CHAPTER XVII.
IN THE THUNDER-STORM.
In the afternoon, fortune, deceitful, false friend that she is, favored Blanche Dormer’s caprice for rowing across the lake to the pretty pavilion on the other side.
Her mother, Mrs. Dormer, took a fancy for driving over to see Flore Hall, and came about four or five o’clock.
Having been escorted over the house, she was too fatigued to go into the grounds, and, as Lady Quaintree was not sorry for an excuse to rest, the two matrons subsided into a pleasant, gossiping chat in what was called the blue drawing-room, with a diminutive table between them, whereon was set a rare tea-service of Sèvres china.
The girls readily obtained leave of absence. Blanche did not announce her intention of going on the water, however, for she was afraid of being forbidden to do so.
“It seems so droll to think of a girl like you being sole proprietress of this big house and all this ground,” Blanche laughingly said, as they tripped down from the terrace into the garden. “Mama said there would be a storm, but I don’t believe there will be a drop of rain.”
A far-distant peal of thunder reverberated as she spoke, but it seemed too far off to mean danger.
Blanche again proposed crossing to the summer-house on the other side.
“I am a splendid oar,” she said, smiling, “so you need not be afraid to trust yourself to my care.”
Lois hesitated for a few moments, but the proposition was too tempting to be resisted.
In a few minutes more they were floating pleasantly over the mirrored surface of the waters. It was so calm, so dreamlike thus half-drifting across, that both girls wished they were going an indefinite distance.
In half a dozen minutes they were landed at the foot of the flight of steps leading up to the summer pavilion.
It was so quiet in this secluded spot that, to any one totally alone, the stillness would have been oppressive. Not a breath ruffled the leaves, not a solitary bird’s twitter broke the silence.
The pavilion was situated in the central part of a great clump of trees, nestling amid its rich, encircling foliage like an indolent beauty lying among velvet cushions.
Partly oppressed by the dreamlike silence, and the sultriness of the day, the young girls ascended and seated themselves, Blanche on the first step, Lois on one of the fragile wicker chairs.
They forgot to secure their tiny bark, nor did they observe that after a while it began to drift beyond their reach.
Neither seemed inclined to break the silence that was partly soothing, partly oppressive. When two people have only recently been introduced, even if mutually desirous of extending their knowledge of one another, it is rather difficult to start an interesting train of conversation when the trivialities of the moment have been exhausted.
Blanche Dormer, however, was never very long at a loss. She was soon in the midst of a rattling talk such as she enjoyed.
“Have you ever been in this part of the world before?” she asked.
“Never.”
“You have no friends in the neighborhood?”
“None whatever. I have very few friends anywhere.”
“You will have plenty soon,” Miss Dormer philosophically remarked. “I understand you were Lady Quaintree’s companion?”
“Yes. I have been with her since I was fourteen.”
“Are you a relative?”
“Oh! dear no. My mother was—was born in quite a different station. She was an embroideress. But she died, and Lady Quaintree was good enough to take an interest in me, and become my protectress.”
“How kind! She is a dear, good soul. And so now you are a great heiress. You had some rich relations, then?”
“I don’t think I had a relative in the world except my dear mother,” said Lois, a little sadly.
Blanche Dormer opened her eyes. Miss Dormer was related to half the wealthy commons of England.
“No relations!” she exclaimed, forgetting that she was guilty of an outrageous breach of good manners in thus expressing surprise. “How very strange! I thought you had inherited this place and sacks of money from your uncle.”
Lois shook her head.
“I had no uncles that I am aware of. My father died when I was a baby, and I never heard my mother speak of his relatives. She herself was an only child.”
“Then why——”
Miss Dormer stopped abruptly, and blushed a little. Lois laughed as she noticed the hesitation.
“Why did Mr. Gardiner make me a person of property?” she supplied. “I cannot tell you, for, although I read his will, I have not seen the slightest hint of his reasons for being so generous. To tell you the truth, I have been puzzling over it ever since.”
“What a romantic mystery! Are you sure he was not related to you, my dear?”
“If he had been, they would certainly have told me so.”
“Did anybody offer you any explanation of his reasons for leaving you his property?” asked Blanche, whose curiosity was strongly excited on the subject.
“No.”
“Did you ask? Forgive me. I am afraid you will think I am taking unwarrantable liberties in thus cross-questioning you,” apologized Miss Dormer.
