A FOOTSTEP IN THE HALL
Mrs. Toft bringing in candles, and looking grave enough herself,
noticed the girl’s pale face and chid her gently. “I don’t believe that
you’ve sat down this blessed day, Miss!” she said. “Nor no more than
looked at good food. But tea you shall have and sit down to it, or my
name’s not Anne Toft! Fretting’s no manner of use, and fasting’s a poor
stick to beat trouble with!”
“But, Mrs. Toft,” Mary said, her face piteous, “it’s the thought that
he may be lying out there, helpless and dying, while we sit here——”
“Steady, Miss! Giving way does no good, and too much mind’s worse than
none. If he’s out there he’s gone, poor gentleman, long ago. And Dr.
Pepper’ll say the same. It’s not in reason he should be alive if he’s
in the open. And, God knows, if he’s under cover it’s little better.”
“But then if he is alive!” Mary cried. “Think of another night!”
“Ay, I know,” Mrs. Toft said. “And hard it is! But you’ve been a model
all this blessed day, and it’s no time to break down now. Where that
dratted doctor is, beats me, though he could do no more than we’ve
done! But there, Mr. Basset will be with us to-morrow, and he’ll find
the poor gentleman dead or alive! There’s some as are more to look at
than the Squire, but there’s few I’d put before him at a pinch!”
“Where’s Toft?” Mary asked.
“He went to join Petch two hours ago,” Mrs. Toft explained. “And there
again, take Toft. He’s a good husband, but there’s no one would say he
was a man to wear his heart outside. But you saw how hard he took it? I
don’t know,” Mrs. Toft continued thoughtfully, “as I’ve seen Toft shed
a tear these twenty years—no, nor twice since we went to church!”
“You don’t think,” Mary asked, “that he knows more than he has told
us?”
The question took Mrs. Toft aback. “Why, Miss,” she said, “you don’t
mean as you think he was putting on this morning?”
“No,” Mary answered. “But is it possible that he knows the worst and
does not tell us?”
“And why shouldn’t he tell us? It would be strange if he wouldn’t tell
his own wife? And you that’s Mr. Audley’s nearest!”
“It’s all so strange,” Mary pleaded. “My uncle is gone. Where has he
gone?”
Mrs. Toft did not answer the question. She could not. And there came an
interruption. “That’s Petch’s voice,” she said. “They’re back.”
The men trooped into the hall. They advanced to the door of the parlor,
Petch leading, a man whom Mary did not know next to him, after these a
couple of farmers and Toft, in the background a blur of faces vaguely
seen.
“We’ve found something, Miss,” Petch said. “At least Tom has. But I’m
not sure it lightens things much. He was going home by the Yew Tree
Walk and pretty close to the iron gate, when what should he see lying
in the middle of the walk but this!”
Petch held out a silver flask.
“It’s the Master’s, sure enough,” Mrs. Toft said.
“Ay,” Petch answered. “But the odd thing is, I searched that place
before noon, a’most inch by inch, looking for footprints, and I went
over it again when we were beating the Yew Tree Walk this afternoon,
and I’m danged if that flask was there then!”
“I don’t think as you could ha’ missed it, Mr. Petch,” the finder said,
“it was that bright and plain!”
“But isn’t the grass long there?” Mary asked. She had already as much
mystery as she could bear and wanted no addition to it.
“Not that long,” said Tom.
“No, not that long, the lad’s right,” Petch added. “I warrant I must
have seen it.”
“That you must, Mr. Petch,” a lad in the background said. “I was next
man, and I wondered when you’d ha’ done that bit.”
“But I don’t understand,” Mary answered. “If it was not there, this
morning——”
“I don’t understand neither, lady,” the keeper rejoined. “But it is on
my mind that there’s foul play!”
“Oh, but,” Mary protested, “who—why should any one hurt my uncle?”
“I can’t say as to that,” Petch replied, darkly. “I don’t know anybody
as would. But there’s the flask, and flasks don’t travel without hands.
If he took it out of the house with him——”
“May he not have dropped it—this afternoon?” Mary suggested. “Suppose
he wandered that way after you passed?”
The keeper shook his head. “If he had passed that way this afternoon it
isn’t one but six pairs of eyes would ha’ seen him.”
There was a murmur of assent. The searchers were keenly enjoying the
drama, taking in every change that appeared on the girl’s face. They
were men into whose lives not much of drama entered.
“But I cannot think that what you say is likely!” Mary protested. She
had held her own stoutly through the day, but now with the eyes of all
these men upon her she grew bewildered. The rows of faces, the bashful
hands twisting caps, the blurred white of smocked frocks—grew and
multiplied and became misty. She had to grasp the table to steady
herself.
Mrs. Toft saw how it was, and came to the rescue. “What’s Toft say
about it?” she asked.
