MARY IS LONELY
Mary Audley was one of the last to hear the news. Etruria brought it
from the town one day in January, when the evenings were beginning to
lengthen, and the last hour of daylight was the dreariest of the
twenty-four. It had rained, and the oaks in the park were a-drip, the
thorn trees stood in tiny pools, the moorland lay stark under a pall of
fog. In the vale the Trent was in flood, its pale waters swirling past
the willow-stools, creeping over the chilled meadows, and stealing inch
by inch up the waterside lanes. Etruria’s feet were wet, and she was
weary with her trudge through the mud; but when Mary met her on the
tiny landing on which their rooms opened, there was a sparkle in the
girl’s eyes as bright as the red petticoat that showed below her
tucked-up gown.
“You didn’t forget——” Mary was beginning, and then, “Why, Etruria,” she
exclaimed, “I believe you have seen Mr. Colet?”
Etruria blushed like the dawn. “Oh no, Miss!” she said. “He’s at
Blore.”
“To be sure! Then what is it?”
“I’ve heard some news, Miss,” Etruria said. “I don’t know whether
you’ll be pleased or not.”
“But it is certain that you are!” Mary replied with conviction. “What
is it?”
The girl told what she had heard: that there was to be an election at
Riddsley in three weeks, and not only an election but a contest, and
that the candidate who had come forward to oppose the Corn Laws was no
other than Mr. Basset—their Mr. Basset! More, that only the evening
before he had held his first meeting at the Institute, and though he
had been interrupted and the meeting had been broken up, his short
plain speech had made a considerable impression.
“Indeed, Miss,” Etruria continued, carried away by the subject, “there
was one told me that when he stood up to speak she could see his hand
shake, and his face was the color of a piece of paper. But when they
began to boo and shout at him, he grew as cool as cool, and the longer
they shouted the braver he was, until they saw that if they let him go
on he would be getting a hearing! So they put out the lights and
stormed the platform, and there was a fine Stafford row, I’m told. Of
course,” Etruria added simply, “the drink was in them.”
Mary hardly knew what her feelings were. “Mr. Basset?” she said at
last. “I can hardly believe it.”
“Nor could I, Miss, when I first heard it. But it seems they have known
it there for ten days and more, and the town is agog with it, everybody
taking sides, and some so much against him as never was. It’s dreadful
to think,” Etruria continued, “how misguided men can be. But oh, Miss,
I’m thankful he’s on the right side, and for taking the burden off the
bread! I’m sure it will be returned to him, win or lose. They’re
farmers’ friends here, and they’re saying shameful things of him in the
market! But there’s many a woman will bless him, and the lanes and
alleys, they’ve no votes, but they’ll pray for him! Sometimes,” Etruria
added shyly, “I think it is Mr. Colet has brought him to it.”
“Mr. Colet?” Mary repeated—she did not know why she disliked the
notion. “Why do you think that?”
“He’s been at Blore,” Etruria murmured. “Mr. Basset has been so good to
him.”
“Mr. Basset has a mind of his own,” Mary answered sharply. “He is quite
capable of forming his own opinion.”
“Of course. Miss,” Etruria said, abashed. “I should have known that.”
“Yes,” Mary repeated. “But what was it they were saying of Mr. Basset
in the market, Etruria? Not that it matters.”
“Well, Miss,” Etruria explained, reluctantly. “They were saying it was
some grudge Mr. Basset or the Master had against his lordship that
brought Mr. Basset out.”
“Against Lord Audley?” Mary cried. And she blushed suddenly and
vividly. “Why? What has he to do with it?”
“Well, Miss, it’s his lordship’s seat,” Etruria answered naïvely; “what
he wishes has always been done in Riddsley. And he’s for Mr.
Mottisfont.”
Mary walked to a window and looked out. “Oh,” she said, “I did not know
that. But you’d better go now, Etruria, and change your shoes. Your
feet must be wet.”
Etruria went, and Mary continued to gaze through the window. What
strange news! And what a strange situation! The lover whom she had
rejected and the lover whom she had taken, pitted against one another!
And her words—she could hardly doubt it—the spur which had brought
Basset to the post!
So thinking, so pondering, she grew more and more ill at ease. Her
sympathies should have been wholly with her betrothed, but they were
not. She should have resented Basset’s action. She did not. Instead she
thought of his shaking hand and his pale face, and of the courage that
had grown firmer in the face of opposition; and she found something
fine in that, something that appealed to her. And the cause he had
adopted? It was the cause to which she naturally inclined. She might be
wrong, he might be wrong. Lord Audley knew so much more of these things
and looked at them from so enlightened a standpoint, that they must be
wrong. And yet—her heart warmed to that cause.
She turned from the window in some trouble, wondering if she were
disloyal, wondering why she felt as she did; wondering a little, too,
why she had lost the first rapture of her love, and was less happy in
it than she had been.
True, she had not seen her lover again, and that might account for it.
He had been detained at Lord Seabourne’s, and in London; he had been
occupied for days together with the crisis. But she had had three
letters from him, busy as he was; three amusing letters, full of gossip
and sprinkled with anecdotes of the great world. She had opened the
first in something of a tremor; but her fingers had soon grown steady,
and if she had blushed it had been for her expectation of a vulgar
love-letter such as milkmaids prize. She had been silly to suppose that
he would write in that strain.
