THE breakfast-table in the Cottage was as cheerful as usual next morning, and showed no premonitory shadow. Winnie did not come downstairs early; and perhaps it was all the more cheerful for her absence. And there were flowers on the table, and everything looked bright. Will was absent, it is true, but nobody took much notice of that as yet. He might be late, or he might have gone out; and he was not a boy to be long negligent of the necessities of nature. Aunt Agatha even thought it necessary to order something additional to be kept hot for him. “He has gone out, I suppose,” Miss Seton said; “and it is rather cold this morning, and a long walk in this air will make the boy as hungry as a hunter. Tell Peggy not to cook that trout till she hears him come in.”

The maid looked perturbed and breathless; but she said, “Yes, ma’am,” humbly—as if it was she who was in the wrong; and the conversation and the meal were resumed. A minute or two after, however, she appeared once more: “If you please, there’s somebody asking for Mr. Hugh,” said the frightened girl, standing, nervous and panting, with her hand upon the door.

“Somebody for me?” said Hugh. “The gamekeeper, I suppose; he need not have been in such a hurry. Let him come in and wait a little. I’ll be ready presently.”

“But, my dear boy,” said Aunt Agatha, “you must not waste the man’s time. It is Sir Edward’s time, you know; and he may have quantities of things to do. Go and see what he wants: and your mother will not fill out your coffee till you come back.”

And Hugh went out, half laughing, half grumbling—but he laughed no more, when he saw Peggy standing severe and pale at the kitchen door, waiting for him. “Mr. Hugh,” said Peggy, with the aspect of a chief justice, “tell me this moment, on your conscience, is there any quarrel or disagreement between your brother and you?”

“My brother and me? Do you mean Will?” said Hugh, in amazement. “Not the slightest. What do you mean? We were never better friends in our life.”

“God be thanked!” said Peggy; and then she took him by the arm, and led the astonished young man upstairs to Will’s room. “He’s never sleepit in that bed this night. His little bag’s gone, with a change in’t. He’s putten on another pair of boots. Where is the laddie gone? And me that’ll have to face his mother, and tell her she’s lost her bairn!”

“Lost her bairn! Nonsense,” cried Hugh, aghast; “he’s only gone out for a walk.”

“When a boy like that goes out for a walk, he does not take a change with him,” said Peggy. “He may be lying in Kirtell deeps for anything we can tell. And me that will have to break it to his mother——”

Hugh stood still in consternation for a moment, and then he burst into an agitated laugh. “He would not have taken a change with him, as you say, into Kirtell deeps,” he said. “Nonsense, Peggy! Are you sure he has not been in bed? Don’t you go and frighten my mother. And, indeed, I daresay he does not always go to bed. I see his light burning all the night through, sometimes. Peggy, don’t go and put such ridiculous ideas into people’s heads. Will has gone out to walk, as usual. There he is, downstairs. I hear him coming in: make haste, and cook his trout.”

Hugh, however, was so frightened himself by all the terrors of inexperience, that he precipitated himself downstairs, to see if it was really Will who had entered. It was not Will, however, but a boy from the railway, with a note, in Will’s handwriting, addressed to his mother, which took all the colour out of Hugh’s cheeks—for he was still a boy, and new to life, and did not think of any such easy demonstration of discontent as that of going to visit Uncle Penrose. He went into the breakfast-room with so pale a face, that both the ladies got up in dismay, and made a rush at him to know what it was.

“It is nothing,” said Hugh, breathless, waving them off, “nothing—only a note—I have not read it yet—wait a little. Mother, don’t be afraid.”

“What is there to be afraid of?” asked Mary, in amazement and dismay.

And then Hugh again burst into an unsteady and tremulous laugh. He had read the note, and threw it at his mother with an immense load lifted off his heart, and feeling wildly gay in the revulsion. “There’s nothing to be frightened about,” said Hugh. “By Jove! to think the fellow has no more taste—gone off to see Uncle Penrose. I wish them joy!”

“Who is it that has gone to visit Mr. Penrose?” said Aunt Agatha; and Hugh burst into an explanation, while Mary, not by any means so much relieved, read her boy’s letter.

“I confess I got a fright,” said Hugh. “Peggy dragged me upstairs to show me that he had not slept in his bed, and said his carpet-bag was gone, and insinuated—I don’t know what—that we had quarrelled, and all sorts of horrors. But he’s gone to see Uncle Penrose. It’s all right, mother; I always thought it was all right.”

“And had you quarrelled?” asked Aunt Agatha, in consternation.

“I am not sure it is all right,” said Mary; “why has he gone to see Uncle Penrose? and what has he heard? and without saying a word to me.”

Mary was angry with her boy, and it made her heart sore—it was the first time any of them had taken a sudden step out of her knowledge—and then what had he heard? Something worse than any simple offence or discontent might be lurking behind.

