Another week passed rapidly over, assisted in its flight by two capital
runs with the Friarshire hounds and a dinner at a neighboring magnate's,
where Wilton made himself marvellously agreeable to Helen Saville, and
promised to ride with her next day; but neither at luncheon nor in the
house or grounds did he catch a glimpse of Ella Rivers; again she had
totally disappeared.
Miss Saville did not find Wilton so pleasant a companion, either during
their ride or the luncheon which preceded it, as he had been at dinner
the day before.
The accomplished Miss Walker and her pupil joined the party, but no
other junior member of the family.
"What an infamous shame," thought Wilton, "not to let that poor boy have
a little society!" However, Fortune was not quite inexorable. As Wilton
rode up to the door on their return, intending to bid the young ladies
under his escort good-by, he became aware of a small figure, with a
large head and prominent eyes, standing on the threshold, supported by
crutches, while a pony-carriage was just disappearing toward the
stables.
"What a nuisance!" said Helen to Gertrude. "I wonder what that boy
wants?"
"Well, Donald, you ought not to stay here after your drive. You will
take cold," said Miss Saville.
"Never you mind," retorted the boy, in a shrill, resentful voice. "I
want to speak to Colonel Wilton."
"To me?" said Wilton, coming forward.
"Yes, I have asked them all to bring you to see me, and they won't. I
believe they'd like to smother me altogether. Will you come and see me
and Ella? I want to hear about a battle and lots of things."
He spoke with a sort of querulous impetuosity.
"I shall be most happy to rub up my recollections for your benefit,"
said Wilton, good-humoredly, and taking the hand which the little
cripple contrived to hold out to him.
"When will you come? To-morrow?"
"I am afraid I cannot," replied Wilton, remembering an engagement with
Moncrief, and speaking with very genuine regret.
"Well, the day after?"
"Oh, don't tease, Donny," cried Gertrude Saville.
"The first time Colonel Wilton comes over to luncheon I will ask him to
come and talk to you," said Helen.
"Colonel Wilton, will you just ask for me--Master Fergusson! In the old
times, I would be 'Master of Brosedale.' I shall never see you if you do
not."
"Depend on my calling on you," returned Wilton, smiling.
"And soon?"
"Yes, very soon."
Without another word, the unfortunate heir of so much wealth turned and
limped into the hall with surprising rapidity.
"How annoying!" cried Gertrude.
"What an awful bore!" said Helen. "Really, Colonel Wilton, I am quite
vexed that he should intrude himself upon you."
"Why! I do not see anything vexatious in it."
"You are too good. Do you know that boy is the bane of our existence?"
"Do you wish me to shoot him?" asked Wilton, laughing. "I really cannot
wait to do so at present, so good morning, though closing shades almost
compel me to say good night."
It was nearly a week before Wilton permitted himself to accept the
invitation given him by the heir of Brosedale, and, in the interim, he
dined at D---- Castle. The Ladies Mowbray were pleasant, unaffected
girls, considerably less imposing and more simple than Helen Saville.
"These are exactly the style of women to please Lord St. George,"
thought Wilton, as he walked over to Brosedale a day or two after. "And
very much the style to please myself formerly; but at present--no. I am
wonderfully absorbed by this temporary insanity, which must not lead me
too far." Musing in this strain, he reached the grand, brand-new house,
where Lady Fergusson and her daughters received him in rich silk morning
costumes, very becoming and tasteful, but, somehow, not so pleasant to
his eye as the pretty, fresh print dresses of Lord D----'s daughters.
Sir Peter came in to luncheon, which he did not always. His presence
generally produced a depressing effect upon his fair step-daughters, and
Wilton began to fear that no one would give him an opening to fulfil his
promise to the crippled boy. At last he took the initiative himself;
and, when Sir Peter paused in an exposition of the opium-trade, Wilton
addressed Helen:
"You must not let me break my promise to your brother--step-brother, I
mean."
"How! what!" exclaimed Sir Peter to his wife. "Has he seen Donald?" He
spoke in a sharp, startled tone.
