Part 69 (1/2)

CHAPTER XXIII

The February afternoon in Long Whindale, shortened by the first heavy snowstorm of the winter, pa.s.sed quickly into darkness. Down through all the windings of the valley the snow showers swept from the north, becoming, as the wind dropped a little toward night, a steady continuous fall, which in four or five hours had already formed drifts of some depth in exposed places.

Toward six o'clock, the small farmer living across the lane from Burwood became anxious about some sheep which had been left in a high ”intak” on the fell. He was a thriftless, procrastinating fellow, and when the storm came on about four o'clock had been taking his tea in a warm ingle-nook by his wife's fire. He was then convinced that the storm would ”hod off,” at least till morning, that the sheep would get shelter enough from the stone walls of the ”intak,” and that all was well. But a couple of hours later the persistence of the snowfall, together with his wife's reproaches, goaded him into action. He went out with his son and lanterns, intending to ask the old shepherd at the Bridge Farm to help them in their expedition to find and fold the sheep.

Meanwhile, in the little sitting-room at Burwood Catherine Elsmere and Mary were sitting, the one with her book, the other with her needlework, while the snow and wind outside beat on the little house. But Catharine's needlework often dropped unheeded from her fingers; and the pages of Mary's book remained unturned. The postman who brought letters up the dale in the morning, and took letters back to Whinborough at night, had just pa.s.sed by in his little cart, hooded and cloaked against the storm, and hoping to reach Whinborough before the drifts in the roads had made travelling too difficult. Mary had put into his hands a letter addressed to the Rev. Richard Meynell, Hotel Richelieu, Paris. And beside her on the table lay a couple of sheets of foreign notepaper, covered closely with Meynell's not very legible handwriting.

Catharine also had some open letters on her lap. Presently she turned to Mary.

”The Bishop thinks the trial will certainly end tomorrow.”

”Yes,” said Mary, without raising her eyes.

Catharine took her daughter's hand in a tender clasp.

”I am so sorry!--for you both.”

”Dearest!” Mary laid her mother's hand against her cheek. ”But I don't think Richard will be misunderstood again.”

”No. The Bishop says that mysterious as it all is, n.o.body blames him for being absent. They trust him. But this time, it seems, he _did_ write to the Bishop--just a few words.”

”Yes, I know. I am glad.” But as she spoke, the pale severity of the girl's look belied the word she used. During the fortnight of Meynell's absence, while he and Alice Puttenham in the south of France had been following every possible clue in a vain search for Hester, and the Arches trial had been necessarily left entirely to the management of Meynell's counsel, and to the resources of his co-defendants, Darwen and Chesham, Mary had suffered much. To see his own brilliant vindication of himself and his followers, in the face of religious England, snuffed out and extinguished in a moment by the call of this private duty had been hard!--all the more seeing that the catastrophe had been brought about by misconduct so wanton, so flagrant, as Hester's. There had sprung up in Mary's mind, indeed, a _saeva indignatio,_ not for herself, but for Richard, first and foremost, and next for his cause. Dark as she knew Meynell's forebodings and beliefs to be, anxiety for Hester must sometimes be forgotten in a natural resentment for high aims thwarted, and a great movement risked, by the wicked folly of a girl of eighteen, on whom every affection and every care had been lavished.

”The roads will be impa.s.sable to-morrow,” said Catharine, drawing aside the curtain, only to see a window already blocked with drifted snow.

”But--who can be ringing on such a night!”

For a peal of the front door bell went echoing through the little house.

Mary stepped into the hall, and herself opened the door, only to be temporarily blinded by the rush of wind and snow through the opening.

”A telegram!” she exclaimed, in wonder. ”Please come in and wait. Isn't it very bad?”

”I hope I'll be able to get back!” laughed the young man who had brought it. ”The roads are drifting up fast. It was noa good bicycling. I got 'em to gie me a horse. I've just put him in your stable, miss.”

But Mary heard nothing of what he was saying. She had rushed back into the sitting-room.

”Mother!--Richard and Miss Puttenham will be here to-night. They have heard of Hester.”

In stupefaction they read the telegram, which had had been sent from Crewe:

”Received news of Hester on arrival Paris yesterday. She has left M. Says she has gone to find your mother. Keep her. We arrive to-night Whinborough 7.10.”

”It is now seven,” said Catharine, looking at her watch. ”But where--where is she?”

Hurriedly they called their little parlour-maid into the room and questioned her with closed doors. No--she knew nothing of any visitor.

n.o.body had called; n.o.body, so far as she knew, had pa.s.sed by, except the ordinary neighbours. Once in the afternoon, indeed, she had thought she heard a carriage pa.s.s the bottom of the lane, but on looking out from the kitchen she had seen nothing of it.

Out of this slender fact, the only further information that could be extracted was a note of time. It was, the girl thought, about four o'clock when she heard the carriage pa.s.s.

”But it couldn't have pa.s.sed,” Catharine objected, ”or you would have seen it go up the valley.”