Cord and Creese Part 71

He had lost the trail. Again and again he tried to recover it. But his blood-thirsty instinct was completely at fault. The trail had gone, and at last the animal came up to his master and crouched down at his feet with a low moan.

"Sold!" cried John, with a curse.

"What can have become of her?" said Potts.

"I don't know," said John. "I dare say she's got took up in some wagon.

Yes, that's it. That's the reason why the trail has gone."

"What shall we do now? We can't follow. It may have been the coach, and she may have got a lift to the nearest railway station."

"Well," said John, "I'll tell you what we can do. Let one of us go to the inns that are nearest, and ask if there was a girl in the coach that looked like her, or make any inquiries that may be needed. We could find out that much at any rate."

The others a.s.sented. John swore he was too tired. At length, after some conversation, they all determined to go on, and to hire a carriage back.

Accordingly on they went, and soon reached an inn.

Here they made inquiries, but could learn nothing whatever about any girl that had stopped there. Potts then hired a carriage and drove off to the next inn, leaving the others behind. He returned in about two hours. His face bore an expression of deep perplexity.

"Well, what luck, dad?" asked John.

"There's the devil to pay," growled Potts.

"Did you find her?"

"There is a girl at the next inn, and it's her. Now what name do you think they call her by?"

"What?"

"Miss Despard."

Clark turned pale and looked at John, who gave a long, low whistle.

"Is she alone?" asked John.

"No--that's the worst of it. A reverend gent is with her, who has charge of her, and says he is her brother."

"Who?"

"His name is Courtenay Despard, son of Colonel Lionel Despard," said Potts.

The others returned his look in utter bewilderment.

"I've been thinking and thinking," said Potts, "but I haven't got to the bottom of it yet. We can't do any thing just now, that's evident.

I found out that this reverend gent is on his way to Holby, where he is rector. The only thing left for us to do is to go quietly home and look about us."

"It seems to me that this is like the beginning of one of those monsoon storms," said Clark, gloomily.

The others said nothing. In a short time they were on their way back, moody and silent.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

BEATRICE'S RECOVERY.

It was not easy for the overtasked and overworn powers of Beatrice to rally. Weeks pa.s.sed before she opened her eyes to a recognition of the world around her. It was March when she sank down by the road-side.

It was June when she began to recover from the shock of the terrible excitement through which she had pa.s.sed.

Loving hearts sympathized with her, tender hands cared for her, vigilant eyes watched her, and all that love and care could do were unremittingly exerted for her benefit.

As Beatrice opened her eyes after her long unconsciousness she looked around in wonder, recognizing nothing. Then they rested in equal wonder upon one who stood by her bedside.

She was slender and fragile in form, with delicate features, whose fine lines seemed rather like ideal beauty than real life. The eyes were large, dark, l.u.s.trous, and filled with a wonderful but mournful beauty.

Yet all the features, so exquisite in their loveliness, were transcended by the expression that dwelt upon them. It was pure, it was spiritual, it was holy. It was the face of a saint, such a face as appears to the rapt devotee when fasting has done its work, and the quickened imagination grasps at ideal forms till the dwellers in heaven seem to become visible.

In her confused mind Beatrice at first had a faint fancy that she was in another state of existence, and that the form before her was one of those pure intelligences who had been appointed to welcome her there.

Perhaps there was some such thought visible upon her face, for the stranger came up to her noiselessly, and stooping down, kissed her.

"You are among friends," said she, in a low, sweet voice. "You have been sick long."

"Where am I?"

"Among loving friends," said the other, "far away from the place where you suffered."

Beatrice sighed.

"I hoped that I had pa.s.sed away forever," she murmured.

"Not yet, not yet," said the stranger, in a voice of tender yet mournful sweetness, which had in it an unfathomable depth of meaning. "We must wait on here, dear friend, till it be His will to call us."

"And who are you?" asked Beatrice, after a long and anxious look at the face of the speaker.

"My name is Edith Brandon," said the other, gently.

"Brandon!--Edith Brandon!" cried Beatrice, with a vehemence which contrasted strangely with the scarce-audible words with which she had just spoken.

The stranger smiled with the same melancholy sweetness which she had shown before.

"Yes," said she; "but do not agitate yourself, dearest."

"And have you nursed me?"

"Partly. But you are in the house of one who is like an angel in her loving care of you."

"But you--you?" persisted Beatrice; "you did not perish, then, as they said?"

"No," replied the stranger; "it was not permitted me."