"The young gentleman introduced himself to me at the entrance of your
hospitable mansion the other day, and expressed a wish to hear my
warlike experiences, so I promised to give him a _séance_."
"You are very good," said Sir Peter, slowly, looking down. "Donald has
but few pleasures, poor fellow!"
After this, all the talk died out of the little baronet, and he soon
rose and left the room.
"Indeed!" cried Gertrude, as the door closed on her step-father, "Donald
has tormented us ever since to know when you were coming to see him. You
had better take Colonel Wilton to the school-room, Helen, and have done
with it."
"I am quite ashamed of troubling you, Colonel Wilton," said Lady
Fergusson. "But that boy's whims are very absurd, and Sir Peter is very
weak, I must say."
"However, we have had quite a respite since little Miss Rivers came
down," interrupted Helen Saville. "She manages him wonderfully. You
cannot think what a curious pair they are together. You have seen
Donald; and Miss Rivers, though not absolutely plain, is a cold,
colorless little thing, generally very silent."
"But she can tell stories delightfully," cried Isabella; "she makes
Donald laugh and be quite good-humored for hours together."
"I fear," interrupted the accomplished Miss Walker, "that, if my young
charge is too much with Master Fergusson and his companion, her mind
will be quite occupied with a very useless array of fairy tales and
legends, more calculated to distort than to illustrate historic truth."
"I am sure you are right, Miss Walker. Isabella, you must not go into
Donald's room without Miss Walker's permission," remarked Lady
Fergusson.
"And she will never let me," said Isabella, with a very rebellious pout.
"Well, well, let us get this visit over," cried Helen, rising. "I will
see if he is in the house and visible."
"You cannot think what a nuisance that poor boy was to my girls at
first, and how well they bore with him, particularly Helen," said Lady
Fergusson. "I am sure Miss Walker did the state great service when she
found little Miss Rivers. She suits Donald wonderfully, though she is an
oddity in her own way also."
Miss Walker murmured something about "being happy," but her tone was
melancholy and uncertain, as though she thought the introduction of an
element at variance with historic truth was a doubtful good.
Wilton made no direct reply; he was curious to ascertain if Miss Rivers
had mentioned him, and anxious in any case to play into her hands.
Helen Saville returned quickly.
"Yes," she said, "Donald is at home, and will be highly pleased to see
you."
Wilton accordingly followed her through various well-warmed and carpeted
passages to a handsome room on the sunny side of the house, which was
the dwelling-place of the heir. Books and music, a piano,
drawing-materials, globes, pictures, maps, all appliances for amusement
and study, gave a pleasant aspect to the apartment. The boy was seated
in a chair of elaborate make, furnished with a desk and candle-holder,
and which could be raised or lowered to any angle. His crutch lay at
hand, and he seemed engaged in drawing. He was plain and unattractive
enough--a shrivelled-looking frame, a large head, wide mouth, projecting
brow--all the characteristics of deformity. Even large and glittering
eyes did not redeem the pale, wan face, over which gleamed a malign
expression by no means pleasant to a stranger.
"I thought you would never come," he exclaimed, bluntly, in a harsh,
querulous voice, and holding out his hand.
"You will accept me now I am here, I hope," said Wilton, smiling.
"Oh, yes; I am very glad to see you."
"You are an artist, I see?"
"I hope to be one. Look here."
Wilton approached his desk. A sketch lay upon it. A confused mass of
figures, apparently intended for a desperate battle.
"This," continued Donald, "is what I wanted you for. This is a study for
a large picture in oils (I will begin it when I am a little stronger) of
the battle of Balaklava. Nothing has ever been made of this subject, and
I want to make something of it; so I thought you would just look at my
sketch and see if I have caught an idea of the scene, and correct any
inaccuracy that strikes you."
"I should be most happy to help you," returned Wilton, looking
hopelessly at the crowd of forms before him; "but I fear my capabilities
are not quite equal to the task. In the first place, I was not in the
Balaklava affair, and then one's recollections of a battle are not very
clear."
