Captain Arundel went back into the hall, and summoned Barbara Simmons. The woman replied with rather a sulky air to his numerous questions; but she told him that Miss Marchmont had left her ball–dress upon the bed, and had put on a gray cashmere dress trimmed with black ribbon, which she had worn as half–mourning for her father; a black straw bonnet, with a crape veil, and a silk mantle trimmed with crape. She had taken with her a small carpet–bag, some linen,––for the linen–drawer of her wardrobe was open, and the things scattered confusedly about,––and the little morocco case in which she kept her pearl ornaments, and the diamond ring left her by her father.
"Had she any money?" Edward asked.
"Yes, sir; she was never without money. She spent a good deal amongst the poor people she visited with my mistress; but I dare say she may have had between ten and twenty pounds in her purse."
"She will go to Berkshire," Edward Arundel thought: "the idea of going to her humble friends would be the first to present itself to her mind. She will go to her dead mother's sister, and give her all her jewels, and ask for shelter in the quiet farmhouse. She will act like one of the heroines in the old–fashioned novels she used to read in Oakley Street, the simple–minded damsels of those innocent story–books, who think nothing of resigning a castle and a coronet, and going out into the world to work for their daily bread in a white satin gown, and with a string of pearls to bind their dishevelled locks."
Captain Arundel's horse was brought round to the terrace–steps, as he stood with Mary's letter in his hand, waiting to hurry away to the rescue of his sorrowful love.
"Tell Mrs. Marchmont that I shall not return to the Towers till I bring her stepdaughter with me," he said to the groom; and then, without stopping to utter another word, he shook the rein on his horse's neck, and galloped away along the gravelled drive leading to the great iron gates of Marchmont Towers.
Olivia heard his message, which had been spoken in a clear loud voice, like some knightly defiance, sounding trumpet–like at a castle–gate. She stood in one of the windows of the dining–room, hidden by the faded velvet curtain, and watched her cousin ride away, brave and handsome as any knight–errant of the chivalrous past, and as true as Bayard himself.
[CHAPTER II.
A NEW PROTECTOR.]
Captain Arundel's inquiries at the Kemberling station resulted in an immediate success. A young lady––a young woman, the railway official called her––dressed in black, wearing a crape veil over her face, and carrying a small carpet–bag in her hand, had taken a second–class ticket for London, by the 5.50., a parliamentary train, which stopped at almost every station on the line, and reached Euston Square at half–past twelve.
Edward looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to two o'clock. The express did not stop at Kemberling; but he would be able to catch it at Swampington at a quarter past three. Even then, however, he could scarcely hope to get to Berkshire that night.