“William has come,” persisted Ellin.
“I don’t say he has not,” returned St. George. “All I can say is that I did not know he had come and that I have not seen him.”
Who was right, and who was wrong? Any faces more hopelessly puzzled than the two old gentlemen’s were, as they listened to these contradictory assertions, I’d not wish to see. Nothing came of the interview; nothing but fresh mystification. Ellin declared William Brook had arrived, had been driven out of Worcester for Timberdale in St. George’s gig. We felt equally certain we had passed them in Dip Lane, sitting together in the gig; but St. George denied it in toto, affirming that the person with him was a stranger.
And perhaps it may be as well if I here say a word about the routes. Evesham lay fifteen miles from Worcester; Timberdale not much more than half that distance, in a somewhat different direction, and on a different road. In going to Timberdale, if when about half-way there you quitted the high-road for by-ways you would come to Dip Lane. Traversing nearly the length of the lane, you would then come to a by-way leading from it on the other side, which would bring you on the direct road to Evesham, still far off. Failing to take this by-way leading to Evesham, you would presently quit the lane, and by dint of more by-ways would gain again the high-road and soon come to Timberdale. This is the route that Mr. St. George took that night.
We went home from Mr. Delorane’s, hopelessly mystified, the Squire rubbing up his hair the wrong way; now blowing us both up for what he called our “fancies” in supposing we saw William Brook, and now veering round to the opposite opinion that we and Ellin must be alike correct in saying Brook had come.
Ellin’s account was this: she passed a pleasant morning with Mary West, who was nearly always more or less of an invalid. At half-past one o’clock dinner was served; Philip West, his younger brother Gregory, who had recently joined him, and Mr. St. George coming in from the office to partake of it. Dinner over, they left the room, having no time to linger. In fact, Gregory rose from table before he had well finished. Mary West inquired what his haste was, and he replied that he was off to Spetchley; some one had been taken ill there and wanted a will made. It was Philip who ought to have gone, who had been sent for; but Philip had an hour or two’s business yet to do with Mr. St. George. Mrs. West told St. George that she would have tea ready at five o’clock, that he might drink a cup before starting for home.
Later on in the afternoon, when Ellin and Mrs. West were sitting over the fire, talking of things past and present, and listening to the howling of the wind, growing more furious every hour, James Ashton’s wife came in, all excitement. Her husband, in medical practice at Worcester, was the brother of Robert Ashton of Timberdale. A very nice young woman was Marianne Ashton, but given to an excited manner. Taking no notice of Mrs. West, she flew to Ellin and began dancing round her like a demented Red Indian squaw.
“What will you give me for my news, Ellin?”
“Now, Marianne!” remonstrated Mrs. West. “Do be sensible, if you can.”
“Be quiet, Mary: I am sensible. Your runaway lover is come, Ellin; quite safely.”