"If confusion is a true likeness, Donny's picture will be remarkably
successful," said Miss Saville, with a grave manner. Her words brought a
flush to the boy's pale brow.
"I wish you would go away," he said, rudely and abruptly. "I can never
talk about anything when you are by."
"To hear is to obey," replied Miss Saville, rising; "only do not try
Colonel Wilton's patience too much."
"Go! go!" returned Donald, almost fiercely.
Wilton could not refrain from smiling as she left the room.
"I hate those Savilles!" cried Donald, observing it; "and so would you
if you lived in the house with them."
"That is a subject on which we shall never agree. Let us return to your
picture," said Wilton, thinking what a thorough "sell" it would be if
Ella Rivers never made her appearance; for, with all his surface easy
good-nature, Wilton did not fancy sacrificing even a small share of his
time to an ill-natured imp like this.
"Look here! I have made this hussar grasp a lancer by the throat, and
thrust a sword into his side. Will that do?"
"I see. Well, hardly. You know both hussars and lancers were our men,
therefore you must not make them fight; and here you have not the
Russian uniform quite correctly. I think I have some sketches of the
Russians that would help you. But is it not rather ambitious for such a
youngster as yourself to aim at historical painting?"
"That is what Ella says; but it is my only chance of fame." The word on
his lips was suggestive of sadness, and Wilton looked at the frail
form, the pallid face, the thin, tremulous, feverish fingers with
compassion. Before he could reply, a door behind him opened softly. "Oh,
come here, Ella!" cried Donald. Wilton turned quickly, and just caught a
glimpse of a gray skirt vanishing. "Ella, come back! Ella! Ella!"
screamed the boy, with a sort of angry impatience that would not be
denied.
"I am here, then," she said, reopening the door and coming in.
Wilton felt his (not inexperienced) heart throb as she approached, her
cheek warm with a soft, flitting blush, a slight smile upon her lips,
but her large eyes grave and calm. It was the first time Wilton had seen
her in-doors, and the delicate dignity of her look, especially the
setting on of her head, charmed him. The excessive simplicity of her
perpetual gray dress could not hide the grace of her slim, round form,
and yet he could well imagine that the vulgar, common taste that looks
for rich color and striking outline might consider the quiet moonlight
beauty of this obscure girl something almost plain.
Wilton greeted her silently as she approached, with a profound bow. She
acknowledged him.
"I did not know you had any one with you," she said to her pupil.
"Do you know Colonel Wilton?" he asked, sharply.
"He was in the train with me when the collision occurred," she replied
quietly, the color fading away from her cheek, and leaving it very pale.
"Why did you not tell me?"
"There was nothing to tell, and you never asked me about my adventures."
"This young gentleman is very ambitious," said Wilton, to change the
subject. "He is designing to immortalize himself and the Six Hundred at
once."
"He will not have patience. I tell him that even the greatest genius
must wait and work." She sighed as she spoke. "Besides, it is almost
desecration for art to bestow itself on such a subject."
"There!" cried the boy, passionately, "you always discourage me; you are
cruel! Have I so much pleasure or hope that you should take this from
me?"
She rose from the seat she had taken and came to him, laying her hand on
his shoulder with a wonderfully tender gesture. "I do not discourage
you, _caro_! You have much ability, but you have scarcely fourteen
years. Twenty years hence you will still be young, quite young enough to
paint men tearing each other to pieces with immense success. Now, you
must learn to walk before you can fly upon the wings of fame. Let us put
this away."
"No, you shall not. As to twenty years hence, do not talk of them to
me!"
The fierce, complaining tone passed from his voice, and he leaned back,
raising his eyes to hers with a yearning, loving, sad expression that
struck Wilton with strange jealousy. The boy was old for his years, and
perhaps, unknown to himself, loved his gentle companion with more than
brotherly love. The idea chafed him, and to banish it he spoke:
"Why not make separate studies for your figures? It will practise your
hand and make material for your picture. I will send you over the
Russian views and figures I have; they will help you as to costume and
scenery."