But Hugh, of course, knew nothing at all about that. He sat down again to his interrupted breakfast, and laughed and talked, and made merry. “I wonder what Uncle Penrose will say to him?” said Hugh. “I suppose he has gone and spent all his money getting to Liverpool; and what could his motive be, odd fellow as he is? The girls are all married——”

“My dear boy, Will is not thinking of girls as you are,” said Mary, beguiled into a smile.

Hugh laughed and grew red, and shook his abundant youthful locks. “We are not talking of what I think,” he said; “and I suppose a man may do worse than think about girls—a little: but the question is, what was Will thinking about? Uncle Penrose cannot have ensnared him with his odious talk about money? By-the-way, I must send him some. We can’t let an Ochterlony be worried about a few miserable shillings there.”

“I don’t think we can let an Ochterlony, at least so young a one as Will, stay uninvited,” said Mary. “I feel much disposed to go after him and bring him home, or at least find out what he means.”

“No, you shall do nothing of the kind,” said Hugh, hastily. “I suppose our mother can trust her sons out of her sight. Nobody must go after him. Why, he is seventeen—almost grown up. He must not feel any want of confidence——”

“Want of confidence!” said Aunt Agatha. “Hugh, you are only a boy yourself. What do you know about it? I think Mary would be very wrong if she let Will throw himself into temptation; and one knows there is every kind of temptation in those large, wicked towns,” said Miss Seton, shuddering. It was she who knew nothing about it, no more than a baby, and still less did she know or guess the kind of temptation that was acting upon the truant’s mind.

“If that were all,” said Mary, slowly, and then she sighed. She was not afraid of the temptations of a great town. She did not even know what she feared. She wanted to bring back her boy, to hear from his own lips what his motive was. It did not seem possible that there could be any harm meant by his boyish secrecy. It was even hard for his mother to persuade herself that Will could think of any harm; but still it was strange. When she thought of Percival’s visit and Will’s expedition to Carlisle, her heart fluttered within her, though she scarcely knew why. Will was not like other boys of his age; and then it was “something he had heard.” “I think,” she said, with hesitation, “that one of us should go—either you or I——”

“No,” said Hugh. “No, mother, no; don’t think of it; as if he were a girl or a Frenchman! Why it’s Will! What harm can he do? If he likes to visit Uncle Penrose, let him; it will not be such a wonderful delight. I’ll send him some money to-day.”

This, of course, was how it was settled; for Mary’s terrors were not strong enough to contend with her natural English prejudices against surveillance and restraint, backed by Hugh’s energetic remonstrances. When Winnie heard of it, she dashed immediately at the idea that her husband’s influence had something to do with Will’s strange flight, and was rather pleased and flattered by the thought. “I said he would strike me through my friends,” she said to Aunt Agatha, who was bewildered, and did not know what this could mean.

“My dear love, what good could it do him to interfere with Will?” said Miss Seton. “A mere boy, and who has not a penny. If he had wanted to injure us, it would have been Hugh that he would have tried to lead away.”

“To lead away?” said Winnie scornfully. “What does he care for leading away? He wants to do harm, real harm. He thinks he can strike me through my friends.”

When Aunt Agatha heard this she turned round to Mary, who had just come into the room, and gave a little deprecating shake of her head, and a pathetic look. Poor Winnie! She could think of nothing but her husband and his intentions; and how could he do this quiet household real harm? Mary said nothing, but her uneasiness increased more and more. She could not sit down to her work, or take up any of her ordinary occupations. She went to Will’s room and examined it throughout, and looked through his wardrobe to see what he had taken with him, and searched vainly for any evidence of his meaning; and then she wrote him a long letter of questions and appeals, which would have been full of pathetic eloquence to anybody who knew what was in her mind, but would have appeared simply amazing and unintelligible to anybody ignorant of her history, as she herself perceived, and burnt it, and wrote a second, in which there was still a certain mystery. She reminded him that he might have gone away comfortably with everybody’s knowledge, instead of making the household uneasy about him; and she could not but let a little wonder creep through, that of all people in the world it was Uncle Penrose whom he had elected to visit; and then she made an appeal to him: “What have I done to forfeit my boy’s confidence? what can you have heard, oh Will, my dear boy, that you could not tell to your mother?” Her mind was relieved by writing, but still she was uneasy and disquieted. If he had been severely kept in, or had any reason to fear a refusal;—but to steal away when he might have full leave and every facility; this was one of the things which appeared the most strange.

The servants, for their part, set it down to a quarrel with his brother, and jealousy about Nelly, and took Hugh’s part, who was always the favourite. And as for Hugh himself, he sent his brother a cheque (his privilege of drawing cheques being still new, and very agreeable), and asked why he was such an ass as to run away, and bade him enjoy himself. The house was startled—but after all, it was no such great matter; and nobody except Mary wasted much consideration upon Will’s escapade after that first morning. He was but a boy; and it was natural, everybody thought, that boys should do something foolish now and then.