He had no reply to make to that, but he carried his eye again to the clock. He was very uncomfortable—very uncomfortable. And yet he hardly knew what to do or where to look. In the meantime the girl’s disappearance was becoming known, and caused, indoors and out, a thrill of excitement. Another abduction, another disappearance! And at their doors, on their thresholds, under their noses! Some heard the report with indignation, and two in the house heard it with remorse; many with pity. But in the breasts of most the feeling was not wholly painful. The new mystery revived and doubled the old; and blew to a white heat the embers of interest which were beginning to grow cold. In the teeth of the nipping air—and sunset is often the coldest hour of the twenty-four—groups gathered in the yard and before the house. And while a man here and there winked at his neighbour and hinted that the young madam had slunk back to the lover from whom she had been parted, the common view was that mischief was afoot and something strong should be done.
Meanwhile uncertainty—and in a small degree the absence of Captain Clyne and Nadin—paralysed action. At five, Bishop sent out three or four of his dependants; one to watch the boat-landing, one to keep an eye on the entrance to Troutbeck village, and others to bid the constables at Ambleside and Bowness be on the watch. But as long as the young lady’s return seemed possible—and some still thought the whole a storm in a tea-cup—men not unnaturally shrank from taking the lead. Nor until the man who took all the blame to himself interposed, was any real step taken.
It was nearly six when Bishop, talking with his friends in the passage, found himself confronted by the chaplain. Mr. Sutton was in a state of great and evident agitation. There were red spots on his cheek-bones, his pinched features were bedewed with perspiration, his eyes were bright. And he who usually shunned encounter with coarser wits, now singled out the officer in the midst of his fellows.
“Are you going to do nothing,” he cried, “except drink?”
Bishop stared.
“See here, Mr. Sutton,” he said, slowly and with dignity, “you must not forget——”
“Except drink?” the chaplain repeated, without compromise. And taking Bishop’s glass, which stood half-filled on the window-seat beside him, he flung its contents through the doorway. “Do your duty, sir!” he continued firmly. “Do your duty! You were here to see that the lady did not leave the house alone. And you permitted her to go.”
“And what part,” Bishop answered, with a sneer, “did your reverence play, if you please?” He was a sober man for those times, and the taunt was not a fair one.
“A poor part,” the chaplain answered. “A mean one! But now—I ask only to act. Say what I shall do, and if it be only by my example I may effect something.”
“Ay, you may!” Bishop returned. “And I’ll find your reverence work fast enough. Do you go and tell Captain Clyne the lady’s gone. It’s a task I’ve no stomach for myself,” with a grin; “and your reverence is the very man for it.”