There was a pause. Wilton was determined not to go away; and Donald, the
fire gone from his eyes, his very figure limp, would not speak. At last,
Miss Rivers, who was arranging a box of colors, said, "This
gentleman--Colonel Wilton's suggestion is very good. Suppose you act
upon it? And perhaps he will come again, and see how you go on."
She looked at Colonel Wilton as she spoke, and he tried to make out
whether she wished him to return, or to give him the opportunity of
escape. Although not inclined to under-estimate himself, he came to the
latter conclusion; but did not avail himself of it.
"You have something more to show me, have you not!" he asked, kindly.
"Yes; plenty much better," answered Ella Rivers for him; and, slipping
away the fatal battle-scene, she replaced it with a portfolio full of
sketches very unequal in merit. Ella quickly picked out the best, and
Donald appeared to cheer up under the encouragement of Wilton's praise.
"Show your sketch of 'Dandy,'" said the boy to Ella.--"She draws very
well.--Bring your portfolio, Ella," he went on.
"It is not necessary. You are keeping Colonel Wilton."
"You are not, indeed. I rather fancy you wish to get rid of me, Miss
Rivers."
"Miss Rivers! Miss Rivers! How did you know her name?"
"I? Oh, I have heard it several times! Your sister mentioned Miss Rivers
to-day at luncheon."
"Show your book, Ella, at all events."
She went to a distant table, after a full, searching look at Colonel
Wilton, and brought the book he well remembered.
"Here is a capital likeness of my pony and my father's pet Skye. But,
Ella, you have torn out a page--the first one. Why?"
"Because it pleased me to do so." She spoke very composedly, but the
color went and came faintly in her cheek.
"Do tell me why, Ella?" with sharp, angry entreaty.
"I will _not_, Donald! You are tyrannical."
His eyes flashed, but he controlled himself.
"Is not this capital?" he asked, holding out the book.
"Very good--first-rate," returned Wilton, looking at two admirably drawn
figures of a pony and dog.
"It is better. I want to improve in animals," said Ella, looking down
upon the page; and a little conversation ensued respecting this line of
art, in which Donald took no share. Suddenly Ella looked at him. "You
are ill! you are suffering!" she exclaimed, darting to his side, and
putting her arm round his neck, while, pale as death and half fainting,
he rested his head against her breast.
"Pray bring me that phial and glass from the cabinet," she said,
quickly. Wilton obeyed; he held the glass while she poured out the right
quantity; he took the bottle again, while she held the glass to the poor
boy's lips; he assisted to lower the wonderful chair till the weary head
could be gently placed in a restful position, all without a word being
exchanged; then Ella took the poor, thin hand in hers, and felt the
pulse, and stroked it.
Donald opened his eyes. "Ella, I am better; ask him to say nothing
about it."
"I will, dear Donald, I will."--Then, turning to Wilton, "Come, I will
show the way." The moment they crossed the threshold she exclaimed, "It
will be better to say nothing about it; Lady Fergusson would only come
and make a fuss and torment him, so I troubled you instead of ringing;
but I do not apologize. You would willingly help him, I am sure."
"Yes, of course; but what a responsibility for you!"
"Oh, I understand him, and I often see the doctor. Ah, what a life! what
suffering! what a terrible nature! But I must not stay. You, you were
prudent--that is--pooh! I am foolish. I mean to say, I am glad you
scarcely appeared to know me. I say nothing of myself here; I am an
abstraction, a machine, a companion! Good-by." For the first time she
held out her hand with a gracious, queenly gesture. Wilton took and held
it.
"One moment," he said, quickly. "Shall I never have another chance of a
word with you in the free air? Is there no errand to Monkscleugh that
may lead to a rencontre?"
"If I meet you," she said, "I will speak to you; but it is, and must be,
a mere chance. Follow that corridor, turn to the left, and you will be
in the hall. Good-by." She was gone.
"Well, what sort of fellow is this cousin of yours? I suppose you met
him last night? I never thought we should tumble into the trammels of
polite society when I recommended these shootings to you. I have
scarcely seen you the last ten days. What's come to you, lad?"
So growled Moncrief one morning as he smoked the after-breakfast cigar,
previous to turning out for a run with the "Friarshire."
