ty ways, poor old
lady, and isn't a pleasant person to be with. I felt quite in a fever of
impatience to get home again; and was very glad when a neighbour's
spring-cart dropped me at the end of the lane, and I saw the gray old
chimneys above the tops of the trees. It was four o'clock in the
afternoon when I got home; father was at tea in the oak-parlour where we
take our meals, and the house was as quiet as a grave. I came straight to
this room, but it was empty; and when I called Martha, she told me Mrs.
Holbrook had gone out at one o'clock in the day, and had not been home
since, though she was expected back to dinner at three. She had been away
three hours then, and at a time when I knew she could not expect Mr.
Holbrook, unless she had received a fresh letter from him to say that he
was coming by an earlier train than usual. I asked Martha if there had
been any letters for Mrs. Holbrook that day; and she told me yes, there
had been one by the morning post. It was no use asking Martha what kind
of letter it looked, and whether it was from Mr. Holbrook, for the poor
ignorant creature can neither read nor write, and one handwriting is the
same as another to her. Mrs. Holbrook had told her nothing as to where
she was going, only saying that she would be back in an hour or two.
Martha let her out at the gate, and watched her take the way towards the
river-bank, and, seeing this, made sure she was going to meet her
husband. Well, sir, five o'clock struck, and Mrs. Holbrook had not come
home. I began to feel seriously uneasy about her. I told my father so;
but he took the matter lightly enough at first, saying it was no
business of ours, and that Mrs. Holbrook was just as well able to take
care of herself as any one else. But after five o'clock I couldn't rest a
minute longer; so I put on my bonnet and shawl and went down by the
river-bank, after sending one of the farm-labourers to look for my poor
dear in the opposite direction. It's a very lonely walk at the best of
times, though a few of the country folks do go that way between Malsham
and Crosber on market-days. There's scarcely a house to be seen for
miles, except Wyncomb Farmhouse, Stephen Whitelaw's place, which lies a
little way back from the river-bank, about a mile from here; besides that
and a solitary cottage here and there, you won't see a sign of human life
for four or five miles. Anybody might be pushed into the river and made
away with in broad daylight, an