by Grant Allen
In two minutes more they descended the stairs. At the door Faith stopped and kissed him convulsively. It was a hard wrench, but she knew they must do it. Then they went together into the little parlor. There their mother sat looking very uncomfortable in her easy-chair. The larger one opposite, where Sir Emery usually took his ease by night, was now vacant. Faith glanced at Paul in mute inquiry.
“Where is he, mother?” Paul gasped out anxiously.
“‘E’s gone, Paul,” Mrs. Gascoyne answered with a sudden gulp. “The minute you was out o’ the room, ’e whipped up his things, jumped up from’s chair, and says to me in a hurry, ‘Mother, I’m off,’ says ’e, an’ out he run in’s overcoat as he stood, scrambled up on to the box, gave the ‘osses the word, an’ afore I could as much as say, ‘Emery, don’t,’ drove off up the road as ‘ard as ’is ‘ands could drive ’em.”
Faith sank into the chair with a despairing look. “It’ll kill him,” she cried, sobbing. “O Paul, it’ll kill him!”
Paul never waited or hesitated for a second. “Where’s he gone?” he cried. “To which house on the hill! I’ll run after him, catch him up, and drive him back home, if only you know which house he’s going to.”
“He never told us,” Faith gasped out, as white as death. “He only said he was going to Kent’s Kill to fetch Miss Boyd-Galloway. There are so many big houses on the hill, and so many roads, and so many dinners just now. But perhaps the likeliest is Colonel Hamilton’s, isn’t it?”
Without another word, Paul opened the door and darted up the street. “I’ll catch him yet,” he cried, as he dashed round the corner of Plowden’s Court. “Oh, mother, mother, you ought to have stopped him!”
CHAPTER XXIX.
IN HOT PURSUIT.
TAKING it for granted his father had driven, as Faith suggested, to Colonel Hamilton’s, Paul ran at full speed along the frosty highroad in the direction of that end of the Kent’s Hill hog’s back. For the hill rears itself up as a great mass of narrow sandstone upland, extending for some three miles in a long straight line down the center of the valley, and exposed to all the four winds of heaven impartially. Snow was beginning to fall now, and the road underfoot rang hard as iron. Paul ran on without stopping till he was out of breath. Then he halted a while by the foot of the first slope, and climbed slowly on toward the lower platform.
Halfway up he met a returning cab, full, of course, and therefore unwilling to wait and be questioned. But it was no time to stand on ceremony now. Paul knew his father’s life was absolutely at stake. He called to it to halt. The driver recognized his voice and pulled up to a walk. “Have you passed my father anywhere, going up the hill?” Paul inquired eagerly.
“‘Ow do I know?” the man answered in a very gruff tone, ill-pleased at the interruption. “I’ve passed a dozen or more of kebs and kerridges goin’ to fetch parties ’ere and there on the ‘ill; but it’s as dark as pitch, so ‘oo’s to know by magic ‘oo druv them?” And whistling to himself a dissatisfied whistle, he whipped up again and drove on, leaving Paul no wiser.
It’s a very long way from Hillborough to Kent’s Hill, five miles at least by the shortest road; and long before Paul had reached the top his heart began to sink within him as he saw how impossible it was for him to overtake his father. Nevertheless, he persisted, out of pure stubborn doggedness and perseverance; he would go at least to the house and let him know he was there. And, if possible, he would persuade him to remain under shelter at some neighboring cottage till the next morning.
But oh, the long weary way up those frozen hills, all in the dark, with the snow falling fast in the road, and the bitter cold wind beating hard all the time against his face as he fronted it! It was cold for Paul even as he walked and faced it — cold in spite of the exertion of mounting. How infinitely colder, then, it must be for his father, sitting still on the box, with that dull pain growing deeper every minute in his side, and the chill wind whistling round the corners of the carriage!
