say, 'Give me the word, and I go.' Over and over again, Lady Lundie had decided, naturally enough, on no longer keeping such a servant as this; but she had never yet carried the decision to execution. A cook who is a perfect mistress of her art, who asks for no perquisites, who allows no waste, who never quarrels with the other servants, who drinks nothing stronger than tea, who is to be trusted with untold gold—is not a cook easily replaced. In this mortal life we put up with many persons and things, as Lady Lundie put up with her cook. The woman lived, as it were, on the brink of dismissal—but thus far the woman kept her place—getting her holidays when she asked for them (which, to do her justice, was not often) and sleeping always (go where she might with the family) with a locked door, in a room by herself.
Hester Dethridge advanced slowly to the table at which Lady Lundie was sitting. A slate and pencil hung at her side, which she used for making such replies as were not to be expressed by a gesture or by a motion of the head. She took up the slate and pencil, and waited with stony submission for her mistress to begin.
Lady Lundie opened the proceedings with the regular formula of inquiry which she had used with all the other servants,
'Do you know that Miss Silvester has left the house?'
The cook nodded her head affirmatively.
'Do you know at what time she left it?'
Another affirmative reply. The first which Lady Lundie had received to that question yet. She eagerly went on to the next inquiry.
'Have you seen her since she left the house?'
A third affirmative reply.
'Where?'
Hester Dethridge wrote slowly on the slate, in singularly firm upright characters for a woman in her position of life, these words:
'On the road that leads to the railway. Nigh to Mistress Chew's Farm.'
'What did you want at Chew's Farm?'
Hester Dethridge wrote: 'I wanted eggs for the kitchen, and a breath of fresh air for myself.'
'Did Miss Silvester see you?'
A negative shake of the head.
'Did she take the turning that leads to the railway?'
Another negative shake of the head.
'She went on, toward the moor?'
An affirmative reply.
'What did she do when she got to the moor?'
Hester Dethridge wrote: 'She took the footpath which leads to Craig Fernie.'
Lady Lundie rose excitedly to her feet. There was but one place that a stranger could go to at Craig Fernie. 'The inn!' exclaimed her ladyship. 'She has gone to the inn!'
Hester Dethridge waited immovably. Lady Lundie put a last precautionary question, in these words:
'Have you reported what you have seen to any body else?'
An affirmative reply. Lady Lundie had not bargained for that. Hester Dethridge (she thought) must surely have misunderstood her.
'Do you mean that you have told somebody else what you have just told me?'
Another affirmative reply.
'A person who questioned you, as I have done?'
A third affirmative reply.
'Who was it?'
Hester Dethridge wrote on her slate: 'Miss Blanche.'
Lady Lundie stepped back, staggered by the discovery that Blanche's resolution to trace Anne Silvester was, to all appearance, as firmly settled as her own. Her step-daughter was keeping her own counsel, and acting on her own responsibility—her step-daughter might be an awkward obstacle in the way. The manner in which Anne had left the house had mortally offended Lady Lundie. An inveterately vindictive woman, she had resolved to discover whatever compromising elements might exist in the governess's secret, and to make them public property (from a paramount sense of duty, of course) among her own circle of friends. But to do this—with Blanche acting (as might certainly be anticipated) in direct opposition to her, and openly espousing Miss Silvester's interests—was manifestly impossible.
The first thing to be done—and that instantly—was to inform Blanche that she was discovered, and to forbid her to stir in the matter.
Lady Lundie rang the bell twice—thus intimating, according to the laws of the household, that she required the attendance of her own maid. She then turned to the cook—still waiting her pleasure, with stony composure, slate in hand.
'You have done wrong,' said her ladyship, severely. 'I am your mistress. You are bound to answer your mistress—'
Hester Dethridge bowed her head, in icy acknowledgment of the principle laid down—so far.
