‘The bridge is far above the highest water-mark of the burn, in case they crossed the water,’ said Merton.
Lady Bude was silent.
Mr. Macrae returned. ‘Benson has come back,’ he said, ‘to say that he can find no trace of them. The other men are still searching.’
‘Can they have had themselves ferried across the sea loch to the village opposite?’ asked Merton.
‘Emmiline had not the key of our boat,’ said Mr. Macrae, ‘I have made sure of that; and not a man in the village would launch a boat on Sunday.’
‘We must go and help to search for them,’ said Merton; he only wished to be doing something, anything.
‘I shall not be a minute in changing my dress.’
Bude also volunteered, and in a few minutes, having drunk a glass of wine and eaten a crust of bread, they and Mr. Macrae were hurrying towards the cove. The storm was passing; by the time when they reached
the sea-side there were rifts of clear light in the sky above them. They had walked rapidly and silently, the swollen stream roaring beneath them. It had rained torrents in the hills. There was nothing to be said, but the mind of each man was busy with the gloomiest conjectures. These had to be far-fetched, for in a country so thinly peopled, and so honest and friendly, within a couple of miles at most from home, on a Sunday evening, what conceivable harm could befall a man and a maid?
‘Can we trust the man?’ was in Merton’s mind. ‘If they have been ferried across to the village, they would have set out to return before now,’ he said aloud; but there was no boat on the faint silver of the sea loch. ‘The cliffs are the likeliest place for an accident, if there was an accident,’ he considered, with a pang. The cliffs might have tempted the light-footed girl. In fancy he saw her huddled, a ghastly heap, the faint wind fluttering the folds of her dress, at the bottom of the rocks. She had been wearing a long skirt, not her wont in the Highlands; it would be dangerous to climb in that; she might have forgotten, climbed, and caught her foot, and fallen.