On, and on, and on, through the soft snow, he trudged, with his heart sinking lower at every step, and his feet and hands growing colder and colder. Of all the hills in England, Kent’s Hill is the very most interminable. Time after time you think you are at the top, and time after time, just as you reach the apparent summit, you see yet another slope opening out with delusive finality in front of you. But at last Paul reached the end of those five long miles and those nine hundred feet of sheer ascent, and turned with wearied and aching limbs under the gateway of Colonel Hamilton’s garden. At the door he saw at once he had come in vain. There was certainly no party at the colonel’s to-night. Not a carriage at the door; not a sign of life. It was close on eleven now, but emboldened by necessity, he rang the bell. After some minutes his ring was answered by a supercilious footman in incomplete costume. “I’m sorry to trouble you,” Paul gasped, “but can you tell me, please, whereabouts on the hill there’s a party to-night?”
The supercilious footman eyed him askance with profound astonishment. “Young man,” he said severely, “do you mean to say you’ve rung me up this time of night from my own bedroom, for nothink else but to ask me where there’s a party on the ‘ill? There’s parties on the ‘ill everywhere this evening.” And without waiting for Paul to explain himself further, he slammed the door to in his face with uncompromising rudeness.
Paul turned from the porch, too much distressed on his father’s account even to notice the personal insult, and made his way through the snow, along uncertain paths, to the very top of the ridge, where he could see on either hand over the whole surrounding country, and just at what house the lights burned brightest. Lady Mary Webster’s seemed most thronged of any, and Miss Boyd-Galloway was intimate with Lady Mary. So thither Paul plodded along by the top of the ridge, descending through the grounds, reckless of fences or proprietary rights, till he stood in front of the crowded carriage-drive. Coachmen were there, half a dozen or more, walking up and down in the snow and beating their chests with their arms to keep themselves warm, while their weary horses stood patiently by, the snow melting as it fell on their flanks and faces.
It was no night for any man to keep another waiting on.
“‘Ere’s Gascoyne’s son!” one of the cabmen cried as he came up, for they were mostly cabmen, nobody caring to risk their own horses’ lives abroad in such slippery weather; since rich men, indeed, take more heed of horseflesh than of their even-Christians.
“Why, what do you want, Mr. Paul?” another of them asked, half-touching his hat in a kind of undecided salute to the half made gentleman: for they all knew that Gascoyne’s son had been to Oxford College, and would develop in time into a real recognized baronet, with his name in the peerage.
“Is my father here, or has he been here?” Paul cried out, breathless. “He went out to-night when he wasn’t fit to go, and I’ve come up to see if he’s got here safe, or if I could do anything in any way to help him.”
The first speaker shook his head with a very decided negative. “No, ’e aint been ’ere,” he answered. “’E ‘aven’t no job. Leastways, none of us aint a seen ’im anywhere.”
A terrible idea flashed across Paul’s mind. Could his father have started and failed on the way? Too agitated to care what might happen to himself again, he rang the bell, and asked the servant boldly, “Is Miss Boyd-Galloway here? or has she been here this evening?”
“No, sir,” the servant answered; he was a stranger in the land, and judged Paul rightly by his appearance and accent. “Miss Boyd-Galloway’s not been here at all. I don’t think, in fact, my lady expected her.”
“Will you go in and ask if anybody knows where Miss Boyd-Galloway’s spending the evening?” Paul cried in his agony. “Tell them it’s a matter of life and death. I want to know where to find Miss Boyd-Galloway.”
In a few minutes more the servant returned, bringing along with him young Mr. Webster, the son of the house, in person. “Oh, it’s you, is it, Gascoyne?” the young man said, eyeing him somewhat
astonished. “Why, what on earth do you want with Miss Boyd-Galloway this evening?”
“My father’s gone to fetch her,” Paul gasped out in despair; “he’s very ill to-night, and oughtn’t to have ventured out, and I’ve come to see whether I can overtake him.”
Young Mr. Webster was kind-hearted in his way. “I’m sorry for that,” he said good-naturedly; “but I’m glad it’s nothing the matter with Miss Boyd-Galloway herself, anyhow. Lady Mary was in quite a state of mind just now when she got your message. I must run in at once and reassure her. But won’t you step inside and have a glass of wine before you go off yourself? You don’t look well, and it’s a freezing cold night. Here, Roberts, a glass of wine for Mr. Gascoyne in the hall. Now, will you?”
