TACT AND TEMPER
He looked at Etruria, and Mary explained who she was.
“I am afraid that she is hurt.”
The girl’s temple was bruised and there was blood on her cheek; more
than one of the blows aimed at her lover had fallen on her. But she
said eagerly that it was “Nothing! Nothing!”
“Are you sure, Etruria?” Mary asked with concern.
“It is nothing, indeed, Miss,” the girl repeated. She was trying with
shaking fingers to put up her hair.
“Then the sooner,” Audley rejoined, “we get this—this gentleman to my
dogcart, the better. Take his other arm, Petch. Miss Audley, can you
carry my gun?—it is not loaded. And you,” he continued to Etruria, “if
you are able, take Petch’s.”
They took the guns, and the little procession wound down the path to
the road, where they found a dogcart awaiting them, and, peering from
the cart, two setters, whining and fretting. The dogs were driven under
the seat, and the clergyman, still muttering that he was all right, was
lifted in. “Steady him, Petch,” Audley said; “and do you drive slowly,”
he added, to the other man. “You will be at the surgeon’s at Brown
Heath in twenty minutes. Stay with him, Petch, and send the cart back
for me.”
“But are you not going?” Mary cried.
“I am not going to leave you in the dark with only your maid,” he
answered with severity. “One adventure a night is enough, Miss Audley.”
She murmured a word or two, but submitted. The struggle had shaken her;
she could still see the men’s savage faces, still hear the thud of
their blows. And she and Etruria had nearly a mile to go before they
reached the park.
When they were fairly started, “How did it happen?” he asked.
Mary told the story, but said no word of Etruria’s romance.
“Then you were not with him when they set on him?”
“No, we had parted.”
“And you went back?”
“Of course we did!”
“It was imprudent,” he said, “very imprudent. If we had not come up at
that moment you might have been murdered.”
“And if we had not gone back, Mr. Colet might have been murdered!” she
answered. “What he had done to offend them——”
“I think I can tell you that. He’s the curate at Riddsley, isn’t he?
Who’s been preaching up cheap bread and preaching down the farmers?”
“Perhaps so,” Mary answered. “He may be. But is he to be murdered for
that? From your tone one might think so.”
“No,” he replied slowly, “he is not to be murdered for it. But whether
he is wise to preach cheap bread to starving men, whether he is wise to
tell them that they would have it but for this man or that man, this
class or that class—is another matter.”
She was not convinced—the sermon had keyed her thoughts to a high
pitch. But he spoke reasonably, and he had the knack of speaking with
authority, and she said no more. And on his side he had no wish to
quarrel. He had come down to Riddsley partly to shoot, partly to look
into the political situation, but a little—there was no denying it—to
learn how Mary Audley fared with her uncle.
For he had thought much of her since they had parted, and much of the
fact that she was John Audley’s heir. Her beauty, her spirit, her
youth, had caught his fancy. He had looked forward to renewing his
acquaintance with her, and he was in no mood, now he saw her, to spoil
their meeting by a quarrel. He thought Colet, whose doings had been
reported to him, a troublesome, pestilent fellow, and he was not sorry
that he had got his head broken. But he need not tell her that.
Circumstances had favored him in bringing them together and giving him
the beau rôle, and he was not going to cross his luck.
So, “Fire is an excellent thing of course,” he continued with an air of
moderation, “but, believe me, it’s not safe amid young trees in a wind.
Whatever your views, to express them in all companies may be honest,
but is not wise. I have no doubt that a parson is tried. He sees the
trouble. He is not always the best judge of the remedy. However, enough
of that. We shall agree at least in this, that our meetings are
opportune?”
“Most opportune,” Mary answered. “And from my point of view very
fortunate!”
“There really is a sort of fate in it. What but fate could have brought
about our meeting at the Hôtel Lambert? What but fate could have drawn
us to the same spot on the Chase to-night?”
There was a tone in his voice that brought the blood to her cheek and
warned her to keep to the surface of things. “The chance that men call
fate,” she answered lightly.
“Or the fate that fools call chance,” he urged, half in jest, half in
earnest. “We have met by chance once, and once again—with results! The
third time—what will the third time bring? I wonder.”
“Not a fright like this, I hope!” Mary answered, remaining cheerfully
matter of fact. “Or if it does,” with a flash of laughter, “I trust
that the next time you will come up a few moments earlier!”
“Ungrateful!”
“I?” she replied. “But it was Etruria who was in danger!”
For the peril had left her with a sense of exhilaration, of lightness,
of ease. She was pleased to feel that she could hold her own with him,
relieved that she was not afraid of him. And she was glad—she was
certainly glad—to see him again. If he were inclined to make the most
of his advantage, well, a little gallantry was quite in the picture;
she was not deceived, and she was not offended. While he on his side,
as they walked over the moor, thought of her as a clever little witch
who knew her value and could keep her head; and he liked her none the
less for it.
When they came at last to the gap in the wall that divided the Chase
from the park, a figure, dimly outlined, stood in the breach waiting
for them. “Is that you?” a voice asked.
The voice was Basset’s, and Mary’s spirits sank. She felt that the
meeting was ill-timed. “Yes,” she answered.
Unluckily, Peter was one of those whose anxiety takes an irritable
form. “What in the world has happened?” he asked. “I couldn’t believe
that you were still out. It’s really not safe. Hallo!” breaking off and
speaking in a different tone, “is some one with you?”
“Yes,” Mary said. They were within touch now and could see one another.
“We have had an adventure. Lord Audley was passing, he came to our
rescue, and has very kindly seen us home.”
“Lord Audley!” Basset was taken by surprise and his tone was much as if
he had said, “The devil!”
