IN SEARCH
STRICTLY speaking the discovery of the truant was due to Mrs. Trimwell.
David and Elizabeth were merely her agents in the matter.
It came about in this way.
They had set off hot-foot on the search. Passing the White Cottage,
they had seen Mrs. Trimwell at the garden gate. She greeted their
approach with eagerness. It was obvious that she had certain
information to impart, information which she considered of the first
importance. Therefore, with politely restrained impatience, they paused
to hear it.
“Them two,” she announced, with a faint trace of injury in her voice,
and meaning John and Rosamund, “was gone before I could as much as
get a word in edgeways, else I’d have given them a notion on the
matter. You mark my words there ain’t never no mischiefness nor
troublesomeness afoot but what Molly Biddulph ain’t at the bottom of
it. Find Molly and you’ll be finding the little master.”
Elizabeth smiled patiently.
“Exactly,” she remarked, “but, without wishing to be pessimistic, I
really cannot see that it will be in the smallest degree easier to find
Molly than to find Master Antony.”
Mrs. Trimwell looked at her pityingly.
“Bless you, ma’am, I wasn’t going to give you a notion what was that
jumbled there wasn’t no end to take hold of to unwind it by, so to
speak. It’s little use a notion of that sort would be. I see Molly
going by here about half-past seven or thereabouts, with a tin can,
a brown paper parcel, a willow stick with a bit of string to it, and
saying her prayers out of a morsel of a book.”
“Yes?” queried Elizabeth; while David looked his doubts. For the life
of them they could see no connection between Molly passing the cottage
at that hour, and any possible clue to the matter on hand.
Mrs. Trimwell smiled oracularly. She perceived their doubts well enough.
“The little book,” quoth she “meant that Molly was off to Mass. I
ain’t known Molly from babyhood for nothing. The parcel meant as she
was taking her dinner with her, being off on the spree like for the
day. The tin and the willow stick means fishing in the river. Not that
she ever catches anything as I knows on.”
“Oh!” said Elizabeth. She was beginning to see light. David laughed.
“Like as not she’ll have happened on the little master,” announced
Mrs. Trimwell, “and took him along with her. Leastways I for one don’t
believe he’s ever gone off on his own account. You try the river, and
up the river, mind. I see Miss Rosamund and Mr. Mortimer going off down
the river. ’Tis too wide and open there for Molly. She’ll go for the
shallower parts up to Hurst Lea Woods, I’ll be bound.”
Here at least was something to go on, some conceivable possibility.
Nay, to Elizabeth’s mind, and to David’s mind, it began to present
itself in the light of a probability. At all events for present
purposes it might be desirable to regard it as such.
“You go to Hurst Lea Woods,” nodded Mrs. Trimwell emphatically once
more.
“We will,” agreed David briefly.
A moment later they were on their way.
Taking their route first through the village, they presently turned
sharply to the right, past a smith’s forge, where a big cart horse
was being newly shod, and down a lane. Here, again to the right, they
came upon a stile set in a blackberry hedge. Surmounting it, they
found themselves in a meadow, while facing them, blue and hazy in the
distance lay Hurst Lea Woods. So far, at least, their course was clear.
A quarter of an hour’s walking brought them to the river, and the woods
on its opposite bank. To the left lay the moorland which it skirted;
to the right lay meadows through which it flowed; and, some mile or
so distant, the high road between Malford and Whortley. Here the river
passed beneath a stone bridge, again seeking the meadows, through which
it made a great bend southwards. Bending again to the left along its
meadow route, it finally, with another southward bend, emptied itself
into the sea, at a small village some five miles to the east of Malford.
Here, below the woods, it ran amber-coloured and shallow, brown
stones cropping up above its surface. Rushes and ferns bordered it;
ragged-robin grew in great pink patches in the meadows lying along its
southern bank. On its northern bank were the woods stretching upwards,
dark, shadowed, mysterious.
Elizabeth and David came to a simultaneous halt, and looked around.
“Apparently,” remarked Elizabeth, “they are not here.”
The remark seemed somewhat over-obvious.
David went across the short grass to the very margin of the river, and
looked right and left.
“It would seem,” said he smiling, “that you are right.”
All around lay the drowsy summer silence, broken only by the faint
humming of insects, and the ripple of water against the stones.
