“SO,” said Sir David, “we sum up our conclusions. ’Twas the notorious Mr. Cutwater, alias Turk, that represented the syndicate that robbed Luvaine’s father of the stone.”
“One,” said Miss Angela, using her tender knuckles after the fashion of an auctioneer’s hammer.
“’Twas somewhere here—on this estate bought out of the proceeds of his robberies—that he secreted the treasure.”
“Two,” said Miss Angela.
“And here his confederates sought him out, murdered him yonder, and made fruitless search for what he had sacrificed his life to hold.”
“Three,” said Miss Angela, “and right worshipfully concluded.”
“Peace, you bantam! ’Tis but the introduction to the argument.”
“Oh! I crave your honour’s indulgence”—and she looked round merrily at Dennis, who stood respectfully to the back of her chair.
“Now we gather,” said Sir David, with importance, “that of the ancient gang, only Mr. Fern hath cheated the gallows, to return at this eleventh hour to the search; but that he hath confided his plot to two or more——”
“Lacking the greatness of the first rank of criminals,” put in Whimple impulsively—and so reddened to a fine after-glow of shame immediately he had spoken.
They all laughed; and quoth Miss Angel:
“How I love your inconsequence, Mr. Dennis. I think that sympathy with giant wickedness a very admirable foil to your humanity.”
She had taken a great interest in the servant since her mediation had procured him justice. What if he had been a figure familiar to her experience for years past? Only recent circumstance had presented him in the light that could appeal to her effectively—the melancholy twilight, in fact, of romance. Now she was bethinking herself how this mystic hermit of the thickets had lived out his twenty years or so of haunted solitude that he might at the end serve her sensibilities with a little passing thrill of excitement; and she felt grateful to him and very considerate of his hectic cheeks.
“Their roses might have withered in the frost of death but for me,” she would ponder tenderly; and then her heart would take some resentment over the confident tyranny of his lord, that he had dared to sit in judgment on his intellectual superior.
“For that the poor man is,” she thought. “And the other must learn that with us women, brute strength unadorned is not the highest appeal to our favour.”
Here she dealt a little arbitrarily with justice; for the master was perhaps less a fool than the servant was an athlete. But the sentiment served her mood, and showed her the way to many small condescensions towards the poor fellow who had suffered such misjudgment.
Mr. Tuke could not but be conscious of this saucy subordination of his claims as a man of position. It entertained or aggravated him, according to his humour, to watch this variable maid playing off his servant against himself in the innocuous subtilties of coquetry. He could not be expected to take the effrontery seriously, and he was not so deeply in love but that he could see the humour of the girl’s capricious attitude towards him. “But I am called upon to be aware of it,” he thought; “and I must effect to puzzle my brain over the question of what I can have done to imperil myself in her favour.”
So he looked distressed—when he remembered to—and all the time thought none the less of Miss Royston for so representing the charming whimsies of the fascinating of her sex.
“This rascally crew,” said Sir David, “we make it our business to anticipate, if a thorough ransackin’ of the whole house will serve our purpose.”
Miss Angela jumped to her feet.
“Oh, Davy!” she cried, “have you reached it at last? And our wits running ahead of yours from the first. What a solemn conclusion, little man! Only we came to it before you opened your mouth to speak. And here sits Mr. Tuke like a Lord Justice patiently waiting the verdict he hath directed.”
“You are a very knowin’ magpie,” said her brother, with a wag of his round head, “but you ain’t as clever as you’d take the credit for. I’ve given you the steps to a conclusion, that’s all; and now I’ll warrant you’ll go flingin’ off the last into space.”
“Brava!” cried the lady, clapping her hands. “All that is obvious goes for nothin’, as the philosopher would say: for, like all philosophers, he is a little shaky in his finalities. And now for the profound deduction.”
“You impident baggage!” exclaimed the lord of “Chatters.” He had been quite in his element, taking judicial charge of the affair, drawing inferences and suggesting methods; and this irrepressible sister of his would do her worst to make him appear ridiculous.
“Tuke,” he said, turning to that silent and amused gentleman, “when you marry, marry a fool that knows herself to be one.”
