At that instant the sound brought Major Delavie hurrying from his sitting-room at his best speed. There was a look of horror on his face as he saw his daughter’s senseless condition, but Betty sprang to his side to prevent his wakening her, and Aurelia was safely carried up stairs and laid upon her sister’s bed, still sleeping, while Betty and Loveday unloosed her clothes. Her bearers were sent for refreshment to the bar, and the gentlemen stood looking on one another in the sitting-room, Mr. Wayland utterly shocked, incredulous of the little he did understand, and yet unable to go home until he should hear more; and the Major hardly less horrified, in the midst of his relief. “But where’s Belamour!” he cried, “Your uncle, I mean.”
“Where?” said Sir Amyas. “They said he was gone out.”
“So they told me! And see here!”
Major Delavie produced Lady Belamour’s note.
“A blind!” cried Sir Amyas, turning away under a strange stroke of pain and sham. “Oh! mother, mother!” and he dashed out of the room.
Poor Mr. Wayland sat down as one who could stand no longer. “Of what do they suspect her?” he said hoarsely.
“Sir,” said the good Major, “I grieve sincerely for and with you. Opposition to this match with my poor child seems to have transported my poor cousin to strange and frantic lengths, but you may trust me to shield and guard her from exposure as far as may be.”
Her husband only answered by a groan, and wrung Major Delavie’s hand, but their words were interrupted by Sir Amyas’s return. He had been to his uncle’s chamber, and had found on the table a note addressed to the Major. Within was a inclosure directed to A. Belamour, Esq.
“If you have found the way to the poor captive, for pity’s sake
come to her rescue. Be in the court with your faithful black
by ten o’clock, and you may yet save on who loves and looks to
you.”
On the outer sheet was written—