Part 33 (2/2)
Gabrielle looked round in wondering perplexity, repeating the words again.
”He has gone!”
Old Pierre's eager face lengthened.
”Mademoiselle?” he faltered.
Gabrielle stood still, her hands clasped together, eyes deepening with anxiety.
”I can't understand it,” she cried. ”It was _here_, just here; and he promised to await your coming.”
”Perhaps he wearied at the delay,” suggested Michael Berrington, ”and has wandered farther down the path.”
”I do not think he would, and we have not been very long. Still, we can look. Where does the path lead, Pierre?”
”Only to the wicket, Mamselle, and then out on to the moor.”
”We can go to the wicket then. He would not have strayed beyond.”
Together they hurried down the path, Gabrielle calling her brother's name again and again.
No answer.
And the wicket-gate was closed.
Nothing was to be seen beyond saving a narrow stretch of moorland broken by forest growth, which bordered a valley.
”Morice! Morice! Oh, Michael, where can he be?”
She had called him Mr. Berrington yesterday, and the man's heart stirred with quick throbbing at the sound of his name, and the appeal in her tones.
”Do not be afraid,” he replied. ”No harm can have befallen him; none knew of his coming.”
”Excepting my Lord Denningham.”
”But he had no speech with him. You say he went away at once.”
”At once.”
”Probably to tell my father of his coming. You remember it was arranged that they should meet.”
”Yes, yes; and of course they do not know that he--has changed.”
”Impossible. Do not be afraid. Your brother will join us in a few minutes.”
”He may have gone towards the house by some other way.”
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