Short Fiction · Trooping with Crows (5/5) (1/3)

IV

“As a White Dove”

It was not until at least two hours after Lettice’s departure with Captain McCormack that her absence was discovered. If Miss Lilla McCormack had been a veritable prophetess or a professional clairvoyante she could not have more accurately described the state of consternation that ensued at Lochiel, and the line of conduct each individual chose to adopt.

The Misses Tremarten had retired to the dressing-room that Lord Lochiel had provided for their comfort at five o’clock. Their maid, who also acted as Lettice’s for the day, was to be dismissed at six to wait on the young lady, and it was not until she returned with the alarming disclosure that Miss Lettice’s room was vacant that any inquiry was made. Then it was that Ellis (Captain McCormack’s man), when he saw the maid running hither and thither, asking everyone if they knew where her young lady was to be found, came forward and made his statement.

“Captain McCormack desired his compliments to Miss Tremarten, and he had driven Miss Lettice Tremarten over to Ingleside that afternoon.” Then the man, having sent this message up to the ladies, made his escape as rapidly as possible, returning to Ingleside, there to carry out Captain McCormack’s further orders.

The maid went up to her mistress with the message, and, as Lilla had prophesied, Aunt Judith went into hysterics immediately, thereby considerably adding to Aunt Rosamond’s distress and perplexity.

“If you would only keep quiet, Judith,” she said, when the sobbing began to subside a little, “I could think what we had better do.”

“Do!” said the emotional lady in her highest key, “send for Lord Lochiel, send for lady Elizabeth Mackreth” (this was Lord Lochiel’s half-sister, who was acting hostess for the time being), “telegraph to Owen, telegraph⁠—”

“Hush, Judith, for Heaven’s sake don’t make any more noise. Do you think I want everyone in the house to know of my niece’s follies and indiscretions? Here, Matthews” (this to her maid), “go to Lady Elizabeth’s maid and tell her to say to her mistress that the Misses Tremarten (all three, mind) are a little fatigued and beg to be excused from dinner, but they will join the dance in the course of the evening. Then come back to me.”

The maid took her message, and came back bringing Lady Elizabeth’s regrets, etc.

“Now,” said Aunt Rosamond, “go down to Williams” (this was the coachman who had driven them to Lochiel from Rosneath) “and tell him to go at once to Ingleside, where Miss Lettice has been spending the afternoon with Miss McCormack, and tell him to wait for her and bring her back as quickly as possible.”

So the maid went and despatched the man, and Aunt Rosamond employed the two hours and a half occupied in his going and returning by endeavouring to soothe her sister’s nerves and to account satisfactorily to herself for her niece’s absence.

“It is only her utter ignorance that makes her transgress in this way,” she argued. “If she had had a mother she would have learnt all these matters with her alphabet. It all comes from the eccentricities of her education. No doubt that fast, strong-minded young woman” (meaning Lilla) “sent her brother over to fetch her on a sudden freak. They have forgotten how the time has passed while they have been gossiping and flirting, and will be thankful enough when Williams arrives to help them over the difficulty of getting home.”

This was all very plausible, and Aunt Rosamond repeated the same arguments over and over again till she had almost succeeded in persuading herself into believing them. As for Miss Judith, she sat silent, rocking herself and shaking her head, for although she could not bring herself to contradict her sister even on so important a matter as this, she naturally took the sentimental and emotional view of the case, and concluded in her own mind that Lettice and Captain Ivie had eloped.

But when Williams returned with the startling announcement that “Miss McCormack had left that morning on a visit to friends at Perth, and that Captain Ivie was to drive with her as far as Auchterarder, but had not as yet returned,” even Aunt Rosamond began to feel that matters had taken a serious turn.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” she said as the maid gave her the man’s message. “This is some trick on Miss McCormack’s part. Judith, if you go off into hysterics again I shall lock you in by yourself till you come to!” (this severely to her sister.) “Heavens! I must consult someone⁠—not Lord Lochiel; certainly not. Matthews, go to Mrs. Rosneath and ask her if she will be so very kind as to come to me here for five minutes, but be sure not to give her the message till she’s quite alone.”

It was now about nine o’clock in the evening; dancing had commenced, and the absence of Miss Lettice Tremarten, who was supposed to be the belle of the ball, was being very freely commented upon. Lord Lochiel, not satisfied with his sister’s explanation of the matter, had commissioned one of the servants to make special inquiries on his own part as to the young lady’s health and whether there was a possibility of her so far overcoming her fatigue as to join the dancers, and Mrs. Rosneath had just expressed her intention of going personally to inquire for the Misses Tremarten when Aunt Rosamond’s message was brought to her.

