I reached the house and knocked at the door. My heart thumped an echo to the summons. I nodded to the servant, and strode in as a man might into his own house. I hung my hat on a peg, and turning round to enter the drawing-room, faced my uncle.
“Good gracious!” I exclaimed, taking his hand and staring at his melancholy, haggard face, “what is the matter? what has happened?”
“Come in,” he answered, and drawing me into the room, closed the door. My aunt, who stood near the window, ran up to me.
“Oh, Charlie!” she cried, “what do you think has happened? Conny has left us! she has run away with Mr. Curling! Think of her deserting us in our old age! the cruel, undutiful, ungrateful child!”
“What!” I gasped, staring at my uncle, and scarce crediting my own ears. “Conny gone!”
“Sit down,” he answered. “Don’t cry, my dear,” to his wife, “it unmans me. This is a dreadful blow, but it has happened to many besides ourselves, and we must be resigned to the common lot. Yes,” he exclaimed, addressing me, his lips twitching with emotion as he spoke, “our child has left us. She went out last night under pretence of spending the evening with the Maddison girls. James walked with her as far as the town, and Conny then told him he could return home. At half-past ten we sent the phaeton for her, and James came galloping back to say that the Maddisons had not seen anything of her that evening.”
“Instantly,” interrupted my aunt sobbing wildly, “I feared the worst.”
“I seized my hat,” continued my uncle, “jumped into the phaeton, and drove to the Maddisons, who assured me that my daughter had not been to their house. I then drove to Mr. Curling’s lodgings, acting upon a suggestion my wife had made before I started, and learned that the young man had gone out two hours and a half before, carrying a bag with him. Hearing this, I went to the railway station, and there learnt that Mr. Curling and my child had started for London by the train that left at twenty minutes to eight. My intention, then, was to send a telegram to the London terminus, desiring that my daughter should be detained on her arrival; but, I was told that by that time the train had reached London. Nothing remained but for me to return home and break the news to my wife.”
I was too astounded to speak.
“Oh, Charlie,” cried my aunt, clasping her hands, “I so wanted you! You would have followed her and brought her back! but oh! it is too late now—she is ruined—degraded! she has shamed our name for ever! To think that the baby I have nursed, that I have loved and watched over with pride and hope from the hour of her birth, should abandon her poor father and me in our old age! Oh, shame, shame! My poor Thomas—my poor husband! it is too much for us—too much for us to bear!”