And yet she had felt a degree of disappointment. He might have written
with less reserve, she thought; he might have discussed their plans and
hopes, he might have let the fire peep somewhere through the chinks.
But there, again, what a poor thing she was if her love must be fed
with sweetmeats. How weak her trust, how poor her affection, if she
could not bear a three weeks’ parting! He had come to her, he had
chosen her, what more did she want? Did she expect him to put aside the
calls and the duties of his station, that he might hang on her
apron-strings?
Still, she was not in good spirits, and she felt her loneliness. The
house, this gray evening, with the shadows gathering in the corners,
weighed on her. Mrs. Toft was far away in her cosey kitchen, Etruria
also had gone thither. Toft was with Mr. Audley in the other wing—he
had been much with his master of late. So Mary was alone. She was not
nervous, but she was depressed. The cold stairs, the austere parlor
with its dim portraits, the matted hall, the fireless library—all
struck a chill. She remembered other times and other evenings; cosey
evenings, when the glow of the wood-fire had vied with the shaded
lights, when the three heads had bent over the three tables, when the
rustle of turning pages had blended with the snoring of the old hound,
when the pursuit of some trifle had sped the pleasant hours. Alas,
those evenings were gone, as if they had never been. The house was dull
and melancholy.
She might have gone to her uncle, but during the afternoon he had told
her that he wished to be alone; he should go to bed betimes. So about
seven o’clock she took her meal by herself, and when it was done she
felt more at a loss than ever. Presently her thoughts went again to
John Audley.
Had she neglected him of late? Had she left him too much to Toft, and
let her secret, which she hated to keep secret, come between them? Why
should she not, even now, see him before he slept? She could take him
the news of Mr. Basset’s enterprise. It would serve for an excuse.
Lest her courage should fail she went at once, shivering as she passed
through the shadowy library, where a small lamp, burning on a table,
did no more than light her to the staircase. She ran up the stairs and
was groping for the handle of Mr. Audley’s door when the door opened
abruptly and Toft stepped out, a candle in his hand. She was so close
to him that he all but touched her, and he was, if anything, more
startled than she was. He stood gaping at her.
Through the narrow opening she had a glimpse of her uncle, who was on
his feet before the fire. He was fully dressed.
That surprised her, for, even before this last attack, he had spent
most of his time in his dressing-gown. Still more surprising was Toft’s
conduct. He shut the door and held it. “The master is going to bed,
Miss,” he said.
“I see that he is dressed!” she replied. And she looked at Toft in such
a way that the man gave way, took his hand from the door, and stood
aside. She pushed the door open and went in. Her uncle, standing with
his back to her, was huddling on his dressing-gown.
“What is it?” he cried, his face averted. “Who is it?”
“It is only I, sir,” she replied. “Mary.” She closed the door.
“But I thought I told you that I didn’t want you!” he retorted
pettishly. “I am going to bed.” He turned, having succeeded in girding
on his dressing-gown. “Going to bed,” he repeated. “Didn’t I tell you
so?”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” she said, “but I had news for you. News that has
surprised me. I thought that you would like to hear it.”
He looked at her, his furtive eyes giving the lie to his plump face,
which sagged more than of old. “News,” he muttered, peevishly. “What
news? I wish you wouldn’t startle me. You ought to remember that—that
excitement is bad for me. And you come at this time of night with news!
What is it?” He was not looking at her. He seemed to be seeking
something. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing very terrible,” she answered, smiling. “Nothing to alarm
you, uncle. Won’t you sit down?”
He looked about him like a man driven into a corner. “No, no, I don’t
want to sit down!” he said. “I ought to be in bed! I ought to be there
now.”
“Well, I shall not keep you long,” she answered, trying to humor his
mood, while all the time she was wondering why he was dressed at this
time, he whom she had not seen dressed for a fortnight. And why had
Toft tried to keep her out? “It is only,” she continued, “that I heard
to-day that there is to be a contest at Riddsley. And that Mr. Basset
is to be one of the candidates.”
“Is that all?” he said. “News, you said? That’s no news! Bigger fool
he, unless he does more for himself than he does for his friends! Peter
the Hermit become Peter the Great! He’ll soon find himself Peter the
Piper, who picked a peck of pepper! Hot pepper he’ll find it, d—n him!”
with sudden spite. “He’s no better than the rest! He’s all for himself!
All for himself!” he repeated, his voice rising in his excitement.
“But——”
“There, don’t agitate me!” He wiped his brow with a shaking hand, while
his eyes, avoiding hers, continued to look about him as if he sought
something. “I knew how it would be. You’ve no thought for me. You don’t
remember how weak I am! Hardly able to crawl across the floor, to put
one foot before another. And you come chattering! chattering!”
