THERE is no doubt that the interval which ensued after this was a time of extraordinary peace and quietness at the White House. Whether it was the heart which had faintly stirred in Ralph Joscelyn’s bosom, or whether he was alarmed by what he had done, it is certain that he was wonderfully subdued and silenced. When, after a long career of violence and family domineering, and threats of all kinds, one of those who have hitherto only scolded back and kept up a war of words, is suddenly stung into action, and does something desperate instead of uttering the mere froth of passion, it is not unusual to see the domestic tyrant come to a sudden stand-still, more bewildered than anyone by the result. Times without number he had threatened to turn every son he had out of the house: but the young man who turned himself out of the house gave him such a shock as he had never got before in his life. He was very susceptible to outside criticism, for one thing, and all the county would soon find out what had happened. He would be asked on the other side of the Fells if he had any news of his son. The news would soon travel over all his haunts as far as Carlisle. People would tell each other how Harry Joscelyn had disappeared; that he had not been able to stand things any longer; that there had been a dreadful quarrel, and his father had turned him to the door, and he had gone away. It was a long time, however, before the real state of affairs was known, even in the White House. A few terrible days passed, terrible for his mother and sister, and in a way for Joscelyn also, who was moody and silent, going about the house more quietly than his wont, and not able to get over the shock of his surprise. Joan secretly despatched messengers to the houses of her brothers, neither of whom had seen Harry, and it was not till the third day that Isaac Oliver came shuffling to the door, desiring to speak with the mistress or Miss Joan. Joan found a little whispering knot at the door as she passed through the passages from the dairy.
“Who is that?” she said.
“It’s me, Miss Joan, Isaac Oliver, your uncle’s man,” said a well-known voice; and instantly there flashed upon Joan all he had come to say. Uncle Henry’s, to be sure! Had she ever thought otherwise? Of course it was the most natural place for Harry to go.
“Come in this way,” she said, hastily. Joscelyn was out, and there was little chance of visitors at the White House to interrupt such a conference. She led him in with a beating heart, dismissing with a word the gossiping women about the door. “I hope you’re bringing us no bad news, Isaac; my uncle’s an old man,” said Joan, breathless. She so little knew what she was saying, in the light that seemed to flood upon her, that she did not even feel it to be insincere.
“It’s not about t’auld maister, he’s fine and weel,” said Isaac, following her along the passage with his shuffle, talking as he went; “you would not give him more than sixty to look at him, out here and there to his dinner, and driving about the country like ony young man.”
“He’s very lively for his age,” Joan said.
“Ay, or for any age,” said Isaac, and by this time they had reached the parlour-door.
The moment they had entered that sanctuary Joan turned upon this messenger of fate and pushed him into a chair. She took no notice of Mrs. Joscelyn, who sat as usual in the distance, pretending to work, but on the watch for every wayfarer, sweeping the line of road and the grey fields and dim horizon with her anxious eyes.
“Now tell us what you have to tell us,” she cried.
“It’s just—I’ve been at Wyburgh, Miss Joan, to see t’auld maister. He’s fine and weel, as I said; and Mrs. Eadie, she’s fine and weel, and as pleased as they could be, baith the wan and the other——”