“God be thanked!” said Peggy; and then she took him by the arm, and led the astonished young man upstairs to Will’s room. “He’s never sleepit in that bed this night. His little bag’s gone, with a change in’t. He’s putten on another pair of boots. Where is the laddie gone? And me that’ll have to face his mother, and tell her she’s lost her bairn!”
“Lost her bairn! Nonsense,” cried Hugh, aghast; “he’s only gone out for a walk.”
“When a boy like that goes out for a walk, he does not take a change with him,” said Peggy. “He may be lying in Kirtell deeps for anything we can tell. And me that will have to break it to his mother——”
Hugh stood still in consternation for a moment, and then he burst into an agitated laugh. “He would not have taken a change with him, as you say, into Kirtell deeps,” he said. “Nonsense, Peggy! Are you sure he has not been in bed? Don’t you go and frighten my mother. And, indeed, I daresay he does not always go to bed. I see his light burning all the night through, sometimes. Peggy, don’t go and put such ridiculous ideas into people’s heads. Will has gone out to walk, as usual. There he is, downstairs. I hear him coming in: make haste, and cook his trout.”
Hugh, however, was so frightened himself by all the terrors of inexperience, that he precipitated himself downstairs, to see if it was really Will who had entered. It was not Will, however, but a boy from the railway, with a note, in Will’s handwriting, addressed to his mother, which took all the colour out of Hugh’s cheeks—for he was still a boy, and new to life, and did not think of any such easy demonstration of discontent as that of going to visit Uncle Penrose. He went into the breakfast-room with so pale a face, that both the ladies got up in dismay, and made a rush at him to know what it was.
“It is nothing,” said Hugh, breathless, waving them off, “nothing—only a note—I have not read it yet—wait a little. Mother, don’t be afraid.”
“What is there to be afraid of?” asked Mary, in amazement and dismay.
And then Hugh again burst into an unsteady and tremulous laugh. He had read the note, and threw it at his mother with an immense load lifted off his heart, and feeling wildly gay in the revulsion. “There’s nothing to be frightened about,” said Hugh. “By Jove! to think the fellow has no more taste—gone off to see Uncle Penrose. I wish them joy!”
“Who is it that has gone to visit Mr. Penrose?” said Aunt Agatha; and Hugh burst into an explanation, while Mary, not by any means so much relieved, read her boy’s letter.
“I confess I got a fright,” said Hugh. “Peggy dragged me upstairs to show me that he had not slept in his bed, and said his carpet-bag was gone, and insinuated—I don’t know what—that we had quarrelled, and all sorts of horrors. But he’s gone to see Uncle Penrose. It’s all right, mother; I always thought it was all right.”