“What,” demanded Elizabeth, “is the next move?”
“Up stream,” said David promptly.
“Why so certain?” asked Elizabeth.
David looked at her with something of the smile one might give to an
inquiring child.
“Will you,” he said, “look down stream, and then look up stream; and I
fancy you will perceive the answer yourself.”
Elizabeth looked down stream.
Here, as already mentioned, the river ran smoothly, bordered by the
flat meadow and the wood. Some hundred yards distant the wood gave
place to grass land, flat and open. Up stream the ground became uneven,
rough, covered with blackberry bushes and small trees. The river itself
was interspersed with little rocks, while sight of it extended not more
than fifty yards ahead.
“You mean that up stream there are possible surprises,” suggested
Elizabeth.
“Precisely,” said David. “No one, man, woman, or child, turns to the
obvious when there is the unknown to explore, possible adventure ahead.”
Elizabeth laughed.
“I bow to your judgment,” said she.
They turned up stream.
It was rough enough walking here. The river lay in a sort of gorge, the
wood on one side, the moorland on the other. A mere track ran along its
right bank, a narrow grass path. There was no sign of footprints. The
grass was short and springy, taking no definite impress on its surface.
David was obviously the leader of the expedition. He had taken complete
control of it, not masterfully, you understand, but merely because it
belonged to him by right to do so. He was in his natural element.
Elizabeth was conscious of totally new characteristics in him. All
trace of the child in false surroundings had vanished. The man element
had appeared in him, and had appeared strongly. There was a new
strength in him, a new decision. There was a curious air of confidence
about him, also a certain indefinable joyousness. It seemed an almost
incredible change, considering the brief space of time in which it had
been accomplished, nevertheless it was actual, real.
For the most part they pursued their way in silence. The sky, as you
may well guess, was gradually growing darker. Clouds had already
blotted out the sun.
Suddenly David gave a little exclamation. He bent to the ground, and
picked up something from beneath a blackberry bush. He turned it over,
then held it triumphantly towards Elizabeth. After all, it was only a
piece of brown paper.
“But,” demurred Elizabeth, “is it _the_ piece?”
David pointed to writing upon it.
“Mr. Murphy Biddulph, Malford,” read Elizabeth aloud. And then she
laughed.
David lifted up his voice and coo-ed, a long, far-reaching note.
Striking some distant rock, it was flung back to him in echo, but no
other cry came in response.
“They’ve gone a pretty tramp,” said David.
He looked around. A short distance ahead the wood levelled and thinned.
A gateway into it led to a wider path. A tree-trunk fallen across the
river, which here was nothing but a fair-sized stream, made approach to
the gate easy. David made for the tree-trunk. Giving Elizabeth a hand
across it, they went towards the gate.
David looked at the ground, then pointed silently. A dark patch on the
earth, just under the gate, showed where water had been recently spilt.
“Molly has upset some of the contents of her can in climbing the gate,”
laughed David.
There was triumph in his eyes. There is a good deal of pleasure
to be found in successful scouting, let alone the importance, or
non-importance of its issue.
They surmounted the gate and made off down the path. After some five
minutes or so walking, it led to a second gate, this one giving on to
a road. David opened it and they went through. Here, in the dust, were
small footprints, easily discernible as going leftwards.
“Who would have dreamed of their coming this distance!” exclaimed
Elizabeth.
“It seems to me,” quoth David succinctly, “that from all accounts it
is wiser to dream vividly and extensively where Miss Molly Biddulph is
concerned.”
And they set off down the road.
They hadn’t gone more than a hundred paces, when the first low mutter
of thunder broke upon their ears. There was a second rumble, louder,
more insistent. Then came the wind. It swept the dust along the road in
a cloud, thick and blinding, and a few drops of rain fell.
The next instant the sky was transformed into a sea of fire, and a
crash like the crash of cannon-balls broke above them. Then the rain
came down.
David caught hold of Elizabeth dragging her beneath a hedge.
“Is it safe?” gasped Elizabeth.
“It would strike the trees first,” said David, “and there are none on
this side of the road.”
Elizabeth crouched down. The rain slashed upon the roadway, churning
the dust into a sea of mud. To right and left all vision was blotted
out in the downpour, even the hedge opposite was almost obliterated.
“Are you getting very wet?” asked David solicitously.
