Chapter 16

Sir Gareth, slowly winning back to strength, knew very well that it behoved him to send word to his household that he had not been kidnapped, or snatched up into thin air, but he preferred to let the world slide for just a little longer. It would never do, he told himself, to let his servants get wind of his whereabouts, for ten to one they would allow their tongues to wag; or, worse, Trotton, already strongly suspecting him of having taken leave of his senses, might arrive at the Bull, in an excess of zeal, and the unshakeable belief that his services would not be dispensed with. It was really quite impossible to explain to them what had happened; to tell them not to mention his whereabouts to anyone would be to invite an extremely undesirable curiosity. After all, he was known to have gone into the country for several days, and it would probably be thought that he had prolonged his visit, or perhaps formed the sudden resolve to go from Brancaster to stay with one of his numerous friends. Trotton, of course, would expect to find his master in Berkeley Square when he reached town, and would undoubtedly suppose that Amanda had again given him the slip. Well, that couldn’t be helped, and at least Trotton wouldn’t be anxious. He did toy with the idea of writing to his brother-in-law, to enlist his aid in running a nameless Brigade-Major to earth, and even got as far as starting a letter to him. But it proved to be rather too exhausting a task. One sheet of literary composition was enough to make his head swim; and when he read over what he had written, he tore it up. Warren would undoubtedly think he had run mad. So he told himself that in all likelihood no one was worrying about him at all, and gave himself up to lazy enjoyment.

Hester was similarly unconcerned. The Widmores must believe her to be with her sister Susan; and even if some chance presently revealed to them that she was not at Ancaster she did not flatter herself that they would feel any particular concern. They might wonder, and conjecture, and they would certainly think it odd of her; but the chances were that Almeria at least would assume that having rejected Sir Gareth’s offer she had left Brancaster to escape the recriminations of her family.

But Sir Gareth and Lady Hester underrated their relations. By ill-luck, Lady Ennerdale had occasion to write to her brother, and the contents of her letter made it abundantly plain that her children were all in health and spirits, and that so far from enjoying Hester’s companionship she supposed her to be at Brancaster. Exactly as Hester had foreseen, Lady Widmore instantly informed her lord that Hester had taken a crackbrained notion into her head of setting up house on her own. Not a doubt but that was what she was meaning to do: idiotish, of course, but just like her. All this upset over Ludlow’s offer had irritated her nerves: my lady had thought her manner very strange. But then she was always totty-headed!

Lady Hester had been right, too, in thinking that her brother would not succumb to anxiety; but she had underestimated his dislike of scandal. Lord Widmore, had she gone to live with one of her sisters, would have raised not the smallest objection, for no one would have wondered at it. But people would wonder very much at it if an unattached lady left the shelter of her father’s roof to live alone. To make it worse, she was not yet thirty. What, he asked his wife, would people think, if ever it leaked out that Hetty had tried to escape from her family? She must be found, and brought to her senses—unless she was all the time with Gertrude, or Constance. It would be excessively like her to have said Susan, when she meant Gertrude: he would write immediately to both his other sisters.

In London, a far greater degree of anxiety was felt than Sir Gareth had anticipated. Trotton did indeed assume that he was still chasing Amanda; but he was very far from accepting this solution to the mystery with equanimity. Devotion to the master he had served since his boyhood, coupled with jealousy of Sir Gareth’s butler and his valet, prevented him from taking them one inch into his confidence; he told them that Sir Gareth had said he might break his journey at a friend’s house; but he was deeply perturbed. Sir Gareth was behaving in a way so utterly at variance with his usual calm and well-bred self-possession that Trotton seriously supposed him either to be going out of his mind, or to have fallen desperately in love with a chit of a girl who would make him the worst wife in the world. Trotton had no opinion of Amanda. A bit of muslin, that’s what he had thought she was at first. Then it had seemed that he had been wrong; and although he didn’t believe more than half of the things he had heard her say to Sir Gareth, there was no denying she hadn’t gone with him willingly. Dicked in the nob, Sir Gareth must be, to make off with a girl who was trying all the time to escape from him! High-handed too: he’d never known him act like it before. A nice kick-up there would be, if her father, or maybe her brother, got to know about all this bobbery! It behoved anyone who held Sir Gareth in affection to make a push to rescue him from the consequences of his folly, and Trotton held him in considerable affection.

