“The gardener was gone home, out of reach round the point, but we shall know to-morrow.”
“He thinks they may have rowed out and been caught in the storm,” cried Paula, bursting into fresh weeping; and Magdalen saw the conjecture confirmed by Mr. Flight’s countenance.
“I am afraid it is the least distressing—the least unsatisfactory idea,” said he, in much agitation. “I thought Mr. Delrio an excellent young man; and she,” indicating his companion, “tells me you know him and his family well.”
“Oh, yes,” said Agatha and Magdalen in one breath. “We have known his father all our lives. Nothing can be more respectable.”
“And Hubert is as steady and good as possible,” continued Agatha. “His mother used to come to Mrs. Best and praise him, till we were quite tired of his name; I am sure he is all right.”
“Or I should be much deceived in him,” said the clergyman.
Yet there was an idea in Paulina’s mind. Could Vera have poured out such an exaggerated tale of oppression and unhappiness as to have induced her old playfellow to carry her off to his mother at Filsted? She had given some such hint to Mr. Flight on the way; but he had not seemed to hear or attend, and he was now promising to let the sisters know as soon as possible in the morning whether anything had been discovered, and to telegraph to Filsted and to the office in London if he should see occasion.
Then he drove off, in what would have been almost daylight but for the pelting of the storm; and after a vain attempt to make Paula swallow some nourishment, Magdalen thought it kinder to let Agatha carry her off to bed, and then she confessed, what really gave a certain hope, that the pair had been in the habit of murmuring against “sister” so much that, considering poor Vera’s propensity to strong language, it was quite possible that Hubert might think her cruelly oppressed, and for a freak carry her off to his mother to be consoled.
Agatha tried to believe it, for the sake of hushing the exhausted Paula, who almost went into hysterics, as she laughed at the notion of to-morrow’s telegram that Vera was safe at Filsted; and then allowed herself to be calmed enough to sleep, while Agatha revolved the notion, but found herself unable seriously to believe, that sufficient grievance could be brought against sister to induce any man in his senses to take such a step. But then Paula had inferred that he was a lover, and Agatha did not know of what lovers might be capable, and she could not but blame herself for not having given more importance to the semi-confidences of her sisters on the first day of her arrival. It was all misery; and the two poor girls could find no solace in the morning, save in talking to Magdalen, though that involved the confession of all the murmurs against her, the distrust of her kindness, and the explanation of the interviews, which, as far as Paula had ever witnessed them, were absolutely harmless, the only pity being in their concealment.
Magdalen was manifestly as wretched as they, or even more so, being convinced of her own shortcoming in not having won the affection or confidence that would have made all open between them. She could not understand why Hubert Delrio should not have been made known to her.