Bindon woods were growing yellow. After an early and glorious summer, rain had set in with much wind and storm, and though it was but the first of September, the country had already begun to don its autumn livery.
Sir David, returning from a devious pilgrimage, rode slowly up the avenue. There was the scent of fallen leaves in the air and the ground beneath the tread of his horse’s feet was sodden and spongy. It was a sad and cloudy afternoon, with just now a brief respite between two gusts of wind and rain, a streak of blue in the watery sky above the soaking land. He had come fast and far; his horse was mud-bespattered, his riding-boots discoloured to the knees. Both rider and steed seemed dejected: so comes a man home from fruitless quest.
At the bend of the way, where the rectory walls skirted the avenue, Dr. Tutterville suddenly stood forth. From afar, and with anxious eyes, the parson and the squire scrutinised each other’s bearing, and it hardly needed the melancholy greeting:
“No news!”
“No news!” to confirm the impression of failure.
The reverend Horatio had, during the last four weeks of anxiety and fruitless search, lost some of his comfortable rotundity, some of his placid ease of manner. The iron grey of his hair had lightened a little more towards silver. He laid his hand upon the rider’s muddy knee and paced beside him towards the house. After a little silence a melancholy converse began.
“Wherever the poor child may be,” said the parson, “at any rate you are satisfied that she has not fallen into the hands either of that evil-living man, Colonel Harcourt, or of that light-spirited youth, Mr. Luke Herrick. That at least should be a consolation.”
Yet he sighed as he spoke and looked questioningly at the other. But David’s face became still more darkened.
“As I wrote to you,” he replied, after a little pause and with a sort of repugnance, “I had Colonel Harcourt’s movements closely traced from the moment of his leaving the ‘Cheveral Arms’ to the moment of our meeting in Richmond Park, and afterwards. Ellinor and he——” He broke off then, with a sudden irritation: “Great God,” he cried, “it was infamous to suspect her of favour to that man.”
Dr. Tutterville shook his head.