The Doctor took a note from his breast-pocket and handed it to Clive to read.
“Cannot stay at home and hear about that shame and disgrace—gone away to be at peace, and try to forget it—with one of her aunts or a schoolfellow—will write,” stammered Clive, as he hastily read the letter.
“Yes, my dear boy, you know what a creature of impulse she is; and I don’t know that we can wonder under the circumstances.”
“But tell me—where do you think she will be? I must follow her.”
“Heaven only knows,” said the Doctor. “Since my poor wife died she has been mistress here, and naturally very independent and womanly—a strange girl, my dear boy. I have been so wrapped up in my profession, that I have lost the habit of guiding her.”
“But the servants—what do they say?”
“That your brother saw her to the door, and she went straight up to her bedroom and shut herself in. When I came back she had gone out again, leaving this letter. I am afraid, my boy, you will have to wait. But there! it will be all right. Poor child! she will be as humble to you as I am.—Yes!”
This was to the Doctor’s confidential servant, who brought in half-a-dozen cards with pencilled appeals.
“Dear me! dear me!” said the Doctor, taking the cards. “Any one else?”
“Room’s packed, sir.”