for some hours after my arrival, nor until the stillness of the household, the absence of my uncle till close upon nightfall, and other circumstances had convinced me that something very serious had fallen out. Then the truth was told me by the lips of the old nurse, in sentences which seem as fresh and distinct to me now as on the night when my thirsty ears greedily drank them in, but which I would not put down intelligibly here, if I were to try for a lifetime. The worst part of the news, and that which admitted of no dispute or qualification, consisted of the abrupt flight of my sweet sister-cousin two days before. The circumstances attending the flight were not so intelligible.
It had been remarked, several weeks previously, that something was wrong between her and Eldred. How this was, or what was the ground of this estrangement, must ever remain a matter of conjecture. That my uncle had, by this time, refused to consent to their marriage except on terms which the lover was too poor or too haughty to accept, came later to my ears. That Edith should feel this acutely, and that the result, after all that had passed, would go nearly to break her heart, I knew her too well to doubt; but why the affection existing between them should be impaired by the result was a question much more hard to solve. There is an awful cold doubt clinging to my heart which I have in vain endeavoured to clear up. I hate to recall it, and why should I? After my uncle’s ultimatum was passed, Eldred did not at first cease all communication with his mistress or with Yssbrooke. It was said she saw him often. That more than once they parted in anger, and that, on one occasion, she left him in a passion of tears. At last about a fortnight before my arrival, it was asserted that he had left the country. The Colonel received the news with apparent satisfaction, though he said nothing to his child or those about him. Edith, on the contrary, heard it with a look of terror far more striking than one which grief could have expressed, and for days saw no one but her nurse. Grim and reserved as was the Lord of Yssbrooke himself, he probably thought that condolence would only probe her distress, and for the days that succeeded she preserved a hopeless apathy, varied at times by fits of restlessness, and a vague dread of approaching inevitable horror. One afternoon she disappeared. Two entire days had elapsed since she left the house in her ordinary walking-apparel, without any reliable trace of her being forthcoming. She took no clothes or change of raiment for a journey, and her last act was the destruction of every letter or writing she had received from her lover, as well as of every trace which could bring him back to memory. She was gone and so was he, and up to the present moment they were, in fact, as if neither of them had ever been.
And what said my uncle to all this? I was mad to know what his hopes of her recovery were, and how he bore the disaster. On the first point I was enlightened that evening. He returned to Yssbrooke, with the idea impressed upon his mind that his child was hiding from him. He had been to a distant market town on the highroad to Liverpool. The country people had given him a clue, or a fanciful clue furnished by a post-chaise and a dark night. That the clue stopped there, only proved she was in hiding. The departure of Eldred from the country he regarded only as a feint. Her long depression during a fortnight, a feint also; and her systematic destruction of her private papers at the last moment, as proof of a scheme having a definite living purpose as its end. Nobody tried to undeceive him, for nobody had any more plausible solution to offer, and as long as there was a grain of hope it would be cruel to suggest the reverse. But the rector of our parish, I found out afterwards, thought differently: he felt that either Edith was close by, or further off than human aid could reach. Having some influence with the Colonel, he ventured to suggest, on the night of my arrival, that the woods, the farm cottages, and even the outlying thickets, should be searched. “Why,” he pointed out, “should she have left home without clothing or means, if she meant to go a journey? Why, if your refusal of Mr. Eldred was only contingent, should she go at all? Of what good would the subterfuge of his emigration be, when by simply marrying her at once clandestinely he could take her with him? You say he refused your conditions?—by eloping with her, he at once accepts them, unless—what you will not believe?” No—the Colonel will not believe anything like that: he was satisfied it was a pre-arranged scheme; and perhaps the rector thought he had some better reasons for the supposition than he cared to mention, and did not press him further.
How did my uncle bear the shock in company? His conduct this night shall tell. To explain it, I must mention that about this time,—I am writing of what happened five-and-forty years ago,—there had been a great religious revival in the land. This revival has since been denominated the Evangelical Movement. It had, I believe, its good effects; but, like all sudden ebullitions of the sort, it had its extreme aspect. An example of this was furnished by the habits of Colonel Gersom and his intimate friends. For eighteen months previous to the moment of which I have last been speaking, he had become, so to speak, an ascetic The idea upon him, which communicated itself to a considerable knot in the neighbourhood, was, that God was best propitiated by acts of retirement, sorrowful presence, and by grave repellant bearing towards the outer world. Melancholy réunions were consequently instituted at Yssbrooke, which were attended by all the converts to this view; mostly males, though there were a few of the gentler sex. The diversions on these occasions were of a most eccentric kind. After prayer and tea, the party placed themselves round a table, and proceeded to play at a serious game I denominated “Crumbs.” The mode of amusement was this:—A player was seized with a Scriptural idea. Writing it upon a slip of paper, of which many were at hand, he threw it into a large jar which stood on the table. Another followed as conversation was carried on, and so on. As the process was repeated nightly, and as at first the ideas flowed with a fertility which must have been very gratifying to the host, the jar was