“Dear mother!” said Frank, when he read her letter, “God bless her, she means kindly, and may say things to me no one else would dare to!”
Then he wrote a short reply.
“Dearest Mother—
“Please not to expect me at the rectory until you see me. I have serious work on hand, which nothing but death or success will induce me to give up. Thanks for all your news.
“Robert may ride Sultana, but tell him, I’ll thrash him if he spoils her mouth. I am delighted to hear such good accounts of Mary Burton, but I have other thoughts in my head than old playfellows and sweethearts just now.
Mrs. Varley read his letter, and sighed and cried over it. Then she showed it to Mary Burton, who sighed and smiled over it.
“Why are such coquettes as Amy Warden sent into the world to turn men’s brains, Mary, will you tell me that?” said Mrs. Varley. “If she had lived, she would have been a most unsuitable wife for Frank, with her self-willed, impatient temper. Will you wait for him, Mary? Do you think he is worth waiting for?”
And Mary had confessed that she thought he was worth waiting for, and had sighed and smiled again. Why should she not smile, indeed? There was no rival beauty in her way now!
Frank’s second letter was from Lord Hardcastle, and contained a brief summary of events at Harleyford—
“I grieve to say,” he wrote, “that Mrs. Warden is in a very weak state of health. Indeed I think far more seriously of her than Hayward does, and have suggested that further medical advice should be called in. Mr. Warden has pulled himself together wonderfully, for his wife’s sake, and seems, to a certain extent, to have recovered some of his old strength and energy.
“With regard to Lucy Williams, my own opinion is very strong and decided. I fail to see matters in the light in which Hill, in his report to us, has placed them. He seeks to imply that she has been acting in concert with Miss Warden, or upon some prearranged plan, and was probably commissioned by her mistress to sell the diamonds to supply her with money. To my mind he is shooting beyond the mark in such a supposition. I can only look upon the girl as a common thief of a very ordinary type, who took advantage of the state of confusion into which the ‘High Elms’ was thrown, to take possession of her mistress’s jewellery and clothes. She has probably stolen far more than we know, and when Mrs. Warden becomes stronger (if she ever does) and able to go into the matter, no doubt many things will be missed.
“I think in following this track, you are most probably wasting time and energy. Still, as you say one must do something, and it is just possible that in following up one clue you may come upon another, so I will say no more, but wish you ‘God speed’ with all my heart.”
Frank growled tremendously over this letter—
“It’s all very well,” he muttered, “for Hardcastle to sit quietly at home and throw cold water on all my attempts; how on earth does he think the clue is to be found if one does not look after it? He says so little, it is difficult to get at the man’s real thoughts on the matter. It is easy to say it is perfectly useless doing this or doing that, but what in Heaven’s name does he think ought to be done?”
What indeed! Not once or twice, but every hour in the day did Lord Hardcastle ask himself the same question. He felt like a man walking in a circle, forever on the verge of a mystery, but never approaching any nearer than a circle permitted. Become now one of the family at the High Elms, not a look, not a word, not a tone of any one of the household ever escaped his observation. Mrs. Warden’s severe illness had thoroughly incapacitated her for the exertion of receiving visitors, and the family had gradually become all but isolated from their neighbours. An occasional morning caller, leaving cards only, the daily visit of the doctor, and the arrival of the London post, was all that occurred to break the day’s monotony.
Thus the summer wore slowly away, the short autumn days began to grow chill and stormy, the sad old house looked drear and gray among the tall, dark elms. Very drear and very gray Lord Hardcastle thought it, as he rode slowly along the steep avenue leading through the park. He had been transacting some business in Dunwich for Mr. Warden, and, somewhat weary and dispirited, was returning in the afternoon twilight. He looked right and left on a damp misty landscape. The equinoctial gales had set in early, and the trees were already brown and leafless. Heavy rains, too, had flooded the country round, and the stream running through the Park was swollen and turbid, threatening to overflow its banks. Dark clouds were gathering overhead, and a flight of rooks whirling low and flapping their black wings, with their mournful cawing, completed the desolateness of the scene.
“It is like entering a graveyard,” he thought, as he rode along. Then his memory went back to one bright sunny morning, when riding up this same avenue he had met Amy and her father, well-mounted, coming from the house. Very lovely had she looked in the summer sunshine, with her fresh, girlish beauty, and almost royal dignity of manner.
“À bien-tôt, Lord Hardcastle,” had been