“By good fortune, Basset,” Audley replied. He may have smiled in the
darkness—we cannot say. “I was returning from shooting, heard cries for
help, and found Miss Audley playing the knight-errant, encircled by
prostrate bodies!”
Basset could not frame a word, so great was his surprise, so
overwhelming his chagrin. Was this man to spring up at every turn? To
cross him on every occasion? To put him in the background perpetually?
To intrude even on the peace and fellowship of the Gatehouse? It was
intolerable!
When he did not answer, “It was not I who was the knight-errant,” Mary
said. “It was Etruria. She is a little the worse for it, I fear, and
the sooner she is in bed the better. As Mr. Basset is here,” she
continued, turning to Audley, “we must not take you farther. Your cart
is no doubt waiting for you. But you will allow us to thank you again.
We are most grateful to you—both Etruria and I.”
She spoke more warmly, perhaps she let her hand rest longer in his, to
make up for Basset’s silence. For that silence provoked her. She had
gathered from many things that Basset did not love the other; but to
stand mute and churlish on such an occasion, and find no word of
acknowledgment—this was too bad.
And Basset knew, he too knew that he ought to thank Audley. But the
black dog was on his back, and while he hesitated, the other made his
adieux. He said a pleasant word to Etruria, tossed a careless
“Good-night” to the other man, turned away, and was gone.
For awhile the three who remained trudged homewards in silence. Then,
“What happened to you?” Basset asked grudgingly.
Vexed and indignant, Mary told the story.
“I did not know that you knew Mr. Colet!”
“When a man is being murdered,” she retorted, “one does not wait for an
introduction.”
He was a good fellow, but jealousy was hot within him, and he could not
bridle his tongue. “Oh, but murdered?” he said. “Isn’t that rather
absurd? Who would murder Colet?”
Mary did not deign to reply.
Baffled, he sought for another opening. “I do not know what your uncle
will say.”
“Because we rescued Mr. Colet? And perhaps saved his life?”
“No, but——”
“Or because Lord Audley rescued us?”
“He will certainly not be pleased to hear that,” he retorted
maliciously. He knew that he was misbehaving, but he could not refrain.
“If you take my advice you will not mention it.”
“I shall tell him the moment I reach the house,” she declared.
“You will be very unwise if you do.”
“I shall be honest at least! For the rest I would rather not discuss
the matter, Mr. Basset. I am a good deal shaken by what we have gone
through, and I am very tired.”
He muttered humbly that he was sorry—that he only meant——
“Please leave it there,” she said. “Enough has been said.”
Too late the anger and the spirit died out of the unlucky man, and he
would have grovelled before her, he would have done anything to earn
his pardon. But Etruria’s presence tied his tongue, and gloomy and
wretched—oh, why had he not gone farther to meet them, why had he not
been the one to rescue her?—he walked on beside them, cursing his
unhappy temper. It was dark, the tired girls lagged, Etruria hung
heavily on her mistress’s arm; he longed to help them. But he did not
dare to offer. He knew too well that Mary would reject the offer.
Etruria had her own dreams, and in spite of an aching head was happy.
But to Mary, fatigued by the walk, and vexed by Basset’s conduct, the
way seemed endless. At last the house loomed dark above them, their
steps rang hard on the flagged court. The outer door stood ajar, and
entering, they found a lamp burning in the hall; but the silence which
prevailed, above and below, struck a chill. Silence and an open door go
ill together.
Etruria at Mary’s bidding went up at once to her room. Basset called
angrily for Toft. But no Toft appeared, and Mary, resentment still hot
in her, opened the door of the library and went in to see her uncle.
She felt that the sooner her story was told the better.
But the library was empty. Lights burned on the several tables, the
wood fire smouldered on the hearth, the tall clock ticked in the
silence, the old hound flopped his tail. But John Audley was not there.
“Where is my uncle?” she asked, as she stood in the open doorway.
Basset looked over her shoulder. He saw that the room was empty. “He
may have gone to look for us.”
“And Toft?”
“And Toft, too, I suppose.”
“But why should my uncle go to look for us?” she asked, aghast at the
thought—he troubled himself so little for others, he lived so
completely his own life!
“He might,” Basset replied. He stood for a moment, thinking. Then—for
the time they had forgotten their quarrel—“You had better get something
to eat and go to bed,” he said. “I will send Mrs. Toft to you.”
She had not the strength to resist. “Very well,” she said. “Are you
going to look for them?”
“Perhaps Mrs. Toft will know where they are.”
She took her candle and went slowly up the narrow winding staircase
that led to her room and to Etruria’s. As she passed, stair by stair,
the curving wainscot of dull wood which so many generations had rubbed,
she carried with her the picture of Basset standing in thought in the
middle of the hall, his eyes on the doorway that gaped on the night.
Then a big man with a genial face usurped his place; and she smiled and
sighed.
A moment later she went into Etruria’s room to learn how she was, and
caught the girl rising from her knees. “Oh, Miss,” she said, coloring
as she met Mary’s eyes, “if we had not been there!”
“And yet—you won’t marry him, you foolish girl?”
“Oh no, no!”
“Although you love him!”
“Love him!” Etruria murmured, her face burning. “It is because I love
him, Miss, that I will never, never marry him.”
Mary wondered. “And yet you love him?” she said, raising the candle so
that its light fell on the other’s face.
Etruria looked this way and that way, but there was no escape. In a
very small voice she said,
“Love seeketh not itself to please
Nor for itself hath any care!”
She covered her hot cheeks with her hands. But Mary took away the hands
and kissed her.
“Oh, Miss!” Etruria exclaimed.
Mary went out then, but on the threshold of her own room she paused to
snuff her candle. “So that is love,” she thought. “It’s very
interesting, and—and rather beautiful!”