She had thought him odd before, but never so odd as this evening; and
she was sorry that she had come. She was going to say what she could
and escape, when he began again. “You’re the last person who should
upset me! The very last!” he babbled. “When it’s all for you! It’s
little good it can do me. And Basset, he’d the ball at his foot, and
wouldn’t kick it! But I’ll show you, I’ll show you all!” he continued,
gesticulating with a violence that distressed Mary. “Ay, and I’ll show
_him_ what I am! He thinks he’s safe, d—n him! He thinks he’s safe!
He’s spending my money and adding up my balance! He’s walking on my
land and sleeping in my bed! He’s peacocking in my name! But—but——” he
stopped, struggling for words. For an instant he turned on her over his
shoulder a face distorted by passion.
Thoroughly alarmed, she tried to soothe him. “But I am sure, sir,” she
said, “Mr. Basset would never——”
“Basset!”
“I’m sure he never dreamt——”
“Basset!” he repeated. “No! but Audley! Lord Audley, Audley of
Beaudelays, Audley of nowhere and nothing! And no Audley! no Audley!”
he repeated furiously, while again he fought for breath, and again he
mastered himself and lowered his tone. “No Audley!” he whispered,
pointing a hand at her, “but Jacob, girl! Jacob the supplanter, Jacob
the changeling, Jacob the baseborn! And he thinks I lie awake of
nights, hundreds of nights, for nothing! He thinks I dream of him—for
nothing! He thinks I go out with the bats—for nothing! He thinks I have
a canker here! Here!” And he clapped his hand to his breast, a
grotesque, yet dreadful figure in his huddled dressing-gown, his
flaccid cheeks quivering with rage. “For nothing! But I’ll show him!
I’ll ruin him! I’ll——”
His voice, which had risen to a scream, stopped. Toft had opened the
door. “Sir! Mr. Audley!” he cried. “For God’s sake be calm! For God’s
sake have a care, sir! And you, Miss,” he continued; “you see what you
have done! If you’ll leave him I’ll get him to bed. I’ll get him to bed
and quiet him—if I can.”
Mary was shocked, and yet she felt that she could not go without a
word. “Dear uncle,” she said, “you wish me to go?”
He had clutched one of the posts of the bed and was supporting himself
by it. The fire had died down in him, he was no more now than a feeble,
shaking old man. He wiped his brow and his lips. “Yes, go,” he
whispered. “Go.”
“I am very sorry I disturbed you,” she said. “I won’t do it again. You
were right, Toft. Good-night.”
The man said “Good-night, Miss.” Her uncle said nothing. He had let
himself down on the bed, but he still clung to the post. Mary looked at
him in sorrow, grieved to leave him in this state. But she had no
choice, and she went out and, closing the door behind her, groped her
way down the narrow staircase.
It was a little short of ten when she reached the parlor, but she was
in no mood for reading. What she had seen had shocked and frightened
her. She was sure now that her uncle was not sane; and while she was
equally sure that Toft exercised a strong influence over him, she had
her misgivings as to that. Something must be done. She must consult
some one. Life at the Gatehouse could not go on on this footing. She
must see Dr. Pepper.
Unluckily when she had settled this to her mind, and sought her bed,
she could not sleep. Long after she had heard Etruria go to her room,
long after she had heard the girl’s shoes fall—familiar sound!—Mary lay
awake, thinking now of her uncle’s state and her duty towards him, nor
of her own future, that future which seemed for the moment to have lost
its brightness. Doubts that the sun dismisses, fears at which daylight
laughs, are Giants of Despair in the dark watches. So it was with her.
Misgivings which she would not have owned in the daylight, rose up and
put on grisly shapes. Her uncle and his madness, her lover and his
absence, passed in endless procession through her brain. In vain she
tossed and turned, sat up in despair, tried the cooler side of the
pillow. She could not rest.
The door creaked. She fancied a step on the staircase, a hand on the
latch. Far away in the depths of the house a clock struck. It was three
o’clock—only three o’clock! And it would not be light before eight—not
much before eight. Oh dear! Oh dear!
And then she slept.
When she awoke it was morning, the light was filtering in through the
white dimity curtains, and some one was really at her door. Some one
was knocking. She sat up. “What is it?” she cried.
“Can I come in, Miss?”
The voice was Mrs. Toft’s, and Mary needed no second warning. She knew
in a moment that the woman brought bad news. She sprang out of bed, put
on a dressing-gown, and with bare feet she went to the door. She
unlocked it. “What is it, Mrs. Toft?” she said.
“Maybe not much,” the woman answered cautiously. “I hope not, Miss, but
I had to tell you. The Master is missing.”
“Missing?” Mary exclaimed, the blood leaving her face. “Impossible!
Why, I saw him, I was in his room last evening after nine o’clock.”
“Toft was with him up to eleven,” Mrs. Toft answered. Her face was
grave. “But he’s gone now?”
“You mean that he is not in his room!” Mary said. “But have you
looked——” and she named places where her uncle might be—places in the
house.
“We’ve looked there,” Mrs. Toft answered. “Toft’s been everywhere. The
Master’s not in the house. We’re well-nigh sure of that. And the door
in the courtyard was open this morning. I am afraid he’s gone, Miss.”
“In his state and at night? Why, it’s——” The girl broke off and took
hold of herself. “Very well,” she said. “I shall not be more than five
minutes. I will come down.”