Mrs. Dakin approached the outskirts of the wood and called Stella’s name, not too loudly, being in great dread lest she should draw Sir Philip’s anger upon her own head for losing sight of her.
“Miss Cranstoun! Miss Cranstoun! Miss Stella! Pray come in. You’ll be catching cold!”
Only a faint echo thrown from the thick walls of the Chase answered her. Unaccustomed to country sights and sounds, the last murmurs of the birds twittering good-nights to each other from the trees and the sound of the light rain which began to patter on the leaves made her nervous. The wood seemed full of rustlings, and almost, as it appeared to her, of human laughter, fitful and mocking.
Was Miss Stella hidden anywhere and laughing at her? Such a course of conduct seemed very unlike her young mistress, who never scrupled to show her proud dislike and distrust for the paid spies by whom she was surrounded. And yet, if it was not Stella, who could it be, for there undoubtedly was laughter sounding somewhere in the twilight woods?
Dakin was growing frightened. It was now fully twenty minutes since Stella had given her the slip. She did not know her way about the property, and could see no sign of Miss Cranstoun anywhere. With her neat black gown torn and her hands badly scratched by the brambles, she made her way out again into the open, resolved upon engaging further help in the discovery of her mistress. To her great relief, she caught sight of Stephen Lee, sauntering along with his hands in his pockets from the direction of the kitchen quarters. He looked less saturnine than usual, and a smile actually lurked about his mouth. Without hesitation, Dakin ran toward him.
“Mr. Lee!” she exclaimed; “the very man I want! I came out here with my young lady for her to get a breath of fresh air, and I’ve lost her somehow in the wood. You know your way in and out of them trees—find her at once, there’s a good fellow, and I’ll give you five shillings for yourself. She’s ill and upset, and I’m almost afraid,” she added, lowering her tone, “if she’s left alone that she’ll be doing herself a mischief.”
The blood rushed all over the young gypsy’s face in an instant. He guessed that old Sarah had some hand in Stella’s disappearance, yet he had no more idea than Dakin as to where Stella was or what old Mrs. Carewe’s plans with regard to her could be. His own instructions had been simply to make love to the lady’s maid, and so to withdraw her attention from her mistress, and at this task he had succeeded only too well.
He stood now, hesitating a moment, as Dakin addressed him. Old Sarah was about in the woods, probably, and James Carewe also; of that he felt as certain as that a gypsy’s caravan was encamped immediately outside the Chase demesne on a piece of waste land, not very far from the ruined tower. He must not meddle in grandame Sarah’s concerns for certain. If Sarah intended to spirit Stella away that night, she would most certainly do so, and if she did not mean that, what was the sense of all her prophecies about Stella’s relenting toward him—Stephen—and showing signs of returning his love?
He was so long silent that Dakin grew impatient.
“Why, man,” she cried, “why are you standing, staring, there? She is lost in the wood—your young mistress—can’t you understand?”