Читать книгу The Quiver, 1/ 1900 - Anonymous - Страница 10

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I t was Mr. Warde who, before the police arrived, organised and dispatched search parties. The visitors and servants from the Deanery, with his own and the Palace household, were scattered through the immediate neighbourhood, in less than half an hour from the first summons.

Marjorie was with her mother. Mr. Pelham—after a distracted visit to his own house, hoping against hope that he might still find the toddling child safe and rosy, sleeping in her cot—had brought servants back with him, whom he put under Mr. Warde's instructions. For Mr. Warde knew every inch of ground about, every possible danger into which the little feet might have strayed.

In the precincts of the cathedral, in the gardens throughout the neighbourhood, in every nook and secluded place, lights were soon flashing and voices calling.

All that anybody knew was little enough. Soon after eight—the hour at which Mr. Bethune and Marjorie had gone to the Deanery—nurse had gone to the garden to call the children in. She found it empty, and, pursuing her search into the cave, found reason to be alarmed. But she did not then alarm Mrs. Bethune. Returning to the house, which was strangely still, she had looked into the drawing-room.

"They have taken Barbara home," Mrs. Bethune explained. "They will soon be back, nurse. But it is getting late for the little ones."

She looked so quiet and calm on her sofa, resting, with the sense of her husband's love folding her round, that the nurse forbore to disturb her with her own sudden forebodings. But she put on her bonnet, and ran up to The Ridges, to satisfy herself against her fears. No Barbara was there; neither she nor the boys had been seen since the afternoon. Barbara's nurse—forgetting for a time her airs—accompanied her to the Canons' Court. Together they again searched the garden; the cathedral yard, where the darkness was settling down over the numerous graves and tombs; the shady Canons' Walk—calling anxiously the names of their respective charges. No signs were to be found of the children. Then nurse, without troubling her mistress, went to the Deanery, and asked for Mr. Bethune; and from him, when he reached his wife's side, had come the summons to Mr. Pelham and Marjorie.

A thorough examination of the cave, at nurse's suggestion, revealed the passage and its exit into the Palace grounds; resulting in Mr. Warde's systematic search throughout the parks and neighbourhood.

Marjorie recollected Sandy's visit to her room; and the discovery of the abstraction of the blanket from her bed seemed to prove that some larger scheme than merely running away must have been in the boys' heads.

Then a new fear was started. A visit to the little station at the bottom of the Green had seemed for a time to furnish a clue. The station-master reported that within the last week the two boys had been inquiring the price of tickets to Baskerton for a party of five. He had been struck with the answer to his question—"All under twelve." But the children had not travelled by the only train that evening. The Dean, who had made this inquiry, thereupon went home, and ordered his carriage, and had himself driven over to Baskerton. It was five miles away, famous for its picturesque scenery and fishing, and was the scene of all the picnic parties about. Across the parks and by-lanes, filled with roses and honeysuckle, it was only about three miles off. David and Sandy, he knew, were well acquainted with its delights; they had often been included in his own parties there.

The route of the little brook for several miles was explored by a party of men from the Palace and The Ridges. The boys were known to frequent it, and a day or two before Sandy had been seen up to his waist in the water, trying to entice a lively water-rat.

It was wonderful how many people helped in the search. To all, the boys were well known, and, now that trouble had come upon them, well beloved. Their fearlessness and bonhomie were remembered, and their mischief only with indulgent excuses. And Mr. Pelham was taken to all hearts that sorrowful night, for the sake of the pretty baby who was lost.

No one was more energetic and suggestive than Mrs. Lytchett, no one kinder, no one more tearful. It was she who headed a search party through the cathedral, recalling to mind how Marjorie had once got herself locked up there nearly all night through a fit of obstinacy. But no children were discovered.

"If only the Bishop were here—he would know what to do," she sighed frequently, as news kept coming in that nothing had been found of the missing ones. They seemed to have vanished as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up. No one had seen them—nothing had been heard of them after Sandy's visit to his sister's room.

"But what could he want the blanket for?"

Mr. Warde, after two or three fruitless journeys, had again come back to the Court for news, hoping that somebody else might have been more fortunate. It was just on the edge of dawn, in that stillness when the first faint twitter of the birds is just beginning.

As he came down the broad pavement to the Court gate, the eastern sky was growing clear above the chimney stacks of the Deanery. Lights were still shining in the windows round, and, as he neared the gate, Marjorie came forward quickly.

The sight of her wan face was a shock to him; she was still in the pretty evening dress, above which, in the twilight of the dawn, her neck and throat shone white. She had the air of some broken lily—desolate, woeful.

Mr. Warde's heart went out to her with a great compassion. His eyes grew dim as her wistful glance met his.

The sight of her wan face was a shock to him.

"No, dear, I can hear nothing," he said softly, putting his arm round her. Marjorie rested against him, letting her tired young limbs collapse against his strength. Inspired by some instinct she did not understand, she had left her mother's sofa, where Mr. Pelham was now sitting, waiting for the return of a messenger. They two, it seemed to Marjorie, with a mutual sorrow could understand each other. She felt somehow restless, uneasy, unworthy, as she coldly responded to Mr. Pelham's sympathy and care. At his suggestion she had come away to prepare some tea for her mother, and in passing through the hall had been lured to the open door by the sound of Mr. Warde's footsteps on the flagstones. The quick, firm tread encouraged hope. She could rest on him. The very sight of his kind, familiar face seemed to renew her strength and courage.