“No, I do not think so in the least. I feel happy to think you will be my friend,” replied Lois softly. “I did not ask any questions about Mr. Gardiner’s will, because——”
She suddenly remembered why she had felt tongue-tied, and her face became suffused with crimson. Blanche, who was steadily regarding her, was much surprised by this evidence of emotion; but, although her curiosity was still further aroused, she had sufficient delicacy to restrainherself, and adroitly to change the subject of conversation.
She began to speak about the departure of troops from the barracks, which were situated a couple of miles from the vicinity of her father’s house. This gave Lois an opportunity of recovering her composure, for which she felt grateful, although if Blanche had pressed her much further she would have confided to her the embarrassing circumstances to which Mr. Vere Gardiner’s will was likely to lead.
As Miss Dormer chatted gaily, heavy splashes of rain came suddenly pattering through the clustering leaves, and a vivid flash of lightning, followed almost instantaneously by a crashing peal of thunder, startled the girls, and made them hurriedly retreat into the pretty pavilion.
The day had changed as if by magic. The sky was overcast with driving clouds like squadrons of artillery, the sun had disappeared, the whole aspect of the bright garden and the smiling lake had altered as if by the wave of the wand of some malicious fairy.
A summer storm had burst over the heads of these timid girls, and they looked at each other in dismay. It was a situation likely to become extremely unpleasant. No one knew that they were here. Even if their screams could be heard, it would be difficult for any one to reach the place, as the tiny wherry was drifting about, out of reach.
The waters of the lake began to foam and lash with frenzy. Every instant the storm increased in fury. The girls clung to one another in affright, unable to help shrieking when a blue-forked flame encircled them, or a prolonged roar, as of besieging artillery, seemed to rend the heavens asunder.
Each moment it seemed as if they must be slain in that fervent embrace.
A flash of lightning, more piercing than any that had preceded it, swept in a jagged curve over the pavilion, and a peal of thunder shook the fragile building to its foundations. Terrified almost beyond expression,Lois clung more closely to Blanche, and then fell back into her arms in a dead swoon.
Before Blanche could collect her thoughts, herself terror-stricken almost to the verge of insanity, a panel, which had looked as if merely a portion of the highly finished decorations of the airy walls, slid back, and a gentleman suddenly faced the young girl, as she placed Lois in a chair.
This gentleman was Paul Desfrayne.
It would be difficult to say which felt or mutely expressed the most surprise, Miss Dormer or the stranger. They gazed at one another in amazement for a moment or two, and then the young man, lifting his cap with mechanical politeness, advanced.
By his military undress uniform, Blanche judged him to be one of the newly arrived officers, but how he had appeared as if from the solid walls, she could not conceive.
From the position of Miss Dormer, who stood partly in front of Lois, Captain Desfrayne could not see the fainting girl’s face, but his heart sorely misgave him as to her identity.
“Madam,” he said, looking at Blanche with surprise and compassion, “how is it that I find you in such a perilous position?”
Blanche, in a few words, explained. Then she turned again to her friend, and, kneeling before her, tried by every device to restore her to consciousness.
“Good heavens, Miss Turquand!” murmured Captain Desfrayne, under his breath.
Faint as his tones were, however, they caught the quick ear of Blanche Dormer.
“You know her, sir?” she exclaimed, looking up in his face.
“I can scarcely claim that privilege,” he replied, with icy coldness.
He stepped quickly to the door, plucked a large, strong leaf from the overhanging branches, which he twisted into a cup, and, filling it with water by descending the steps and dipping it in the lake, returned, and gave it to Blanche.
Then he stood by, gazing with an uncontrollable interest upon the white, delicately chiseled face of the unconscious Lois.
“She has been alarmed by the storm?” he said presently, as Lois began to show symptoms of returning life. “You must not remain here.”
“How can we escape?” demanded Blanche.
“By the way I came. It leads by a succession of corridors to a ruined abbey, from whence again you can reach the Hall by passing through a labyrinth of secret vaults and passages.”
Blanche turned pale. Even this place, insecure as the shelter was, did not appear so alarming as the way of escape indicated.
Paul Desfrayne smiled—that half-melancholy, winning smile that had such a charm of its own.
