“She’d not do that, ma’am. Since Daniel Ferrar was found there, the children don’t like the three-cornered grove.”
“Look here,” said old Coney, suddenly speaking up. “Let us search all these places, and any others that she could have strayed to, right or left, on her road home.”
He rose up, and we rose with him. It was the best thing that could be done: and no end of a relief, besides, to pitch upon something to do. The Squire ordered Mackintosh (who had not recovered himself yet) to bring a lantern, and we all put on our great-coats and went forth, leaving the mater and Mrs. Coney to keep the fire warm. A black party we looked, in the white snow, Miss Timmens making one of us.
“I can’t rest,” she whispered to me. “If the child has been lying on the snow all this while, we shall find her dead.”
It was a still, cold, lovely night; the moon high in the sky, the snow lying white and pure beneath her beams. Tom Coney and Tod, all their better feelings and their fears aroused, plunged on fiercely, now amidst the deep snow by the hedges, now on the more level path. The grove, which had been so fatal to poor Daniel Ferrar, was examined first. And now we saw the use of the lantern ordered by the Squire, at which order we had secretly laughed: for it served to light up the darker parts where the trunks of the trees grew thick. Mackintosh, who hated that grove, did not particularly relish his task of searching it, though he was in good company. But it did not appear to contain Nettie.
“She would not turn in here,” repeated Miss Timmens, from the depth of her strong conviction; “I’m sure she wouldn’t. She would rather bear onwards towards her mother’s.”
Bounding here, trudging there, calling her name softly, shouting loudly, we continued our search after Nettie Trewin. It was past twelve when we got back home and met Mrs. Todhetley and Mrs. Coney at the door, both standing there in their uneasiness, enveloped in woollen shawls.
“No. No success. Can’t find her anywhere.”
Down sank the Squire on one of the hall-chairs as he spoke, as though he could not hold himself up a minute longer, but was dead beat with tramping and disappointment. Perhaps he was. What was to be done next? What could be done? We stood round the dining-room fire, looking at one another like so many helpless mummies.
“Well,” said the pater, “the first thing is to have a drop of something hot. I am half-frozen. What time’s that?”—as the clock over the mantelpiece chimed one stroke. “Half-past twelve.”