But yet, long
before the day was over, she was conquered by grief and fear--a very
miserable and restless Lydia. No word came from him; and she could not
write. These were men's affairs, and women must hold their peace. Yet,
in spirit, as the hours passed, she gave herself wholly to the man she
loved; she glorified him; she trampled on her own past doubts; she
protected him against a world in arms. The plant of love grew fast and
furiously--watered by pity--by indignation.
Meanwhile Susy treated her sister very kindly. She specially insisted on
ordering dinner, and writing various business letters; though Lydia would
have been thankful to do both. And when the evening came on, Mrs. Penfold
trembling with excitement and horror, chattered endlessly about the
murder, as each visitor to the cottage brought some fresh detail. Lydia
seldom answered her. She sat on the floor, with her face against her
mother's knee, while the soft, silly voice above her head rambled and
rambled on.
* * * * *
Tatham rode back to Pengarth. As he approached one of the lodge gates of
Duddon, a man came toward him on a bicycle. Boden, hot and dishevelled,
dismounted as he saw Tatham.
"I thought I should just meet you. Lady Tatham has had a telephone
message from the Chief Constable, Colonel Marvell. There is a man
missing--and a gun. Brand's younger son has not been seen for thirty-six
hours. He has been helping Andover's head keeper for part of the year, as
a watcher; and this man, Simpson, had let him have an old gun of his--a
muzzle-loader--some months ago.
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