“Hardly at all,” said Elizabeth cheerfully. “This hedge seems specially
constructed to give shelter.”
“Then,” said David, “I am off in search.”
As he spoke there came the sound of pattering feet on the road, and the
next instant, abreast them, came two flying, drenched, little figures,
the girl with white scared face, the boy frankly sobbing aloud.
David darted towards them.
“Antony, Molly,” he cried.
At the sound of his voice the two came to a halt. Joy, rapturous joy,
illumined their woe-begone faces.
“Oh, it’s you, it’s you,” cried Antony.
The next moment they were beneath the friendly shelter of the hedge;
while Molly, with a marvellously rapid transition from depression to
confidence, was taking a lively interest in the storm.
“Isn’t it splendid!” she cried exultantly. “Isn’t the rain just hitting
the earth!”
“It’s hit you pretty considerably, I fancy,” said David coolly.
“Oh, I’ll be drying,” responded Molly calmly. “Is Master Antony wet?”
“You can hardly imagine him to be dry,” remarked David. “If you stand
under a shower-bath you generally get a trifle damp. And this--I guess
fifty shower-baths would be nearer the reckoning than one.”
“A million _I_ think,” said Molly, snuggling a wet hand through
Elizabeth’s arm. “_Isn’t_ it lovely!”
“To speak candidly,” said Elizabeth, “I could admire it better in a
less cramped position, and if the rain were a little, just a trifle,
less--wet.”
“Isn’t rain,” demanded Antony interested, “always wet?”
He was beginning to take a cheerier outlook on life.
“I believe it is,” remarked David reflectively, “but there are times
when it appears infinitely wetter than others. This is one of them. Are
you _very_ wet?” he asked Elizabeth.
“On the contrary,” returned Elizabeth cheerfully, “owing to the
position I mentioned, I am quite dry. If I were to relax it, however, I
should doubtless become excessively wet.”
“We are all like beggars now,” said Molly gleefully.
David pricked up his ears.
“Beggars?” he queried politely.
Molly looked a trifle embarrassed. In a manner of speaking she had
given herself away.
“Well, we are,” she replied airily, after a moment. “Sitting under
hedges and things, you know.”
“It _isn’t_ very nice,” said Antony.
“Nobody sensible could ever imagine it was,” remarked Elizabeth. She
fancied she saw a glimmer of light on the escapade.
“Must it always be horrid?” asked Antony. There was an ominous quaver
in his voice.
“Always,” said Elizabeth firmly.
She had, you will realize, no intention of aiding a repetition of
today’s little drama.
David was watching Antony’s face.
“What’s the trouble?” he demanded.
Antony choked.
“Tell me,” urged David.
Antony was silent.
“Tell me,” coaxed David again.
“I--I _are_ a beggar,” owned Antony.
David laughed, a laugh at once incredulous and consoling.
“Now who,” he demanded, “has been telling you that nonsense?”
“Isn’t it true?” asked Antony.
“Not a bit of it. Who on earth made you think it was?”
“L-Louisa,” stammered Antony.
David said something under his breath.
“Tell us all about it,” he said consolingly.
Then the whole story came forth, aided in the telling by a dexterous
question or two.
“Idiot,” muttered David, arriving at the kernel of the matter.
“I didn’t mean to be naughty,” said Antony quaveringly.
“You weren’t naughty.” David’s voice was assuring. “It was Louisa who
didn’t understand. You aren’t a beggar boy; you never were a beggar
boy. You are,” David’s voice was firm, “exactly the same as you always
have been.”
Elizabeth’s heart was singing a curiously joyful song, considering
what extraordinarily little difference the announcement made to her
individually.
“Exactly,” said David again, “as you always have been.”
“Deo gratias,” whispered Elizabeth below her breath.
“And here,” said David, “comes the sun, to laugh at you for your fears,
and dry us all.”
The clouds had broken. Through the rifts between them the sun poured
forth, sparkling on diamond-hung hedges and trees, turning the pools
in the roadway to little mirrors of fire. The rain became the thinnest
veil of silver, presently mere scattered drops.
Elizabeth unbent herself, and stood upright.
“I wonder,” she said smiling, “if my back will ever feel quite straight
again.”
And then she pointed to the sky.
“Look,” said she, “the rainbow!”