“Indeed,” said the other, “that is easy; for any one that took me must needs answer to that description. Never hold me conceited after that, Miss Royston.”
Now, Heaven knows what Angela here chose to read between the lines; but she responded most icily:
“I doubt I shall take much interest in the matter, sir; though speaking generally, there seems to me no conceit like exaggerated humility.”
She sat herself down again, her lips set forbiddingly. Sir David grinned, mentally scoring a little spiteful victory, and Mr. Tuke looked very much bewildered and abashed.
Indeed, this sprightly lady suffered from a very common infirmity of poor humanity—an incapacity for graciously accepting such knocks as she dealt to others. One might unconsciously check her flow of spirits with the veriest straw of chaff, and only discover the enormity haphazard. Sometimes her sensitive nature would build up a grievance from a single word, so carelessly spoken and soon forgotten of the offender that, when he would come to view the complicated fabric of resentment that had sprung therefrom, he could only marvel at the astounding pregnancy of his speech.
“My sister having pronounced,” said Sir David—with a point of his little rude tongue in the direction of that incensed lady—“I come to the upshot of the apostleates—or whatever they are called.”
“And that is?” murmured Mr. Tuke, quite shyly.
“Why, that it ain’t no good looking for the stone where it’s been looked for before.”
Tuke stole a glance at Miss Royston, humbly and dumbly inviting her to endorse or quash this opinion. She was rigidly silent.
“Well?” he asked, not in the least knowing what he was inquiring about.
“Why, I’ve said it,” exclaimed the other. “We needn’t grub under the floors, when, by your own account, the boards have been had up already.”
“By Whimple’s account,” said Tuke. “But, you’re right. The rogues would have searched thoroughly where they did search.”
“Then, where to look?”
“I propose we each take two or three rooms to a share; investigate as we will, and meet and compare notes at dinner-time.”
“Capital. What d’ye say, Angel?”
“Oh! you can leave me out of the question.”
“What! you ain’t goin’ to take part in the fun?”
“I have contributed my mite to it, by serving as butt to the witticisms of two ingenious gentlemen.”
“Miss Royston!” exclaimed Tuke aghast.
“Oh, sir!” responded the lady frigidly, “’twould argue a certain community of interests that hardly exists, did I permit myself the familiarity of an informal intrusion upon your privacy. But I can be quite happy here, if you will vouchsafe me the society of Mr. Whimple, who will take no advantage, I am sure, of my condescension, and who will not judge frankness to be an invitation to impertinence.”
She capped this with quite an enigmatical little smile.
“Or, if you desire his services for yourself,” she said, “I can order out my horse and return to ‘Chatters.’”
Sir David was softly chuckling, preliminary to a sad explosion of laughter. Tuke saw it, and hastily put in a word.
“I beg you will not disappoint me of your promised company to dinner. You are very welcome to what you ask; and your brother and I will hunt in company.”
He bowed, drew the little man from the room and to the far end of the passage without. There the latter suddenly detained him, his swollen face falling to an expression of great gravity.
“Lookee here,” he said, “I am in the dark—I am in the dark, Tuke. Will you take it friendly if I ask you to enlighten me. Are ye vexed wi’ the wench’s whimsies?”
“I am distressed to have offended her.”
“That won’t serve. I don’t want to force your hand, and Angel hath the wit to play her own game. But, d’you seek my countenance? There’s the rub.”
The other broke into a smile.
“Well,” said he, “I won’t pretend to misconstrue you. I’m most sincere in desiring Miss Royston’s condescension.”
“Then,” said Sir David, “here’s a lovers’ quarrel toward; and ‘A swan can’t hatch without a crack of thunder’ is an old saw.”
His countenance contracted portentous.
“Not that I may not have a word to say by and by,” quoth he; “for I am her guardian despite her independent jointure, and by the token am determined to prudence. But, at the moment, to inquire would be premature and unjustified.”
“Well, I shall hope to satisfy you,” said Mr. Tuke, with a twinkle—“and so to our goose-hunt, by grace of your permission.”