"Oh! St. George Wilton is rather an amusing fellow; he is tolerably
good-looking, and has lots of small talk; one of those men who do not
believe much in anything, I fancy, except self and self-interest, but
for dear self-sake not disposed to rub other people the wrong way. He is
a favorite with the ladies--cuts me out with the fair Helen."
"Hum! I doubt that. I do not think you would let him if he tried; for of
course _that's_ the attraction to Brosedale."
"Is it?" returned Wilton, carelessly, as he prepared a cigar.
"Yes; I know you think I am as blind as a mole, but I can see there is
something that takes you to Brosedale. It's not Sir Peter, though he's
the best of the lot. It's not my lady; and it cannot be that imp of a
boy you are so fond of carrying pictures to--I suppose for a 'ploy to
get into the interior, though they are sweet enough upon you without
that; so it must be that girl."
"Your reasoning is so admirable," returned Wilton, laughing
good-humoredly, "that I should like to hear a little more."
"Eh!" said the major, looking up at him curiously. "Well, my lad, I am
only anxious for your own sake. Helen Saville is not the style of woman
Lord St. George would like; the family are by no means _sans reproche;_
and--I don't fancy her myself."
"That is conclusive," replied Wilton, gravely. "But make your mind easy;
I am not going to marry Helen Saville, nor do I think she expects me to
do so."
"What she expects, God knows, but there is something not all square
about you, Wilton."
"My dear fellow, do you want me to call you out?"
"You must just go your own way, which, no doubt, you would in any case;
but I am off on Monday next to pay my sister a visit. I have put her off
from time to time, but I must go now."
"By Jove, I shall be quite desolate! And will you not return, old
fellow?"
"I think not. At any rate, I shall not be able to come north again till
near Christmas; and I hardly suppose you will be here then."
"That depends," said Wilton, thoughtfully.
"On what?" asked the major, quickly.
"Oh! the sport--my own whims--the general attractions of the
neighborhood."
"----the attractions of the neighborhood!" cried Moncrief, profanely.
"Why do you not make up to Lady Mary or Lady Susan Mowbray? They are
nice girls and no mistake; just the very thing for you. But I am a fool
to trouble myself about you; only I have always looked after you since
you joined. However, you are old enough to take care of yourself."
"Perhaps I ought to be, at any rate; and although I have somehow managed
to 'rile' you, I have never forgotten, and never will forget, what a
brick you have always been."
Major Moncrief growled out some indistinct words, and went to the
window; Wilton followed him. "You'll scarcely manage a run to-day;" he
said; "the ground is very hard, and, if I am not much mistaken, there's
a lot of snow up there," pointing to a dense mass of heavy drab clouds
to windward.
"No," returned Moncrief, uncertainly, "it is considerably milder this
morning; besides, the wind is too high, and it is too early for snow."
"Not in these latitudes; and it has been deucedly cold for the week
past."
"At any rate, I will go to the meet," said Moncrief, leaving the room.
"What are you going to do?"
"I shall not hunt to-day; I am going over to Monkscleugh."
"Hum! to buy toys for the child?"
"Yes," said Wilton, laughing. "But for to-day I am safe: Lady Fergusson
and her fair daughter, attended by our diplomatic cousin, are going to
Brantwood, where there is a coming-of-age ball, or some such high-jinks.
They politely invited me to be of the party; but I resisted, Moncrief--I
resisted!"
"Did you, by George! That puzzles me."
"By St. George, you mean. Why, you suspicious old boy, you do seem not
satisfied; and yet Helen Saville will be away three or four days."
"I'll be hanged if I can make you out!" said the major, and walked away.
Wilton threw himself into an arm-chair and laughed aloud; then he turned
very grave, and thought long and deeply. If Moncrief only knew where the
real danger lay, and what it was! How was it that he had permitted this
mere whim, half curiosity, half compassion, to grow into such
troublesome proportions? He knew it was folly, and yet he could not
resist! He had always felt interested and attracted by that strange
girl whose mingled coldness and sweetness charmed and wounded him; but
now, since he had seen her oftener, and listened to her voice, and heard
the sudden but rare outbreaks of enthusiasm and feeling which would
force themselves into expression, as if in spite of her will, he was
conscious that his feelings were deepening into intense passion and
tenderness.