“Ay, to be sure, missus,” Petch agreed. “I dunno as he’s said anything
yet.”
“I don’t think the Master could have passed and not been seen,” Toft
replied. His tone was low, and in the middle of his speech he shivered.
“But I’m not saying that the flask wasn’t there this morning. It’s a
small thing.”
“It couldn’t have been overlooked, Mr. Toft,” the keeper replied
firmly. “I speak as I know!”
Again Mrs. Toft intervened. “I’m sure nobody would ha’ laid a hand on
the Master!” she said. “Nobody in these parts and nobody foreign, as I
can fancy. I’ve no doubt at all the poor gentleman awoke with some
maggot in his brain and wandered off, not knowing. The question is,
what can we do? The young lady’s had a sad day, and it’s time she was
left to herself.”
“There’s nothing we can do now,” Petch said flatly. “It stands to
reason if we’ve found nothing in the daylight we’ll find nothing in the
dark. We’ll be back at eight in the morning. Whether we’d ought to let
his lordship know——”
“Sho!” said Mrs. Toft with scorn. “What’s he in it, I’d like to know?
But there, you’ve said what you come to say and it’s time we left the
young lady to herself.”
Mary raised her head. “One moment,” she said. “I want to thank you all
for what you’ve done. And for what Petch says about the flask, he’s
right to speak out, but I can’t think any one would touch my uncle.
Only—can we do nothing? Nothing more? Nothing at all? If we don’t find
him to-night——” She broke off, overcome by her feelings.
“I’m afraid not, Miss,” Petch said gently. “We’d all be willing, but we
don’t know where to look. I own I’m fair beat. Still Tom and I’ll stay
an hour or two with Toft in case of anything happening. Good-night,
Miss. You’re very welcome, I’m sure.”
The others murmured their sympathy as they trooped out into the
darkness. Mrs. Toft bustled away for the tea, and Mary was left alone.
Suspense lay heavy on her. She felt that she ought to be doing
something and she did not know what to do. Dr. Pepper did not come, the
Tofts were but servants. They could not take the onus, they could not
share her burden; and Toft was a broken reed. Meanwhile time pressed.
Hours, nay, minutes might make all the difference between life and
death.
When Etruria came in with Mary’s tea she found her mistress bending
over the fire in an attitude of painful depression, and she said a few
words, trying to impart to her something of her own patience. That
patience was a fine thing in Etruria because it was natural. But Mary
was of sterner stuff. She had a more lively imagination, and she could
not be blind to the issues, or to the value of every moment that
passed. Even while she listened to Etruria she saw with the eyes of
fancy a hollow amid a clump of trees not far from a pool that she knew.
In summer it was a pleasant dell, clothed with mosses and ferns and the
flowers of the bog-bean; in winter a dank, sombre hollow. There she saw
her uncle lie, amid the decaying leaves, the mud, the rank grass; and
the vision was too much for her. What if he were really lying there,
while she sat here by the fire? Sat here in this home which he—he had
given her, amid the comforts which he had provided!
The thought was horrible, and she turned fiercely on the comforter.
“Don’t!” she cried. “You don’t think! You don’t understand! We can’t go
through the night like this! They must go on looking! Fetch your
father! And bring Petch! Bring them here!” she cried.
Etruria went, alarmed by her excitement, but almost as quickly she came
back. Toft had gone out with Petch and the other man. They would not be
long.
Mary cried out on them, but could do no more than walk the room, and
after a time Etruria coaxed her to sit down and eat; and tea and food
restored her balance. Still, as she sat and ate she listened—she
listened always. And Etruria, taught by experience, let her be and said
nothing.
At last, “How long they are!” Mary cried. “What are they doing? Are
they never——”
She stopped. The footsteps of two men coming through the hall had
reached her ears, and she recognized the tread of one—recognized it
with a rush of relief so great, of thankfulness so overwhelming that
she was startled and might well have been more than startled, had she
been free to think of anything but the lost man. It was Basset’s step,
and she knew it—she would have known it, she felt, among a hundred! He
had come! An instant later he stood in the doorway, booted and
travel-stained, his whip in his hand, just as he had dropped from the
saddle—and with a face grave indeed, but calm and confident. He seemed
to her to bring relief, help, comfort, safety, all in one!
“Oh!” she cried. “You are here! How—how good of you!”
“Not good at all,” he answered, advancing to the table and quietly
taking off his gloves. “Your messenger met me half-way to Blore. I was
coming into Riddsley to a meeting. I had only to ride on. Of course I
came.”
“But the meeting?” she asked fearfully. Was he only come to go again?
“D—n the meeting!” he answered, moved to anger by the girl’s pale face.
“Will you give me a cup of tea, Toft? I will hear Miss Audley’s account
first. Keep Petch and the other man. We shall want them. In twenty
minutes I’ll talk to you. That will do.”
