“Well, Silchester, then! I suppose he admires her very much?”
“Admires her! I should think he does! He’s awful spoons on her! It’s quite sickening the way they go on sometimes. There’s a regular stew on there to-night, though, tremendous scene.”
“What about?”
“Well, it seems that Milly’s father—he’s the landlord of the place, you know—left home about a month ago, saying he was going up to London on some business. He was expected back in a fortnight or three weeks; but he’s never turned up and he hasn’t written. So at last Milly sent up to the place where he always stops in town and also to some friends whom he was going to see. This morning a reply comes from both of them. Nothing has been seen or heard of him at all. Of course, Milly imagines the worst at once, goes off into hysterics, and, when we called this evening on our way down, was half out of her mind.”
“And so Silchester stopped with her to console her?”
“Exactly,” assented de Cartienne, with a queer smile. “Shouldn’t wonder if he succeeded, either!”
We entered the street of an old-fashioned, straggling town, the glimmering lights of which had been in sight for some time. de Cartienne, sitting forward a little, devoted his whole attention to the horses, for the stones were wet and slippery, and Brandy seemed to shy at everything and anything which presented itself, from the little pools of water glistening in the lamplight, which lay in the hollows of the road, down to his own shadow. I looked round curiously. The old-fashioned market-place, the quaintly built houses, the dimly lit shops, and little knots of gaping rustics, whom our rapid approach scattered right and left, were, at any rate, more interesting and pleasanter to look upon than the damp, miserable country outside. Suddenly we pulled up with a jerk outside a small, but clean-looking inn, and the groom leaped down from behind and made his way to the horses’ heads.
“Take them up the street a little, John,” said de Cartienne, as he descended. “No need to advertise Cis’s folly to the whole town,” he added, in a lower tone. “Come on, Morton, we’ll go and rout him out.”
I stepped across the wet pavement after him and, stooping low down, crossed the threshold of the “Rose and Crown.” We passed by a room in which several labouring men were drinking mugs of beer, and entered the bar, in which a rosy-cheeked country damsel was exchanging noisy and not too choice badinage with one or two young men who hung about her. From here another door led into an inner room and at this de Cartienne somewhat ostentatiously knocked. There was a second’s pause; then a clear, pleasant voice sang out “Come in!” and we entered.
It was a small, cosy room, not ill-furnished, and with a cheerful fire burning in the grate. Leaning against the mantelpiece, with his face towards us, was Cis, whose likeness to Lady Beatrice was so remarkable that I liked him heartily before we had exchanged a word. Standing by his side, with her head suspiciously near his shoulder, was a very fair girl, with nice figure and complexion and large blue eyes. Her face was certainly pretty, but it was not of a very high type of prettiness. The features, although regular of their sort, were not in any way refined or spirituelle, nor was there anything in her expression to redeem her from the mediocrity of good looks.