“I must find him,” she said shivering, “I must find him!” and a sob choked her voice.
Young Mackie was silent. From the kitchen came the hubbub of voices, the clatter of dishes; while, looking over Betty’s shoulder, he saw Spencer and Savile cross the main hall, arm in arm, their heads together. Sir Edward knew well enough that Savile had tried to kill Clancarty and he set his teeth, for he saw her cloaked figure sway and quiver in the passion of emotion that shook her. He was a generous fellow and he forgot himself.
“I will try to find him, my lady,” he said in a low tone, glancing cautiously at the hall door, “he can’t be very far away, he could not travel; that man has hidden him somewhere because of the stir made by the duel—I think his identity was very near discovery.”
“I know it,” she said, “but how to find him—oh, Sir Edward, I must do it! He—he may be in need of a surgeon—of care—of everything!” she broke off wildly, and then, “Come, Alice, we must go on.”
But he detained her. “Whither, madam?” he asked gravely, “not in a vain search—at night—for—for him?”
She drew herself up proudly. “Do you think I will let my husband die thus?—and stir no finger to help him?” she asked bitterly.
“Then you will let me go with you,” he said quietly, taking his place beside her.
She hesitated and quickly assented. “If you will,” she replied, “since it is late and we are only two women—but we must make haste,” and she ran down the old stone steps into the garden, taking the very path she had walked with Clancarty. Mackie and Alice followed her silently, though both were convinced of the fruitlessness of such an errand at such an hour.
But the night had worn on many hours more and the moon had risen before Betty acknowledged that her quest was vain. Meanwhile, young Mackie had patiently searched in every tavern and inn in Newmarket; he had invaded all the alleys and byways, all the nooks and corners, and inquired of grooms and porters and stable-men—but to no purpose. Denis had covered his retreat with more skill than Sir Edward had looked for. If the truth be told, the Irishman was no new hand at the business and he understood it well, having followed Lord Clancarty in his adventurous life, from Dublin, and later in a wild career on the Continent when the gay young nobleman had kept pace with his fellow exiles of high birth and slim purses, but unlimited daring. It was not the first duel nor the first cause for flight, and Denis had spirited the wounded man away and left no sign. Even Betty, determined and vigilant as she was, was forced to acknowledge herself defeated, and she walked drearily back to the Lion’s Head with an aching heart. He believed her indifferent to him—would he ever send her a message or a token again? Never; she was sure of it, and she bowed her head in dejection—Lady Betty, who was never crestfallen. She and Alice crept in, at last, by the garden way and fled to her apartments in no little trepidation, but they fancied themselves safe when they found that Lady Sunderland had gone to bed, to get her beauty sleep, and the woman, Melissa, slept in her room that night, in the absence of the countess’ own attendant.
Lady Betty did not sleep nor did she open her heart to the faithful girl who was nearly as grieved as she was to see her trouble. She knelt for hours by the window looking out over the moonlit garden where the shadows were black between the hedgerows. It was a night of agony; to know that he might be dying—dying with hard thoughts of her indifference—almost within reach of her and yet so far. She was his wife, she thought with sharp pain, and yet he could not send her word—and she did not deserve it. He was dying, because Savile had been determined to kill him: he had divined the secret, he was resolved to remove her husband. Betty saw it all; she had wrung some admissions from Mackie, the rest she knew by intuition.