“I won’t take any wine, thanks,” Paul answered hurriedly, declining the proffered hospitality on more grounds than one. “But you haven’t told me if you know where Miss Boyd-Galloway’s spending the evening. I must find out, to go to my father.” He spoke so anxiously that there was no mistaking the serious importance of his errand.
“Oh, I’ll go and inquire,” young Webster answered carelessly; and he went back at once with his lounging step to the bright warm drawing room.
“Who is it?” Lady Mary exclaimed, coming forward eagerly. “Don’t tell me anything dreadful has happened to dear Isabel.”
“Oh, it’s nothing at all,” young Webster answered, laughing outright at her fears. “It’s only that young Gascoyne from Hillborough wants to know at once where Isabel’s dining.”
“That young Gascoyne!” Lady Mary cried, aghast. “Not the young man they sent up to Oxford, I hope! Why, what on earth can he want, my dear Bertie, with Isabel?”
“He doesn’t want Isabel,” the young man answered, with an amused smile. “It seems his father’s gone somewhere to fetch her, and he thinks the old man’s too ill to be out, and he’s come up on foot all the way to look after him.”
“Very proper of him to help his father, of course,” Lady Mary assented with a stiff acquiescence, perceiving in this act a due appreciation of the duty of the poor to their parents, as set forth in the Church catechism; “but he ought surely to know better than to come and disturb us about such a subject. He might have rung and inquired of Roberts.”
“So he did,” her son answered, with masculine common sense. “But Roberts couldn’t tell him, so he very naturally asked for me; and the simple question now is this — where’s Isabel?”
“She’s dining at the dean’s,” Lady Mary replied coldly, “but don’t you go and tell him so yourself for worlds, Bertie. Let Roberts take out the message to the young person.” For Lady Mary was a stickler in her way for the due subordination of the classes of society.
Before the words were well out of her ladyship’s mouth, however, her son had made his way into the hall once more, unheeding the prohibition, and conveyed to Paul the information he wanted as to Miss Boyd-Galloway’s present whereabouts.
The message left Paul more hopelessly out of his bearings than ever. The fact was, he had come the wrong way. The Dean’s was at the exact opposite end of Kent’s Hill, three miles from the Websters’ as the crow flies, by a trackless route among gorse and heather. There was no chance now left of overtaking his father before he drove from the house. All Paul could possibly do was to follow in his steps and hear what tidings he could of him from those who had seen him.
Away he trudged, with trembling feet, along the crest of the ridge, stumbling from time to time over bushes half hidden by the newly fallen snow, and with the keen air cutting against his face like a knife as he breasted it. It was indeed an awful night — awful even down in the snug valley at Hillborough, but almost Arctic in the intensity of its bitter cold on those bleak, wind-swept uplands. They say Kent’s Hill is the chilliest spot in winter in all southern England: as Paul pushed his way across the long, bare summit that January evening, he trembled in his heart for the effect upon his father. It was slow work, indeed, to cover the three miles that lay between him and the dean’s, even disregardful as he was of the frequent notice boards which threatened the utmost rigor of the law with churlish plainness of speech to inoffensive trespassers. More than once he missed his way in the blinding snow, and found himself face to face with the steeply scarped southern bank, or with some wall or hedge on the slope to northward. But at last, pushing on in spite of all difficulties, he reached the garden at the dean’s, and stood alone within the snow-covered gateway. There, all was still once more; the party had melted away, for it was now nearly midnight. But a light still burned feebly in one of the upper rooms. In his eagerness and anxiety Paul could not brook delay; he ventured here again to press the bell. A servant put out his head slowly and inquiringly from the half opened window.
“Was Miss Boyd-Galloway dining here to-night?” Paul asked, with a sinking heart, of the sleepy servant, “Yes,” the man answered, “but she’s gone half an hour ago.”
“Who drove her home, or did she drive home at all?” Paul inquired once more.
“How should I know?” the servant replied, withdrawing his head testily. “Do you think I take down their numbers as they pass, like the bobby at the station? She aint here; that’s all. Ask me another one.”