“It sounds rather terrifying,” he said gently. “But as I see you have let your boat drift away, you cannot reach the house by way of the lake. Even if you had your boat, the waters are too dangerous to be trusted, and this storm may not abate for a couple of hours. Do not be afraid. I know every turn well, for I used to come here constantly when a boy. There is no other road to the house. I presume you have come from the Hall?” he abruptly asked. “I was informed that Miss Turquand had come to stay for a few days there, and so I supposed——”
“We rowed across the lake only about half an hour ago, and then the sky looked as clear as—as if it were never going to rain any more,” Blanche explained.
“You have no wraps of any kind?” he added, glancing with an odd sort of half-paternal compassion at the silken draperies of Lois, and the cloudy azure-blue and white skirts of her beautiful friend.
Before Miss Dormer could reply, if reply were needed—for nothing in the shape of protection against bad weather, except one large sunshade, was visible—Lois opened her eyes.
The young officer drew back slightly, but he was the first object upon which her gaze rested.
She roused herself, and sat up.
“Are you better, dearest?” anxiously asked Blanche.
Lois did not answer, but tried to rise from her chair. She looked at the young man who was regarding her with so much profound interest, and a rosy blush overspread her face.
“Captain Desfrayne!” she murmured.
He advanced one step, then paused.
“You are probably surprised to see me here, Miss Turquand,” he said. “Perhaps not more surprised than I am to find myself within these walls, or to discover you here. I came out for a ride, and scarcely noticed which road my horse took, until I was overtaken by the storm. But you must not remain here. The sooner you quit this place the better. The storm shows no signs of abating. Will you permit me to be your guide? Are you strong enough to walk, Miss Turquand?”
Blanche put her arms about Lois to support her. Lois moved forward a few steps; but the agitation, however pleasant, of the last few days, the nervous trepidation caused by the storm, acting on a singularly susceptible temperament, and the weakness induced by her fainting-fit, proved too much for her to contend against, and she swayed again, sinking into the arms of Blanche, who caught her.
Paul Desfrayne’s lips compressed very firmly as he looked at the young girl thus lying helpless. For a moment he reflected.
“I must not be a coward,” he argued with himself. “What folly! It cannot signify to me. The sooner we are out of this situation the better.”
Then he addressed Blanche with a calm, self-possessed manner, strangely at variance with his real feelings.
“You must allow me to be more than your guide. There is serious danger in your remaining here. May I carry your friend?”
There was no choice but to comply. He took Lois from the arms of her companion, and lifted her in his own strong, firm clasp. He glanced down at the pale, statuesque face as it rested against his shoulder, but it was impossible to even guess at his thoughts from the expression upon his countenance, which was that of perfectimpassibility, though a certain eager interest lurked in his eyes.
Through the door by which he had so unexpectedly entered, down a long, apparently interminable flight of somewhat steep steps, along one dim corridor after another, until Blanche began to feel bewildered, and to imagine herself in a dream.
She did not attempt to address a solitary remark to the friend who had so suddenly come like a knight of old to the rescue of distressed damsels, but followed him with implicit faith as he strode with a quick step onward.
Once he turned his head and spoke, as if he guessed she must feel mystified, or to break the current of his own unpleasant thoughts.
“These passages are very confusing to any one not thoroughly acquainted with the various turnings. I believe their origin is unknown, though the tradition still exists of many a strange legend of how cavaliers escaped their pursuers this way, and fled to the friendly sea.”
Nothing more was said, and the strange procession moved on until the fresh air blew in, and the dash of the sullen rain, the soughing of the trees, told that they were near the entrance.
Left without guidance, Blanche could not have formed the most distant idea of where she was, or which way to take. She could see nothing but a wide expanse of rain-blotted gray-green, looking at this moment the picture of desolation.
Paul Desfrayne did not emerge upon the wild, stormy scene without, however. He pushed open a door apparently hewn from solid stone, and entered a small, dimly lighted chapel. It was a circular building, half in ruins, though the beautiful stained-glass windows were almost intact.
With the most tender care, Paul Desfrayne placed his inanimate charge upon one of the carved oaken seats, and then stood by, watching her.
A half-sobbing sigh told that the young girl was reviving, and she turned wildly, to seek for Blanche.
“You are safe now, if in some discomfort,” said Captain Desfrayne, in a reassuring tone, though he partiallyaverted his gaze. “Will you remain here until I summon assistance? Are you afraid to stay unprotected? There is not the slightest fear of any intrusion. If any living being come within these walls, it will be only some country lout seeking shelter from the storm.”
