He rode straight, hot spur, to Thymebury, where, as was to be expected, he could glean no tidings of the runaways. They had not been seen at the George; they had not been seen at the station. The shadow darkened on Mr. Naseby’s face; the junction did not occur to him; his last hope was for Van Tromp’s cottage; thither he bade George guide him, and thither he followed, nursing grief, anxiety, and indignation in his heart.
“Here it is, sir,” said George, stopping.
“What! on my own land!” he cried. “How’s this? I let this place to somebody—M’Whirter or M’Glashan.”
“Miss M’Glashan was the young lady’s aunt, sir, I believe,” returned George.
“Ay—dummies,” said the Squire. “I shall whistle for my rent too. Here, take my horse.”
The Admiral, this hot afternoon, was sitting by the window with a long glass. He already knew the Squire by sight, and now, seeing him dismount before the cottage and come striding through the garden, concluded without doubt he was there to ask for Esther’s hand.
“This is why the girl is not yet home,” he thought; “a very suitable delicacy on young Naseby’s part.”
And he composed himself with some pomp, answered the loud rattle of the riding-whip upon the door with a dulcet invitation to enter, and coming forward with a bow and a smile, “Mr. Naseby, I believe,” said he.
The Squire came armed for battle; took in his man from top to toe in one rapid and scornful glance, and decided on a course at once. He must let the fellow see that he understood him.