mackie and Alice followed her silently,
though both were convinced of the fruitlessness of such an errand at
such an hour.
But the night had worn on many hours more and the moon had risen before
Betty acknowledged that her quest was vain. Meanwhile, young Mackie had
patiently searched in every tavern and inn in Newmarket; he had invaded
all the alleys and byways, all the nooks and corners, and inquired
of grooms and porters and stable-men—but to no purpose. Denis had
covered his retreat with more skill than Sir Edward had looked for. If
the truth be told, the Irishman was no new hand at the business and he
understood it well, having followed Lord Clancarty in his adventurous
life, from Dublin, and later in a wild career on the Continent when
the gay young nobleman had kept pace with his fellow exiles of high
birth and slim purses, but unlimited daring. It was not the first duel
nor the first cause for flight, and Denis had spirited the wounded
man away and left no sign. Even Betty, determined and vigilant as
she was, was forced to acknowledge herself defeated, and she walked
drearily back to the Lion’s Head with an aching heart. He believed her
indifferent to him—would he ever send her a message or a token again?
Never; she was sure of it, and she bowed her head in dejection—Lady
Betty, who was never crestfallen. She and Alice crept in, at last, by
the garden way and fled to her apartments in no little trepidation, but
they fancied themselves safe when they found that Lady Sunderland had
gone to bed, to get her beauty sleep, and the woman, Melissa, slept in
her room that night, in the absence of the countess’ own attendant.
Lady Betty did not sleep nor did she open her heart to the faithful
girl who was nearly as grieved as she was to see her trouble. She
knelt for hours by the window looking out over the moonlit garden
where the shadows were black between the hedgerows. It was a night of
agony; to know that he might be dying—dying with hard thoughts of
her indifference—almost within reach of her and yet so far. She was
his wife, she thought with sharp pain, and yet he could not send her
word—and she did not deserve it. He was dying, because Savile had
been determined to kill him: he had divined the secret, he was resolved
to remove her husband. Betty saw it all; she had wrung some admissions
from Mackie, the rest she knew by intuition.
She had a high spirit—all her life she had had her way at last, in
spite of her heartless, frivolous mother and her selfish, brilliant
father, and this was a trial hard to bear. Clancarty was the first man
who had not done her homage, who met her on her own ground and demanded
that she should love him. Perhaps it was that which won her; howbeit,
her eyes were dim with tears as she looked out of the window and
looked, indeed, until the sun rose on another day.