“Where are we?” asked Lois, looking about her as if still half-dazed.
“Within the walls of an old ruined abbey about three-quarters of a mile from—from Flore Hall.” He pronounced the name of the place with some difficulty, as if it were distasteful to him.
“But you will be obliged to go through the rain,” objected Blanche, who was pleased by the handsome face and chivalrous bearing of the captain.
“No. If necessary, I should not hesitate to do so. My horse is waiting for me under shelter in a ruined stable close by, and I could soon ride the distance. But my desire to aid you will not be put to any trial. There are rude, covered, subterranean passages from this spot to the Hall, and I can easily traverse them, for I know every inch of the ground.”
“What thanks do we not owe you, sir!” exclaimed Miss Dormer.
Lois remained silent, her eyes bent on the ground, her color varying with each wave of thought that passed through her brain.
Partly rejoiced at his temporary release, partly dubious of the propriety of quitting these timid girls, Captain Desfrayne turned to go on his errand.
As he did so, a shuffling noise startled the three. They turned simultaneously, in alarm, and saw a big, shock-headed country boy, apparently shaking himself awake, rising from a seat veiled in such dim obscurity that none of the little group had noticed the recumbent figure.
The boy had taken refuge from the raging tempest here, and had after a while dropped off asleep. Half-awakened by the voices, he had dimly heard the conversation.
“Please, zur,” he said, lugging at some stray locks of red hair lying on his freckled forehead, “do’ee want onybodyto run a message to thay Hall, zur? ’Cause, if so be ’ee do, I be main glad to do it for your honor, zur.”
Captain Desfrayne looked at him in mingled doubt and displeasure. He reflected for a moment or two, then said:
“How would you get to the Hall, boy?”
“Why, zur, along thay dark places with thay pillars.”
“Are you sure you know the way, my lad?”
“Zartain zure, zur. Whoy, often’s been the time when me, and Bill Heath, and Joe Tollard, and all thay rest o’ ’em hev played hoide and zeek in ’em. Oh! I knows thay way, zure enough.”
It would not be possible to refuse to allow this eager substitute to go on the pressing errand he had himself contemplated. Paul Desfrayne was compelled to let him go.
“Well, make haste, and bring somebody to take care of these young ladies,” he said. “What is your name—Robin Roughhead?”
“No, zur—George Netherclift.”
“Well, Master George Netherclift, if ever you made haste in your life, do so now.”
The boy—a great lumping lad of fourteen or fifteen, with a stolid, good-humored, red-yellow face, and a thick-set figure, clad in a smock frock and a pair of tough corduroy trousers—started on with more nimbleness than any one would have given him credit for. In the silence, his clattering, hob-nailed boots raised countless echoes in the rude, vaulted passages as he trotted along.
An uncomfortable embarrassment succeeded his departure. Lois felt ashamed of her weakness, and abashed in the presence of the tall, handsome captain, unable to forget the secret link that in a measure bound their lives together. Paul Desfrayne almost cursed the destiny that had thus dragged him within those dangerous precincts he would fain shun. Blanche Dormer caught the infection from these two, who were acquainted with each other, yet seemed to make some mystery of the matter, and so she remained silent.
Lois dared not lift her eyes from the ground. Paul Desfrayne stood at some distance, viewing the rain asit plashed down, and regarding the now more rarely recurring flashes of lightning with an absent air, as if his real thoughts were far away.
On setting out for his ride, he had permitted his horse to take any road that presented itself, seeing that the way led far from the neighborhood of Flore Hall. After a while he had almost dropped the reins on the animal’s neck, and allowed his mind to revert to the painful subject of his most unhappy position—a subject but seldom out of his memory. He had ridden slowly for a long distance from the barracks when the first pattering drops of rain came splashing down. Seeing that the sky was overcast by dense black clouds, and hearing the distant rumbling of the thunder, he had looked about for some convenient shelter, and then, to his great surprise, found himself close by the ruined abbey he so well remembered.
Dismounting, he had secured his horse in an old ruined stable, and then entered the familiar place, his feelings not all pain, yet not all pleasure. That any one should have ventured to the summer pavilion he did not for a moment imagine. Wishing to see as much of the spot as possible while he could do so in safety, he had rapidly traversed the dim corridors, and, opening the door in the paneling of the wall, had come upon the two young girls.
