Daniel stood up and went to stand by the fire, hands in his pockets, boot on the fender. He turned his face to the light of the flames and was silent a moment.
“Going to France was important to Craigmore,” he said. “I didn’t hear him when he talked about serving his country. I was too busy talking myself.” He turned and gave a small, strained smile. “I am going to the front to honor Craigmore, to finish what he started and to serve as he so much wanted to do.”
“Craigmore is dead,” said Hugh. “What you do in the war won’t change that. No amount of vengeance will bring him back.”
“It’s not vengeance,” said Daniel. “It’s duty. Craigmore believed in doing his duty, and I will not shirk mine sitting in some London office, writing recruiting posters.”
“If the hearing goes badly, you could be drummed out,” said Hugh. “I don’t think you realize just how much trouble you are in, Daniel.”
“I fear your cousin is right, my young friend,” said Mr. Tillingham. “Some twenty years ago, I remember another young man who chose to make such a stand. His stubbornness led to the greatest scandal of the day.”
“You cannot seek to compare Daniel to that playwright,” said Hugh, horrified. He felt sick as the full implications of the comparison sank in. He found he could not look directly at his cousin. “Why, the man was a— He was a flagrant degenerate.”
Daniel looked at his shoes, and Mr. Tillingham considered the silver top of his walking stick and rubbed at a spot of tarnish.
“Hubris or nobility—whatever his motives, the fool earned himself jail and a pauper’s death,” said Tillingham in a mild tone of reproof, whether for the playwright or for Hugh, Hugh could not say. His eyes looked more tired and hooded than usual as he gazed into the fire. “The scandal and fear sent many an artist and writer scurrying for the Continent or a house in the country.”
“Not that he wasn’t a good writer,” said Hugh, hurrying to soften his high-handed dismissal. He did not wish to play the moral absolutist in the face of Daniel’s brooding silence. “I mean, it was before my time,” he finished.
“Craigmore’s father is doing his best to smear our friendship with such shame, and that is precisely why I cannot just slink away and let his insinuations stand,” said Daniel slowly. “But it is not at all the same, I assure you. They have nothing with which to impeach me.”
“A few letters, a couple of poems—nothing but the effusive exaggerations of the poet in youthful flood,” said Mr. Tillingham. “I have written more effusive and more outrageous letters in my time. They don’t mean anything.”
“Would you come and say that at my hearing?” asked Daniel.
“My dear boy, you know there is nothing I would not do for you,” said Mr. Tillingham. Hugh saw an expression of horror quickly suppressed. “But to expose myself to such a topic would surely put at risk my important national war work?” When Daniel did not immediately reply, he continued, as if he might build up excuses like a legal brief and so be excused. “I am an old bohemian myself,” he wheedled. “The respectability I have earned is a thin and crusty garment with which I shield my nakedness from public humiliation and scorn.”
“I understand,” said Daniel. “I would never put you in such an awkward spot.”
“Besides, a couple of my letters meant exactly what they said, and I can’t absolutely rely on the recipients not to produce them should my name become mentioned in such a scandal,” added Tillingham, looking frightened.
“I beg you to resign, Daniel, and not endanger your reputation,” said Hugh. “But if you insist on going forward, I will be a character witness.” He went to clasp him by the hand. “I’ve known you since childhood, Cousin, and I will swear on a Bible that your conduct and morals are both unimpeachable.”
“That is very sweet, Hugh,” said Daniel.
“It’s not perjury if he believes it,” said Mr. Tillingham.
“Mr. Tillingham!” Hugh felt himself spluttering, but Daniel and Tillingham only smiled at each other in the manner of people who understand more than they say.
A knock on the door interrupted them, and the housekeeper came in to say that Miss Nash was downstairs with the Professor and that she understood there was an emergency. In the dining room, Beatrice Nash looked alarmed and the Professor looked as anxious as a man can manage after a large dinner, pudding, cheese, and half a bottle of vintage port.
Hugh had much he wished to say to Beatrice and wished that he might smile at her. But her demeanor demanded as serious a face as the discussion in the study.
“Celeste is missing,” said Beatrice. “She said she was coming here to visit her father, and when she did not return I came to find her, but the Professor tells me he has not seen her.”
“I have not,” said the Professor. “Mr. Tillingham and I have been here all evening, having dinner.”
“As this is her last night before she leaves, I thought nothing of her visiting you, Professor,” said Beatrice, her tone sharp.
The Professor looked away and polished his spectacles. “I thought it best to be quiet,” he said. “To say our farewell in the morning is enough, no?”
“Perhaps not, Professor,” said Beatrice. “She is very unhappy, and now she has run away or worse.”
“Did she take anything with her?” asked Hugh.
“I don’t know,” said Beatrice. “I’ll go at once and look.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Hugh. “Meanwhile, perhaps, Mr. Tillingham, you can telephone to my uncle to start searching the roads by car.”
“Daniel, would you operate the telephone for me?” said Mr. Tillingham. “I live in abject fear of the woman at the exchange.”
“Please be careful what you say,” said Beatrice.
“Yes, we don’t need to add any more scandals,” said Hugh. “For once let’s hope all the neighbors are not listening in on the party line.”
At the cottage, Beatrice ran upstairs to search among Celeste’s clothes and check under her bed.
“They’ll have to dredge the river,” said Mrs. Turber, calling up from the bottom of the stairs with her arms folded.
“The only thing missing is her white dress with the lace,” said Beatrice coming back down to the parlor. “I didn’t think she was wearing it, but I can’t be sure.”
“Is anything else gone?” asked Hugh. “I hate to ask, but was there money in the house she might have taken?”
“Good heavens, my money box!” said Mrs. Turber, hurrying off. A few moments later a shriek went up, and soon Abigail came running to the parlor.
“Please, miss, the money is there, but Mrs. Turber’s little pistol is missing. The one the Captain give her.”
“Oh no,” said Beatrice. She felt sick and helpless. How could she not have noticed? What kind of friend was she that she let Celeste slip from the house carrying a pistol in her bundle? Did she hear no tremor in the girl’s farewell? Did she notice no fear, no set jaw of determination?
“Beatrice, pay attention,” said Hugh. She felt him shake her by the arm, and her head cleared. “Let us not speculate, let us look for her in a logical way,” he added.
“They’ll find her in the river,” repeated Mrs. Turber.
“If they do, may it be on your conscience, Mrs. Turber.” Beatrice would have liked to scratch at the smug face of her landlady.
“Well I never,” said Mrs. Turber.
“You stay here,” said Hugh. “Daniel and I will search the riverbank while Mr. Tillingham and the Professor walk the upper town. My Uncle John and his chauffeur are searching all the main roads for ten miles around.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Beatrice. “I can’t stay here and do nothing.”
“The reserves and the Boy Scouts patrol the canal at night,” said Abigail. “I can run down to the scoutmaster and see if they can keep an eye out for her?”
“I don’t think we can,” said Beatrice. She felt the agony of indecision between having more eyes to search and the knowledge that further scandal might be impossible to overcome. She looked at Hugh and saw that he immediately understood.