To catch a sympathetic look, a special smile, a little word to himself
alone--such were the nothings watched for, sought, treasured, remembered
by our patrician soldier. The vision of that poor, suffering boy leaning
his head against Ella and clasped in her arms, seemed indelibly stamped
upon his brain. It was constantly before him, though he fought gallantly
against it.
It seemed to have brought about a crisis of feeling. Before that, though
touched, interested, curious, he was not absorbed; now, reason as he
would, resist as he would, he could not banish the desperate longing to
be in that boy's place just for once. In short, Wilton was possessed by
one of those rare but real passions which, when they seize upon a man of
his age, are infinitely more powerful, more dangerous, or, as the case
may be, more noble, than when they partake of the eager effervescence of
youth.
And what was to be the end thereof?--so he asked himself as, starting
from his seat, he paced the room.
Ardently as he felt, he could not but acknowledge that to marry a girl,
not only in a position little more than menial, but of whose antecedents
he knew absolutely nothing--who, for some mysterious reason, did not
seem to have a friend on earth--was a piece of folly he ought to be
ashamed to commit. And yet to give her up--worse still, to leave her for
some demure curate, some enterprising bagman to win, perhaps to trample
upon? Impossible!
What then? It must not be asserted that the possibility of some tie less
galling and oppressive than matrimony never presented itself to Ralph
Wilton's mind. He had known such conditions among his friends, and some
(according to his lax but not altogether unpopular opinions) had not
turned out so badly for any of the parties concerned; but in this case
he rejected the idea as simply out of the question. He would no more
dare breathe it to that obscure little girl than to a princess. It would
be hard enough to win or rouse her to admit him as a lover, even on the
most honorable terms. She seemed not to think such things existed for
her. There was in her such a curious mixture of frankness and
indifference, coldness, sweetness, all flecked with sparks of occasional
fire, that Wilton could not help believing she had some uncommon
history; and there were times when he felt that, if he but asked her,
she would tell him everything he craved to know. Never had he met a
woman (for, young as she was, she was eminently womanly) so utterly
without coquetry. Her perfect freedom from this feminine ingredient was
almost insulting, and a certain instinct warned him from attempting to
break through the invisible barrier which her unconscious simplicity
created. Yet all this restraint was becoming intolerable. At Brosedale
he never saw her alone; out of it, he never saw her at all. The desire
to know all about her, to impress her, to win her, and the struggling
instinct of caste, the dread of making some false step that would ruin
him in her estimation, tormented him almost into a fever.
His long meditation ended in his ringing sharply, and ordering round the
dog-cart to drive into Monkscleugh.
"It's sure to snow, sir," said his servant.
"Not yet, I think. At any rate, I shall take my chance."
"Yes," he continued, half aloud, as the man disappeared, "I must make
the attempt; and if I meet her--why, what will be, will be!" With this
profoundly philosophic conclusion he proceeded to draw on an overcoat
and prepare for his cold drive.
The previous day, Wilton had managed, by a profound stratagem, to
procure an interview with Donald, and for his pains found that young
gentleman fearfully cross and rude, moreover alone: but, in the course
of their short conversation, the heir of Brosedale confessed to being
greatly enraged at the non-appearance of some fresh drawing-materials
which had been forwarded from London, and of which no tidings could be
heard; that "Dandy," his special pony, was ill or disabled, and no one
was at liberty to go for them; so Ella had promised to walk over to
Monkscleugh the next morning.
Of course Wilton discovered that he, too, had "urgent private affairs"
of his own to transact in the town, and, had it "rained elephants and
rhinoceroses," he would have persevered.
It was a still, cold morning. The bitter wind of the day before had
fallen, and a kind of expectant hush pervaded the air. The man who stood
at the horse's head, looked round him with a very dissatisfied air, not
seeing the necessity for driving to Monkscleugh.
