"You are cold," Mr. Warde said briskly. "Let me advise you, dear. Go and change your dress; put on something warm. By that time I shall have got some food and shall bring it in. I expect you have no servants left."
"No. They are all—somewhere."
She allowed herself to be led back to the house, and as he stood watching her ascend the stairs, the man's heart gave a bound of rejoicing. She had come to him willingly, of her own accord. What though it were sorrow that had brought her? She was his now for ever, of her own free will. He stood looking after her, with face upraised, a thanksgiving in his heart. And thus for the last time he looked on Marjorie, rejoicing. Never again without pain was he to hear the soft swish of her dress, the soft fall of her foot. But in those few seconds he lived through an æon of joy.
He could not guess the force of the feeling which had driven her from Mr. Pelham's side. The same sorrow that had sent her to Mr. Warde had also taught her that she must shun the man who could now be nothing to her. Marjorie's was a very simple nature. When she realised a fact, she did not play with it. Matter-of-fact duty was a real power with her. So she had responded to the strong training which the calm approval or disapproval shining in her father's quiet eyes had sufficiently imposed.
As the different search parties came back, all with the same "no news," Mr. Warde had a table of provisions brought out into the Court. He was too busy caring for the needs of the many weary volunteers to go again into Mr. Bethune's house; but nurse had by this time returned, and was tearfully waiting on her mistress.
"Nothing could have happened to them all," the Dean said briskly, "or we must have found some trace. It is the most mysterious thing I ever knew in my life. They are all together in some safe place, I feel convinced."
"My mistress thinks now that they are kept," nurse, overhearing, said; "she is sure the boys would understand that she would be anxious, and they are always careful about Miss Barbie. But if only we could know!" and nurse departed sobbing.
The dawn had broadened into morning, the tips of the cathedral spires were red in the sunlight, and many of the unavailing searchers were at last going slowly to their homes. Nothing more could be done than had been done. Mr. Warde's servants were clearing away the débris of the meal; whilst he himself was again hurrying along the flagged path to the cathedral, with the intention of again thoroughly searching its many nooks and crannies in the daylight. He feared he knew not what, recollecting Sandy's adventurous spirit.
Mr. Bethune was sitting beside his wife, her hand in his, as once before that night, looking out upon the still garden. Marjorie, seeing them thus, noting the far-away look in her father's eyes (as though visions were being vouchsafed to the weary man, unseen by other eyes), noting, too, that his calmness was bringing a look of peace and trust to the wan face of her mother—turned involuntarily to the other bereaved and, as she remembered, so desperately lonely man.