“What is it, what is it, my dear friend?” she exclaimed in genuine alarm and anxiety as she entered Aunt Rosamond’s room.

“Now don’t you make a fuss, there’s a good creature,” said Aunt Rosamond, “or else I shall regret having sent for you. Nothing serious has happened, only Lettice went out this afternoon and hasn’t returned.” Even now she would try to screen her niece, and couldn’t bring herself to mention Captain McCormack’s name in conjunction with hers. “I’ve sent to Ingleside, thinking perhaps she might have gone over to see Miss McCormack, and now I want you to send someone over to Rosneath to see if any freak has taken her there, and then will you be so very kind as to say to all who ask after her that she has sprained her ankle severely, and regrets that she cannot dance tonight?”

But all the time the brave old lady talked so calmly and held her head so high she was saying in her own heart⁠—“I know she has run away, I know she has run away. Oh, if we can only get her back without a fuss!”

Mrs. Rosneath looked very grave.

“I fear you are taking matters too lightly, Miss Tremarten,” she said. “You ought to take someone into your counsel. You must at least allow me to tell my husband.”

And Mr. Rosneath, when he was told, looked graver still, and suggested that Lord Lochiel should be consulted on the matter. This, however, Aunt Rosamond positively forbade.

“I want two or three things done, Mr. Rosneath, but if you are going to make a fuss and tell everyone in this way, I must get someone else to do them for me,” said the old lady irritably.

“You may command me to any extent, Miss Tremarten,” said Mr. Rosneath, somewhat coldly it must be owned.

“Very well, then, my own belief is that the McCormacks know something about this” (this was the utmost she could bring herself to admit), “and I think someone should go there at once and question that man (Captain McCormack’s groom, I believe) who gave a message to my maid, and get out of him exactly what he knows on the matter.”

“That shall be done, Miss Tremarten⁠—I will go myself. Your next wish?”

“I next want a telegram sent to Lettice’s father to come here at once. Can that be managed tonight?”

“I fear not,” replied Mr. Rosneath, “for every station far and near has been closed more than an hour ago, and not even a luggage-train will pass through till five in the morning, or we might have signalled that to stop and carry a message. What else is it you wish done?”

“Why, I want everyone in the house to be told that Lettice sprained her ankle severely after the archery this morning, and consequently cannot move off her bed, and I don’t want anybody to be coming up and down fussing after us. I’ve locked Judith and old Matthews up together in the next room, and there they’ll stay till the morning. It’s the only way to keep them quiet.”

“I will leave this last matter in Mrs. Rosneath’s hands. I’ve no doubt she’ll do her best to prevent inquiries, but I’ll go at once to Ingleside and see the man you refer to.” And without further delay he set off.

Two more hours of painful suspense passed. How Aunt Rosamond lived through them she scarcely knew, for in spite of the brave face she put upon it her heart inwardly misgave her. She had not dined, and for a woman at her time of life this is a serious matter, and she dared not release her maid to send her even for a cup of tea for fear of any indiscretion on her part.

Ever and anon there would come a louder moan from Miss Judith in the adjoining room, and Matthews would tap at the intermediate door and “beg Miss Tremarten to come in to her.”

“No,” Aunt Rosamond replied, “I shan’t go in and you shan’t come out, either of you. Give her some vinegar.”

So the time wore away. Once Lady Elizabeth Mackreth sent up to inquire for the ladies, and Aunt Rosamond answered in person that they were all quite well and had all gone to bed, or “at least going,” she added in answer to the servant’s look of amazement.

At a little before midnight Mr. Rosneath returned, tired with his long ride and with a very grave look on his face.

“I’ve come at once to you, Miss Tremarten,” he said, glancing down at his dusty boots and coat, “but I have no good news to bring; indeed, I fear matters have taken a very serious turn.”

“You’ve seen that man?” asked Aunt Rosamond, palpitating all over.

“Yes, I’ve seen him, and forced him to confess a great deal. At first he was very loath to speak, and repeated over and over again that Captain McCormack had sent him with the message that Miss Lettice had driven with him to Ingleside, and he had nothing more to tell; however, I threatened him, and I believe succeeded in frightening him, for it ended with his admitting that he knew that Captain McCormack and Miss Tremarten started for Perth at four this afternoon, and that most probably by this time they are on their road to London.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Aunt Rosamond in low unsteady tones, turning very white as she spoke.

Mr. Rosneath made no reply. They were standing in front of a gilt-framed mirror, and, glancing into it, he was struck by the sudden look of age which had passed over the lady’s face.

