“Because I know as little as yourself, father,” returned the young man, without lifting his head; and he surreptitiously 221 conveyed the paper to his pocket. “Perhaps this lady,” indicating Miss Milner, “could inform us?”
“I beg your pardon,” observed a gentlemanly voice near them; and, looking up, Dick found himself confronted by the young clergyman. “I overheard your inquiries, and, as I am acquainted with the ladies in question, I may be able to satisfy you.”
“I should be extremely obliged to you if you would do so, sir,” returned the elder man, with alacrity; but Dick turned away rather ungraciously, and his cheerful face grew sullen.
“Confound him! what does he mean by his interference? Knows them, indeed! such a handsome beggar, too,—a prig, one can see that from the cut of his clothes and beard!” And again he planted his elbows on the counter, and began pulling his rough little stubbly moustache.
“If you are referring to a mother and three daughters who live in the Friary and eke out a scanty income by taking in dressmaking, I am happy to say I know them well,” went on Archie. “My sister and I visit at the cottage, and they attend my church; and, as Miss Milner can tell you, they work hard enough all the six days of the week.”
“Indeed, Mr. Drummond, there are few that work harder!” broke in Miss Milner, volubly. “Such pretty creatures, too, to earn their own living; and yet they have a bright word and a smile for everybody! Ever since Miss Phillis,” (here Dick groaned) “made that blue dress for Mrs. Trimmings—she is the butcher’s wife, and a dressy woman, though not flashy, like Mrs. Squails—they have been quite the rage in Hadleigh. All the townspeople, and the resident gentry, and even the visitors, want their gowns made by the Miss Challoners. Their fit is perfect; and they have such taste. And––” But here the luckless Dick could bear no more.
“If you will excuse me, sir,” he said, addressing his bewildered father, “I have left something particular at the hotel: I must just run and fetch it.”
Dick did not specify whether it was his handkerchief, or his cigar-case, or his purse, of which he stood so urgently in need; but before Mr. Mayne could remonstrate, he had gone out of the shop. He went as far as the door of the hotel, and there he seized on a passing waiter and questioned him in a breathless manner. Having obtained his information, he set off at a walk that was almost a run through the town, and down the Braidwood Road. The few foot-passengers that he met shrank out of the way of this young man; for he walked, looking neither to the right nor to left, as though he saw nothing before him. And his eyes were gloomy, and, he did not whistle; and the only words he said to himself were, “Oh, Nan, never to have told me of this!” over and over again.
The gate of the Friary stood open; for a small boy had been washing the flags, and had left his pail, and had gone off to 222 play marbles in the road with a younger brother. Dick,—who understood the bearings of the case at once, shook his fist at the truant behind his back, and then turned in at the gate.
He peeped in at the hall door first; but Dorothy was peeling potatoes in the kitchen, and would see him as he passed, so he skirted the little path under the yews. And if Dulce had been at her sewing-machine as usual, she would have seen him at once; but this morning the machine was silent.