“I only beg of you to appeal to one who has the power to grant your petition,” he said, very low.
It was a little while yet before she conquered herself and looked up through her tears at them both.
“I believe you mean kindly to me,” she said, with a humility strangely touching in one of her high spirit; “I will go to my father, Sir Edward, he may hear me—but I have little hope—so little hope!” and she fell to weeping again.
CHAPTER XXVIII
ALICE AND DENIS
WHEN Lady Clancarty fled wildly from her father’s house, poor Alice was too much overwhelmed with the agony of the recent scene to know what to do. For the moment she gave way only to her grief, fleeing from Spencer and from the woman, Melissa, as she would have fled from pestilence. But she was too sensible and too faithful to remain long without making an effort to follow her mistress. In less than an hour, therefore, she had gathered up a heavy cloak and hood of Lady Betty’s, and assuming her own mantle, went out into the night. It took no small courage to do this, when the streets of London were beset by rogues of every class and description, and the dim streaks of light from an occasional lantern swung in some archway served only to make the darkness visible. Alice, who was urged on by no frenzy like Lady Clancarty’s, went out with a sinking heart, her sharp sense of duty alone keeping her to her purpose. She had not dared to ask even a lackey from the house to attend her; these town servants were strangers to her, and everywhere she looked for treachery. Poor Alice wrapped her cloak around her and set out alone upon a devious course of wanderings, through every lane and byway in the vicinity, in a fruitless quest for her dear lady. Sometimes the girl proceeded quietly through a deserted street; again she shrank into the shelter of a friendly doorway at the sound of high voices and drunken laughter; and again—and more than once—she dodged some ruffian who would have pounced upon her, and fled, saved by swift running, for she was fleet as any deer. The terrors of the night grew upon her until her knees shook under her. She could not imagine what evil had befallen her lovely and unhappy mistress and more than once she stopped, blinded by tears.
Just as her despair reached a climax, she came in sight of the Standard Tavern and glanced at it timidly; even at that hour it was well lighted and full of company. As she watched, a figure came out of the door and stood by the lantern under the sign—a short, sturdy figure and a homely Irish face. She recognized Denis, and Denis was Lord Clancarty’s faithful servant. She did not know that he had only just discovered the arrest of his master in Sunderland’s house and had put his own interpretation upon it. She rushed blindly—as we do—upon fate.
“O Mr. Denis!” she cried, revealing her white face under her hood, “have you seen my mistress? my dear Lady Clancarty?”