However, the drive there was accomplished without any encounter, save
with a barefooted lassie on her way to market. At first Wilton drove
slowly, and then fast, and before they had reached the town the snow had
begun, in large, slow flakes. In spite of its increasing density, he
managed to call at the saddler's and the corn-factor's, and twice at
the railway-station, but all in vain; so, with a muttered malediction on
the weather, which had, no doubt, defeated the object of his expedition,
he turned his horse's head toward home.
"It's going to be a bad fall," he said to his servant, as they proceeded
through the thickly-descending snow, which scarcely permitted them to
see a yard right or left.
"It is so, sir; and I wish we were home, or, anyhow, across the brae
there, where the road turns to Brosedale."
"Do you think we will lose the track?"
"I'll be surprised if we do not, sir."
"I fancy I shall be able to make it out," returned Wilton, and drove on
as rapidly as he could in silence. Suddenly he pulled up. "Look," said
he, "there--to the right. Do you not see something like a figure--a
woman?"
"Faith, it's only a big stone, sir!"
"No--it moves!--Hallo!" shouted Wilton. "I think you are off the road."
The figure stopped, turned, and came toward them. Wilton immediately
sprang down and darted forward, exclaiming, "Miss Rivers! Good God! what
weather for you! How fortunate I overtook you.--Come, let me assist you
to reach my dog-cart. You must be nearly wet through."
She put her hand on his offered arm. "It is indeed fortunate you came
up. I had begun to feel bewildered." Nevertheless she spoke quite
calmly, and accepted his aid to mount the dog-cart with perfect
composure. As Wilton took his place beside her and gathered up the
reins, after wrapping his plaid round her, he made up his mind very
rapidly not to attempt the longer and more open route to Brosedale.
He drove more slowly, taking good heed of the objects he could make out,
and, to his great joy, recognized a certain stunted, gnarled oak, to the
right of which lay Glenraven, and, having passed it, somewhat increased
his speed.
"It is scarcely wise to push on to Brosedale until this heavy fall is
over. Besides, the Lodge is much nearer, and you ought not to be a
moment longer than you can help in these wet clothes. I am afraid you
must depend on the resources of our cook for dry garments."
"My clothes are not so very wet, but my boots are. I wish we could have
gone on to Brosedale; but, if it cannot be, I will not trouble you. This
snow is too heavy to last very long."
"Pray Heaven it may!" said Wilton inwardly.
Here was the first gleam of good fortune that had visited him. Ella was
to be all alone with him for two or three hours. Snow or no snow, he
would manage that, at all events. All the Brosedale women away,
Moncrief certain to be storm-stayed somewhere--what a glorious chance
for a long, confidential talk, for the solving of many doubts, for the
forging of some link that would bind this wild, free bird to him! The
excessive delight and exaltation that made his heart bound roused him to
the necessity of self-control, and he swore to himself that not a word
or a look should escape him to offend or startle his prize.
"How was it you ventured out on so unpromising a morning?" he asked, as
they proceeded, stopping from time to time to make sure of the road.
"Oh, Donald was so ravenous to get a parcel which he thought must be
mislaid at Monkscleugh, that I promised to go over for it; and you know
I love so much to be out. Still I do not think I should have attempted
it, only a Mr. Wilton, who was going somewhere in the phaeton, offered
to drive me to Monkscleugh. I thought it would snow, but I hoped to get
back before it began. However, I was overtaken; and I fancy I should
have wandered all day had you not found me."
"I thought Wilton was going with Lady Fergusson to the _fête_ at
Brantwood?"
"He was; but he was to take up some one on the way."
"He is a relation of mine," said Wilton, feeling marvellously crossed
by the simple fact of St. George having discovered the hidden treasure
as well as himself.
"I suppose so; but he is quite unlike you."
It would be hard to say, logically, why this comforted Colonel Wilton,
but it did.
"Hold hard, sir!" cried the groom, who was standing up and peering
ahead. "You will be right against the gate." And Wilton found he was at
home. Another moment and he pulled up at the door of the Lodge.