For the first time now he recollected that he had left his faithful Greyburn alone for some time, and feared that perhaps the poor animal might have been frightened by the fury of the tempest.
“I trust you will not be alarmed if I leave you for a few moments to look after my horse. I left him, as I think I told you, in a ruined stable close at hand; but I should be glad to know how he fares,” said Captain Desfrayne, as the echoes of George Netherclift’s heavy steps died away.
“Oh! pray see him,” cried both girls.
“I shall not be gone for more than a few minutes, and I shall be within call,” said the young man.
He went out, leaving the two young ladies together. As he departed, he glanced for an instant at Lois.
The lovely, fathomless eyes were raised to his. Hegazed as if spellbound into the dreamy, liquid depths. Then, with an indefinable expression of mingled emotion, he abruptly disappeared behind the angle of the old Gothic porch.
Lois’ heart seemed to stand still for a second, then began to beat with such rapidity that she put her hand to her side to stay its throbbing. Then she looked at Blanche, who began to think that the mystery was simply that the two lovers who had quarreled had unexpectedly met again, and that pride, or the presence of a third—herself—hindered a reconciliation.
In answer to a question from Miss Turquand, she explained how they had come hither. A vivid flash dyed the pale cheeks of Lois when she learned how she had been conveyed to this unknown locality.
How little had she anticipated a meeting such as this in wondering where she should see Paul Desfrayne again! How little had she dreamed of it on Saturday afternoon, when she had encountered him among the gaily dressed loungers in the Zoological Gardens!
It seemed as if she had known him half a lifetime now, from some strange affinity that made his presence, his voice, his face familiar. And yet one short week ago she had been ignorant of his very existence.
Frank Amberley, whom she had seen almost daily for four years—the four years that had brought her from childhood to fairest maidenhood—was forgotten, save when actually present, and then regarded as belonging to the most formal rank of friends. She would never, unless under pressure of some most extraordinary difficulty, have thought of consulting him, or seeking his aid in any way whatever.
Blanche Dormer drew out her tiny jeweled watch.
“What will mama think, do, or say?” she exclaimed. “It will be enough to drive her crazy. Good heavens! my dearest Miss Turquand, they will imagine we have been capsized into the lake when they see the boat drifting about. When mama’s fright is over, I shall be in horrible disgrace. Such a thing never happened in all the nineteen years of my life. Lady Quaintree will be like a maniac. I shall never forgive myself.”
Lois felt Miss Dormer was speaking the truth, and could not think of one solitary iota of consolation.
They sat very silent, waiting for release from their exceedingly disagreeable and irksome situation.
Blanche was partly right in her conjectures; but fortunately not so far as her fears pictured. The two ladies, absorbed in their ancient memories, were so occupied that they did not observe the coming storm till the first violent roll of thunder, or rather the advanced flash of blue, forked lightning, made one jump from her seat with a scream, and caused the other to drop her dainty Sèvres cup with a crash on the white bearskin at her feet.
They knew that the girls had gone for a walk in the grounds; but hoped they had taken warning and returned. Lady Quaintree had rung with a jerk for her maid, Justine, to demand if the young ladies had come in.
Justine said she thought they had, and went off to ascertain. But, unhappily, she had loitered, under pretense of being frightened by the thunder and lightning, in company with a tall footman, who professed to be very much in love with her. Partly by his persuasion to linger, partly from her own inclination to indulge in a stolen flirtation, she stayed until minutes stole into an hour, and she had completely forgotten her errand.
Finding she did not return, Lady Quaintree took it for granted the young ladies had come in, but perhaps with drenched garments, and that Justine was staying to help them in changing their attire.
Fully persuaded that this must be the case, the two dames resumed their conversation, though in a more subdued key. They were not nervous or easily frightened by the electrical influences which had so seriously disturbed the young girls, and, Lady Quaintree having coolly drawn the lace curtains across the windows, they sat quite contentedly. It at length occurred to them as odd that neither Lois Turquand nor Blanche should present herself.
Lady Quaintree rang again.
“Where is Miss Turquand?—where is Miss Dormer?” she inquired of the domestic who appeared.
“I don’t know, my lady,” replied the man.
“Where is my maid?”
“I don’t know, my lady.”
“Find her, then, and tell her to request the young ladies to come here directly.”
