“I was out, sir,” replied Gibson, “and cannot tell.”
“You can never tell anything, you scoundrel. For a thousand, she's off with him again, and all's ruined. Here, Matthews—M'Gregor—call the servants, sir. Where's her maid?—call her maid. What a confounded fool—ass—I was, not to have made that impudent baggage tramp about her business. It's true, Lucy's off—I feel it—I felt it. Hang her hypocrisy! It's the case, however, with all women. They have neither truth, nor honesty of purpose. A compound of treachery, deceit, and dissimulation; and yet I thought, if there was a single individual of her sex exempted from their vices, that she was that individual. Come here, M'Gregor—come here you scoundrel—do you know where Miss Gourlay is? or her maid?”
“Here's Matthews, sir; he says she's gone out.”
“Gone out!—Yes, she's gone out with a vengeance. Do you know where she's gone, sirra? And did any one go with her?” he added, addressing himself to Matthews.
“I think, sir, she's gone to take her usual airing in the carriage.”
“Who was with her?”
“No one but her maid, sir.”
“Oh, no; they would not go off together—that would be too open and barefaced. Do you know what direction she took?”
“No, sir; I didn't observe.”
“You stupid old lout,” replied the baronet, flying at him, and mauling the unfortunate man without mercy; “take that—and that—and that—for your stupidity. Why did you not observe the way she went, you! villain? You have suffered her to elope, you hound! You have all suffered her to elope with a smooth-faced impostor—a fellow whom no one knows—a blackleg—a swindler—a thief—a—a—go and saddle half a dozen horses, and seek her in all directions. Go instantly, and—hold—easy—stop—hang you all, stop!—here she is—and her maid with her—” he exclaimed, looking out of the window. “Ha! I am relieved. God bless me! God bless me!” He then looked at the servants with something of deprecation in his face, and waving his hand, said, “Go—go quietly; and, observe me—not a word of this—not a syllable—for your lives!”