“A bad bit, swollen, I expect, after the snow. A fence this side. There’s the Master taking a view. He will tell us if it’s safe, if not, we must try the meadow. Ride over here towards him.”
She swerved to the side as she spoke, and a moment later was within short enough distance to hear the warning cry. The Master pointed with his whip in the direction of the meadow of which Esmeralda had spoken, and the next moment the whole hunt was galloping after him. The whole hunt, we have said, but there was one exception, for one rider refused to take warning or to turn aside from the direct line across country. The sudden change of course had left him in the rear, and so it happened that his absence was not noted by his companions, and it was only when several moments had passed that Esmeralda, looking from side to side, began to draw her delicate brows into a frown as she asked Hilliard—
“Where’s father? I can’t see him. He is not here.”
“I don’t see him either, but he was with us five minutes ago before we turned back. I saw him in the last field.”
“So did I, but where is he now? He can’t—” Esmeralda reined in suddenly and turned startled eyes upon her companion—“he can’t have tried that brook?”
“No, no! Certainly not.” But even as he spoke Hilliard had a prevision of the truth. Although he would not admit as much as Esmeralda, there had been something in the Major’s bearing which had struck him unpleasantly since the moment of meeting, and his reckless riding had deepened the impression. “You go on,” he said earnestly, “and I will ride back and see. Perhaps he took a look at the brook and then had to come round after all, which would make him late. Please go on, Miss Joan.”
But Esmeralda looked him full in the eyes and turned her horse back towards the brook.
“I am going back myself. If there has been an accident, it is I who should be there. Don’t hinder me, Mr Hilliard. I must go to my father.”