Presently the fellow came back, with the alarming information that neither the young ladies nor Justine were to be found.
“Good heavens!” cried her ladyship, unable to credit her ears. “Not to be found? Impossible! Nonsense! Theymustbe found! Why, my maid left me a short time since to seek for Miss Turquand and Miss Dormer. Oh! this is absurd!”
The man departed again on a search that proved useless. He presented himself again, fearfully, to tell her ladyship so.
The truth about Justine was that, recollecting her message suddenly, she had flown to Miss Turquand’s room, and then to all the probable and even improbable places where the young ladies might be found; but, of course, without coming on any trace of the missing ones.
Thoroughly alarmed, marveling what had become of them, and not daring to go back to her mistress, she had darted wildly all over the house, making inquiries of everybody she met.
Several of the domestics had seen the young ladies go out, but no one had seen them return.
Forgetful, in her sore affright, of her nervous tremors in a storm, Justine had rushed into the grounds, armed with a big umbrella snatched up in passing through the entrance-hall. Thus her otherwise unaccountable disappearance was to be explained.
In a short time the entire household was astir, alarmed by the discovery that the young ladies were not within the Hall. If not there, where were they? Of necessity, they must be out in the grounds, perhaps in the porter’s lodge.
One servant ran down to the lodge, only to bring back word that the young ladies had never been there.
Others scattered themselves over the gardens, seeking in the conservatories and graperies, in the plantations, in every imaginable place.
It was the gardener who came to the horrifying conclusion that the girls had ventured on the lake in the flimsy boat, and had been capsized.
He found Justine wandering near the borders of the water in a state of distraction. She could not tell that the boat had been safely moored that morning and in the early afternoon, but she had paused here.
The gardener imprudently betrayed his suspicion, and had the satisfaction of seeing Mademoiselle Justine fall in a heap, in violent hysterics, objurgating herself in disjointed sentences between whiles.
In a very short time, the alarming suspicion was communicated to the whole household, except the ladies, who were awaiting the result of the search in terrible anxiety, but not of positive fear, for they were sure now that the girls had sought some convenient shelter, where they were biding till the storm ceased.
A hurried consultation was held as to what should be done; but no one could offer a suggestion that promised to be of the smallest service.
The domestics retreated into a great greenhouse, where they could command a view of the lake, the waters of which now bore a sensational attraction in the eyes of the terrified servants.
No one could take the direction of affairs, for they were all subordinate servants, ignorant, and easily distracted.
It was agreed, finally, to go and consult Mrs. Ormsby, on whom the task of breaking the tragical surmise to the ladies would fall.
Justine had been carried into a conservatory, to get her out of the way, and left there with a couple of housemaids.
A sad procession scrambled back to the house—a somewhat noisy one, for every one had some eager, excited remark to make, or some wondering exclamation to utter.
Mrs. Ormsby was at the top of the broad flight of steps at the principal entrance, watching for the earliest information. She did not venture to remain near Lady Quaintree or Mrs. Dormer, but stood midway, as it were,between the terrified ladies and the band of explorers. As they approached, she could plainly see the search had been unsuccessful.
Two or three eagerly came in advance of their fellows, their mouths and eyes wide open, their visages full of excitement.
They had not yet begun to make their story intelligible, however, when a loud shout, in a boyish treble, made every one look round; and a thick-set lout was seen running toward them, waving his hands in sign that his business was of a most urgent nature, that would not brook delay. This boy was George Netherclift.
He had, they all felt at once, come with some news of the missing ones. But what kind of news? Were they to hear confirmation of a tragedy? Or were the young ladies safe and sound?
George Netherclift had been running the latter part of the way, and was considerably out of breath. As he paused, he glanced from one of the servants to another, in doubt as to which to address.
“Well, boy,” exclaimed Mrs. Ormsby, in a sharp tone, “what do you want? Speak quickly!”
“Zoombody to bring thay young ladies from thay ould abbey,” said the boy. “Be quick, if ’ee please. They’ll be main tired waiting.”
“They are safe and sound, then?” cried the housekeeper. “But how in the world did they get to the ruined abbey?”
“Doan’t know, missus. Perhaps they’ull know theysells. Will ’ee zend zoombody quick, please?”
Of course, three or four male servants were at once ready to accompany him. Mrs. Ormsby at first thought of sending the carriage, but the abbey was nearly two miles off by the road.