"The best horse in my brother's stables!" cried Geoffrey, explaining, and appealing to them, in a breath. "I left written directions with the coachman, I measured out his physic for three days; I bled him," said Geoffrey, in a voice broken by emotion—"I bled him myself, last night."
"I beg your pardon, Sir—" began the groom.
"What's the use of begging my pardon? You're a pack of infernal fools! Where's your horse? I'll ride back, and break every bone in the coachman's skin! Where's your horse?"
"If you please, Sir, it isn't Ratcatcher. Ratcatcher's all right."
"Ratcatcher's all right? Then what the devil is it?"
"It's a message, Sir."
"About what?"
"About my lord."
"Oh! About my father?" He took out his handkerchief, and passed it over his forehead, with a deep gasp of relief. "I thought it was Ratcatcher," he said, looking at Arnold, with a smile. He put his pipe into his mouth, and rekindled the dying ashes of the tobacco. "Well?" he went on, when the pipe was in working order, and his voice was composed again: "What's up with my father?"
"A telegram from London, Sir. Bad news of my lord."
The man produced his master's card.
Geoffrey read on it (written in his brother's handwriting) these words:
"I have only a moment to scribble a line on my card. Our father is dangerously ill—his lawyer has been sent for. Come with me to London by the first train. Meet at the junction."
Without a word to any one of the three persons present, all silently looking at him, Geoffrey consulted his watch. Anne had told him to wait half an hour, and to assume that she had gone if he failed to hear from her in that time. The interval had passed—and no communication of any sort had reached him. The flight from the house had been safely accomplished. Anne Silvester was, at that moment, on her way to the mountain inn.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE DEBT.
ARNOLD was the first who broke the silence. "Is your father seriously ill?" he asked.
Geoffrey answered by handing him the card.
Sir Patrick, who had stood apart (while the question of Ratcatcher's relapse was under discussion) sardonically studying the manners and customs of modern English youth, now came forward, and took his part in the proceedings. Lady Lundie herself must have acknowledged that he spoke and acted as became the head of the family, on t his occasion.
"Am I right in supposing that Mr. Delamayn's father is dangerously ill?" he asked, addressing himself to Arnold.
"Dangerously ill, in London," Arnold answered. "Geoffrey must leave Windygates with me. The train I am traveling by meets the train his brother is traveling by, at the junction. I shall leave him at the second station from here."
"Didn't you tell me that Lady Lundie was going to send you to the railway in a gig?"
"Yes."
"If the servant drives, there will be three of you—and there will be no room."
"We had better ask for some other vehicle," suggested Arnold.
Sir Patrick looked at his watch. There was no time to change the carriage. He turned to Geoffrey. "Can you drive, Mr. Delamayn?"
Still impenetrably silent, Geoffrey replied by a nod of the head.
Without noticing the unceremonious manner in which he had been answered, Sir Patrick went on:
"In that case, you can leave the gig in charge of the station-master. I'll tell the servant that he will not be wanted to drive."
"Let me save you the trouble, Sir Patrick," said Arnold.
Sir Patrick declined, by a gesture. He turned again, with undiminished courtesy, to Geoffrey. "It is one of the duties of hospitality, Mr. Delamayn, to hasten your departure, under these sad circumstances. Lady Lundie is engaged with her guests. I will see myself that there is no unnecessary delay in sending you to the station." He bowed—and left the summer-house.
Arnold said a word of sympathy to his friend, when they were alone.
"I am sorry for this, Geoffrey. I hope and trust you will get to London in time."
He stopped. There was something in Geoffrey's face—a strange mixture of doubt and bewilderment, of annoyance and hesitation—which was not to be accounted for as the natural result of the news that he had received. His color shifted and changed; he picked fretfully at his finger-nails; he looked at Arnold as if he was going to speak—and then looked away again, in silence.
"Is there something amiss, Geoffrey, besides this bad news about your father?" asked Arnold.
"I'm in the devil's own mess," was the answer.
"Can I do any thing to help you?"
Instead of making a direct reply, Geoffrey lifted his mighty hand, and gave Arnold a friendly slap on the shoulder which shook him from head to foot. Arnold steadied himself, and waited—wondering what was coming next.
"I say, old fellow!" said Geoffrey.
"Yes."
"Do you remember when the boat turned keel upward in Lisbon Harbor?"
Arnold started. If he could have called to mind his first interview in the summer-house with his father's old friend he might have remembered Sir Patrick's prediction that he would sooner or later pay, with interest, the debt he owed to the man who had saved his life. As it was his memory reverted at a bound to the time of the boat-accident. In the ardor of his gratitude and the innocence of his heart, he almost resented his friend's question as a reproach which he had not deserved.
"Do you think I can ever forget," he cried, warmly, "that you swam ashore with me and saved my life?"
Geoffrey ventured a step nearer to the object that he had in view.
"One good turn deserves another," he said, "don't it?"
Arnold took his hand. "Only tell me!" he eagerly rejoined—"only tell me what I can do!"
"You are going to-day to see your new place, ain't you?"
"Yes."
"Can you put off going till to-morrow?"
"If it's any thing serious—of course I can!"
Geoffrey looked round at the entrance to the summer-house, to make sure that they were alone.
"You know the governess here, don't you?" he said, in a whisper.
"Miss Silvester?"