"See! on that little tower on the chapel."

After a minute's silence, during which his hand had caressed the soft waves of her hair, he asked, "What could Sandy want the blanket for? I have been trying to think."

"So have we—mother and I. Poor mother!" Marjorie sighed.

"Is she alone?" he asked.

"No. Mr. Pelham is with her; he understands, he is tender and careful; and she is full of hope now—she comforts him. Father has gone to the river."

Marjorie gave a little shudder.

"You are cold," Mr. Warde said briskly. "Let me advise you, dear. Go and change your dress; put on something warm. By that time I shall have got some food and shall bring it in. I expect you have no servants left."

"No. They are all—somewhere."

She allowed herself to be led back to the house, and as he stood watching her ascend the stairs, the man's heart gave a bound of rejoicing. She had come to him willingly, of her own accord. What though it were sorrow that had brought her? She was his now for ever, of her own free will. He stood looking after her, with face upraised, a thanksgiving in his heart. And thus for the last time he looked on Marjorie, rejoicing. Never again without pain was he to hear the soft swish of her dress, the soft fall of her foot. But in those few seconds he lived through an æon of joy.

He could not guess the force of the feeling which had driven her from Mr. Pelham's side. The same sorrow that had sent her to Mr. Warde had also taught her that she must shun the man who could now be nothing to her. Marjorie's was a very simple nature. When she realised a fact, she did not play with it. Matter-of-fact duty was a real power with her. So she had responded to the strong training which the calm approval or disapproval shining in her father's quiet eyes had sufficiently imposed.

As the different search parties came back, all with the same "no news," Mr. Warde had a table of provisions brought out into the Court. He was too busy caring for the needs of the many weary volunteers to go again into Mr. Bethune's house; but nurse had by this time returned, and was tearfully waiting on her mistress.

"Nothing could have happened to them all," the Dean said briskly, "or we must have found some trace. It is the most mysterious thing I ever knew in my life. They are all together in some safe place, I feel convinced."

"My mistress thinks now that they are kept," nurse, overhearing, said; "she is sure the boys would understand that she would be anxious, and they are always careful about Miss Barbie. But if only we could know!" and nurse departed sobbing.

The dawn had broadened into morning, the tips of the cathedral spires were red in the sunlight, and many of the unavailing searchers were at last going slowly to their homes. Nothing more could be done than had been done. Mr. Warde's servants were clearing away the débris of the meal; whilst he himself was again hurrying along the flagged path to the cathedral, with the intention of again thoroughly searching its many nooks and crannies in the daylight. He feared he knew not what, recollecting Sandy's adventurous spirit.

Mr. Bethune was sitting beside his wife, her hand in his, as once before that night, looking out upon the still garden. Marjorie, seeing them thus, noting the far-away look in her father's eyes (as though visions were being vouchsafed to the weary man, unseen by other eyes), noting, too, that his calmness was bringing a look of peace and trust to the wan face of her mother—turned involuntarily to the other bereaved and, as she remembered, so desperately lonely man.

"Come into the garden," she said, her eyes full of pity. "Now that it is light we have a better chance; we may find something."

He followed her across the dewy lawn, as she led the way quickly to the untidy corner so eloquent of the little workers. Spades and baskets lay scattered about; a cap of Sandy's hung on a currant-bush, where it had been put to dry after the washing in the bath; a large fragment of bread and butter, dropped in the hasty departure, lay in the path. The tears at last welled into Marjorie's eyes, as she saw Mr. Pelham stoop and pick up a little shoe.

"It is my baby's," he said softly. "God keep her!"

They paused together on the garden path, and Marjorie's eyes turned to the rose-tinged pinnacles of the beautiful cathedral. To all the dwellers in its precincts it was almost like a living presence, dominating all their lives and thoughts.

The length of the choir, terminating in the big central tower, was before them, whilst in the distance rose the twin spires. The morning mist was fleeing before the sun, now lighting each finial. Shadows still lay under the flying buttresses, and along the lower plane of the south aisle roof and chapel.

Mr. Pelham, after a moment's look at the girl's rapt face, turned also to gaze at the scene on which her eyes were resting.

Suddenly Marjorie gave a little cry, instantly suppressed.

"What is that?" she said rapidly. "See! on that little tower on the chapel?"

"I see," he answered, "something fluttering, you mean—something blue."

Both pairs of eyes were concentrated in a fixed and painful gaze.

"It is a ribbon," Marjorie said hoarsely. "Barbie was wearing——" She paused, turning her dilated eyes to her companion's face.

"My baby's sash—it is tied there," he said quickly; "it is a signal."

He turned to her, and for a second their encountering eyes were eloquent. Under the shock of sudden hope, the joy, the emotion, the agitation of the moment, the man's self-control vanished. His eyes spoke their message—hers replied—both of them taken unawares.

"Hush!" said Marjorie, putting up her hands as if answering speech. "I know the way," she faltered. "Father has keys; wait, don't tell them yet, till we are sure. It is the chapel roof, where they were mending. Sandy knew."

She turned swiftly, the man following with eager strides.