So, too, did his sister. Mrs. Wetherby saw her adored brother set off for Brancaster, and had very little hope that he would meet with a rebuff there. When, at the end of a week, he had not returned to his house in Berkeley Square, that little died: he would scarcely have remained so long at Brancaster if his suit had not prospered. She expected every day to receive a letter from him, announcing his betrothal, but no letter came. She could scarcely believe that he would not have informed her of it before admitting the rest of the world into his confidence, but she, like Amanda, began to study the columns of the Morning Post,and the Gazette. She found no mention of Sir Gareth’s name; and it was at this point that the conviction that something had happened to him took strong possession of her mind. Mr. Wetherby kindly and patiently proved to her how unlikely it was that any disaster could have befallen Gary of which she would not have been apprized long since, but he might as well have spared his breath. No, she said, she had not the remotest conjecture of the nature of the accident which she supposed to have occurred: she just had a Feeling that all was not well with Gary. Mr. Wetherby, well-acquainted with her Feelings, recommended her not to be on the fidgets, and dismissed the matter from his mind.

But not for long. It was recalled by a chance meeting at his club with an acquaintance who let fall a scrap of information which, the more he considered it, seemed to him of sufficient interest to recount to his wife. It was curious: not alarming—in fact, the inference to be drawn from it would probably do much to banish Trixie’s blue devils—but it did make one wonder a trifle. It was not important enough to occupy a prominent place in his memory; he remembered it when he was in the middle of telling Trixie about young Kendal, whom he had run smash into as he was coming away from White’s.

“Not that I knew who he was, for although I daresay I may have seen him when he was a child I don’t recall it,” he said reflectively. “However, Willingdon was with me, and at once introduced him. You remember Jack Kendal, Trixie? Fellow that was up at Cambridge with me—came in for a neat little place in Northamptonshire, and married some Scotch girl or other. I went to his funeral about five years ago,” he added helpfully, perceiving a slight lack of interest in his wife’s face. “Poor fellow! I didn’t see much of him after he got married, but he used to be a close friend of mine. Well, this boy I was telling you about is his second son. Well set-up young fellow, though he don’t favour Jack much: got sandy hair, like his mother. Queer chance, my meeting him like that. Which reminds me!” he said, digressing suddenly. “Knew I had something to tell you! Cleeve was in the club today, and he happened to mention Brancaster.”

“Brancaster?” said Beatrix quickly, her interest immediately roused. “Did Lord Cleeve know—did he give you any news of Gareth?”

“No, no, nothing like that! But from what he said it seems Brancaster is down at Brighton. He spoke of having dined with him in town the day he came up from Brancaster Park. He went off to join the Regent the next morning. What struck me as odd was that, by what I was able to make out, he must have left Brancaster the day after Gary arrived there. That is, if Gary held by his intention of going first to the Rydes. Said he meant to spend a couple of days with them, didn’t he?”

“Yes, certainly he did, and Gary would never break an engagement of that nature! Then Gary cannot be at Brancaster! Warren, it must surely mean—though I find it hard to credit it!—that Lady Hester rejected him!”

“Looks like it,” agreed Warren. “Brancaster’s a ramshackle fellow, but he wouldn’t go off to Brighton if he had Gary staying with him in Cambridgeshire. I thought you’d be interested.”

“Thankful!”she declared. Her brow creased. “Yes, but—Warren, if Gary left Brancaster over a fortnight ago, what can have become of him?”

“Lord, I don’t know! Daresay he went on to visit some of his friends. To get back to what I was saying to you about young Kendal—”

“He would not have done so without writing to me! He must have known how anxious I should be!”

“Anxious! Why should you be anxious? Gary ain’t a schoolboy, my dear! I own it ain’t like him to go off without telling anyone where he was bound for, or how long he meant to be away—but for anything we know he may have sent word to Berkeley Square.”