Such was the state of circumstances upon the third or fourth morning after Lucy's disappearance, when Sir Thomas called the footman, and desired him to send Miss Gourlay's maid to him; he wished to speak with her.
By this, time it was known through the whole establishment that Lucy and she had both disappeared, and, thanks to Nancy—to pretty Nancy—“that her own father, the hard-hearted old wretch, had forced her off—God knows where—in the dead of night.”
The footman, who had taken Nancy's secret for granted; and, to tell the truth, he had it in the most agreeable and authentic shape—to wit, from her own sweet lips—and who could be base enough to doubt any communication so delightfully conveyed?—the footman, we say, on hearing this command from his master, started a little, and in the confusion or forgetfulness of the moment, almost stared at him.
“What, sirrah,” exclaimed the latter; “did you hear what I said?”
“I did, sir,” replied the man, still more confused; “but, I thought, your honor, that—”
“You despicable scoundrel!” said his master, stamping, “what means this? You thought! What right, sir, have you to think, or to do anything but obey your orders from me. It was not to think, sir, I brought you here, but to do your duty as footman. Fetch Miss Gourlay's maid, sir, immediately. Say I desire to speak with her.”
“She is not within, sir,” replied the man trembling.
“Then where is she, sir? Why is she absent from her charge?”
“I cannot tell, sir. We thought, sir—”
“Thinking again, you scoundrel!—speak out, however.”