And he slammed the casement, leaving Paul alone on the snow-covered gravel walk.
CHAPTER XXX.
AT THE CALL OF DUTY.
MEANWHILE, Sir Emery Gascoyne, Baronet, had been faithfully carrying out the duties of his station. He had promised to go and fetch Miss Boyd-Galloway at the dean’s, and come snow or rain, or hail or frost, with perfect fidelity he had gone to fetch her.
His fatherly pride would never have allowed him to let Paul — his gentleman son — take his place on the box even for a single evening. Better by far meet his fate than that. To die was a thousand times easier than disgrace. So, as soon as Paul was out of sight upstairs, he had risen from his seat, seized his whip from the rack, and, in spite of that catching pain deep down in his side, driven off hastily before Paul could intercept him.
The drive to the hill — by the west road at the further end, while Paul had followed by the shorter and steeper eastern route — was a bitter cold one: and the horses, though roughed that day, had stumbled many times on the frozen slopes, having stern work indeed to drag the heavy cab up that endless zigzag. As Sir Emery drove, the pain in his side grew duller and deeper: and though he was too unskilled in diagnosis to know it for pleurisy, as it really was, he felt himself it was blowing up hard for a serious illness. But, accustomed as he had long been to exposure in all weathers, he made light of the discomfort, and drove bravely along to the dean’s doorway.
It was half-past ten by Sir Emery’s watch — the necessary business silver watch of the country cabman — when he reached the house: but though he sent in word that he was there and ready, his fare was in no great hurry, as it seemed, to present herself.
“Miss Boyd-Galloway’s carriage,” the footman announced; but Miss Boyd Galloway, immersed in her game of whist, only nodded in reply, and went on playing out the end of the rubber in dignified silence. She was a lady who loved the rigor of the game. It was comfortably warm in that snug country-house; and who thinks of the cabman outside in the cold there?
The other coachmen walked up and down, and slapped their chests, and exhorted their horses. But Sir Emery sat motionless and chilled on the box, not daring to dismount lest when once down he should be unable to get up again. The butler, a good-natured soul who had known him for years, offered him a glass of whisky-and-water to keep him warm. But Sir Emery shook his head in dissent: it would only make him colder if he had to sit long on the box in the snow there.
“Gascoyne’s off his feed,” another cabman remarked with a cheerful nod; and the rest laughed.
But Sir Emery didn’t laugh. He sat stark and stiff, breathing every moment with increasing difficulty, on his seat by the porch, under the shelter of the yew-tree.
For half an hour or more he waited in t
he cold. One after another the guests dropped out and drove away piecemeal; but not Miss Boyd-Galloway. He trembled and shivered and grew numb within. Yet wait he must; there was absolutely no help for it. Colder and colder he grew till he seemed all ice. His father’s heart was broken within him. More than once in his miserable faintness he half wished to himself that he had allowed Paul, after all, just this one night to relieve him.
At last the door opened for the tenth time, and “Miss Boyd-Galloway’s carriage” was duly summoned.
There was a moment’s pause. Sir Emery was almost too numb to move. Then slowly, with an effort, he turned his horses, and wheeling round in a circle brought them up to the doorway.
“What do you mean by keeping us waiting here in the cold like this?” Miss Boyd-Galloway asked in a sharp, rasping voice. She was a sour-looking lady of a certain age, and losing the rubber never improved her temper.
Sir Emery answered nothing. He was too well accustomed to the ways of the trade even to reflect to himself in his own silent soul that Miss Boyd-Galloway had kept him waiting in the cold — and in far worse cold — for considerably more than half an hour.
The footman stood forward and opened the door. Miss Boyd-Galloway and her friend, wrapped in endless rugs over their square-cut dresses, stepped inside and seated themselves. “Home!” Miss Boyd-Galloway called out in an authoritative voice. There was another pause. Miss Boyd-Galloway put out her head to see the reason. “Home, I said, Gascoyne,” she repeated angrily. “Didn’t you hear me speak? Why, what are you waiting for?”