“Mr. Rosneath,” said she, speaking in the same low, unsteady tones, “what can be done?”

“I fear, nothing until the morning. It is useless to attempt to organise a party in pursuit at this time of night, with the moon setting and no telegraph-wires to be got at. If you will allow me to consult Lord Lochiel and⁠—”

“But that I will not allow,” said Aunt Rosamond with emphasis. “We must wait now until we see what the morning will bring.”

And while Aunt Rosamond and Mr. Rosneath were consulting together, with grave faces and foreboding hearts, Lettice’s weary little feet were stumbling along the hard white road which led she knew not whither. Oh! if there were but a living soul anywhere to be found⁠—tramp, gipsy, what you will, or finger-post, or landmark of any sort to tell her whither her steps were wandering! O for the gleam of a cottage light or the shadow of some friendly rooftree⁠—anything that held out the hope of some rest and refuge, for her strength was flagging now, and she felt as though she could not hold out much longer.

And then the moon went down.

The wind blew colder as the darkness gathered about her.

“Oh! will the morning never come?” sighed poor Lettice, as on and on she went more slowly now, for her feet were aching and sore. “Is it only the wind that I hear?” she said, pushing back her hair from her ears and standing still for an instant in a gloomy narrow lane into which the flinty high road had gradually dwindled. Then her heart misgave her as a loud gust swept over her head, scattering some dry leaves from the wayside trees, and bringing with it a few large drops of rain.

Dark shadows all round her, a grey stone wall on either side, the wind going and coming in heavy gusts, and sobbing itself out in the old firs. No hat on her head, her feet blistered, and every nerve in her body burning and thrilling, on she went, stumbling at times, almost staggering against the flinty outline of the wall, now the only guide she had to keep her in the path which led she knew not whither. She dared not stop to rest⁠—she knew if once she sat down the roadside she would never rise up again. Her brain was sick and dizzy; she could not think, she scarcely felt, was hardly conscious, indeed, of her own self, her own being, in that windy, drizzling darkness.

And then, somehow, mingled with the wild sighing of the wind there came the baying of a dog. Whence the wind brought it she did not know.

“If I am going farther from it I must still keep on,” she thought to herself, so she staggered and stumbled on, catching her breath as the breeze swept by. “If I keep on and on,” she thought, “the day must dawn some time or other, and then some people must be about, and they’ll find me and help me along to get somewhere.”

Another wild gust of wind swept down, and again sounded the baying of the dog. “Ah, thank God!” sighed poor Lettice, “I’m not wandering away from it, after all.” And this⁠—what was this soft grey light gradually spreading among the night clouds and marking the line of the pebbly path under her feet? Can it really be the day dawning at last? can that dim, dark outline in the far distance be the grand old Auchterils? Ah, now the rugged stone walls begin to show brown and grey, the low-lying fields take shape and distinctness. A pool of water shines silvery and ghostlike almost at her feet, with a few slender trees grouped about, and there a little to the right of it, almost hidden by the luxuriance of the hedge in which it stands, is a small low gate. The dog is baying loudly now as Lettice stumbles forward and swings it back. A neat little two-storied house stands in front of her, and then⁠—all is darkness and dimness again, for Lettice has fallen senseless on the gravel path.

But kind friends are at hand. The dog has roused the small household, strong arms are round her, and a young girl and an old man are at her side.

“Dinna be afraid, my dear,” said a gentle voice from under a red handkerchief which had been hastily tied over grey locks⁠—“dinna be afraid, my dear, ye’re among friends. I am the minister, do you ken? and this is my daughter Maggie.”

And exactly at the time they were carrying Lettice into the manse between them the woman McKenzie was knocking at the door of her little cottage to rouse Captain McCormack and his sister. Ivie started up with an anathema. “This is ‘daybreak’ with a vengeance,” he exclaimed. Then he opened the door to admit the woman, and hastened upstairs to rouse Lilla.

“They’ll soon bring your horse round,” he explained. “You know you want to be off and away before she wakes.”

They were interrupted by a knock at the bedroom door and a torrent of broad Scotch from the woman McKenzie, who stood outside on the landing holding in her hand a small silver brooch.

Captain Ivie took it from her. “Is this yours, Lilla?” he said, holding it out to her. As he did so it flashed through his mind that he had seen the tiny ornament before. Could it have been in Lettice’s dainty green and silver dress as they drove along the road to Ardvaroch? “Where did you find it?” he demanded of the woman.

The woman indicated the yard at the back of the house with her hand, and commenced her explanation.

Ivie did not wait to hear it. With a whole world of doubt and suspicion in his mind he rushed to Lettice’s door and knocked loudly.

No reply.