Ah, with what gratitude, with what infinite relief, did Mary hear his
tone of authority! He watched Toft out of the room and, alone with her,
he looked at her. He saw that her hand shook as she filled the teapot,
that her lips quivered, that she tried to speak and could not. And he
felt an infinite love and pity, though he drove both out of his voice
when he spoke. “Yes, tea first,” he said coolly, as he took off his
riding coat. “I’ve had a long journey. You must take another cup with
me. You can leave things to me now. Yes, two lumps, please, and not too
strong.” He knocked together the logs, and warmed his hands, stooping
over the fire with his back to her. Then he took his place at the
table, and when he had drunk half a cup of tea, “Now,” he said, “will
you tell me the story from the beginning. And take time. More haste,
less speed, you know.”
With a calmness that surprised herself, Mary told the tale. She
described the first alarm, the hunt through the house, the discoveries
in the bedroom, Toft’s breakdown, last of all the search through the
park and the finding of the flask.
He listened gravely, asking a question now and then. When she had done,
“What of Toft?” he inquired. “Not been very active, has he? Not given
you much help?”
“No! But how did you guess?” she asked in surprise.
“I’m afraid that Toft knows more than he has told you. For the rest,”
he looked at her kindly, “I want you to give up the hope of finding
your uncle alive. I have none. But I think I can promise you that there
has been no suffering. If it turns out as I imagine, he was dead before
he was missed. What the doctor expected has happened. That is all.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“And I don’t want to say more until I know for certain. May I ring for
Toft?” She nodded. He rang, and after a pause, during which he stood,
silent and waiting, the servant came in. He shot a swift glance at
them, and dropped his eyes.
“Tell Petch and the other man to be ready to start with us in five
minutes,” Basset said. “Let them fetch a hurdle, and do you put a
mattress on it. I suppose—you made sure he was dead, Toft, before you
left him?”
The man flinched before the sudden question, but he showed less emotion
than Mary. Perhaps he had expected it. After a pause, during which
Basset did not take his eyes from him, “I made sure,” he said in a low
voice. “As God sees me, I did! But if you think I raised a hand to
him——”
“I don’t!” Basset said sternly. “I don’t think so badly of you as that.
But nothing but frankness can save you now. Is he in the Great House?”
Toft opened his mouth, but he seemed unable to speak. He nodded.
“What about the flask?”
“I dropped it,” the man muttered. He turned a shade paler. “I could not
bear to think he was lying there. I thought it would lead the
search—that way, and they would find him.”
“I see. That’s enough now. Be ready to start at once.”
The man went out. “Good heavens!” Mary cried. She was horror-stricken.
“And he has known it all this time! Do you think that he—he had any
part——”
“Oh no. He was alone with Mr. Audley when he collapsed, and he lost his
head. They were together in the Great House—it was a difficult
position—and he did not see his way to explain. He may have seen some
advantage in gaining time—I don’t know. The first thing to be done is
to bring your uncle home. I will see to that. You have borne up
nobly—you have done your part. Do you go to bed now.”
Something in his tone, and in his thought for her, brought old times to
Mary’s mind and the blood to her pale cheek. She did not say no, but
she would not go to bed. She made Etruria come to her, and the two
girls sat in the parlor listening and waiting, moving only when it was
necessary to snuff the candles. It was a grim vigil. An hour passed,
two hours. At length they caught the first distant murmur, the tread of
men who moved slowly and heavily under a burden—there are few who have
not at one time or another heard that sound. Little by little the
shuffling feet, the subdued orders, the jar of a stumbling bearer, drew
nearer, became more clear. A gust of wind swept through the hall, and
moaned upwards through the ancient house. The candles on the table
flickered. And still the two sat spell-bound, clasping cold hands, as
the unseen procession passed over the threshold, and for the last time
John Audley came home to sleep amid his books—heedless now of right or
claim, or rank or blood.
* * * * *
A few minutes later Basset entered the parlor. His face betrayed his
fatigue, and his first act was to go to the sideboard and drink a glass
of wine. Mary saw that his hand shook as he raised the glass, and
gratitude for what he had done for her brought the tears to her eyes.
He stood a moment, leaning in utter weariness against the wall—he had
ridden far that day. And Mary had been no woman if she had not drawn
comparisons.
Opportunity had served him, and had not served the other. Nor, had her
betrothed been here, could he have helped her in this pinch. He could
not have taken Basset’s place, nor with all the will in the world could
he have done what Basset had done.
That was plain. Yet deep down in her there stirred a faint resentment,
a complaint hardly acknowledged. Audley was not here, but he might have
been. It was his doing that she had not told her uncle, and that John
Audley had passed away in ignorance. It was his doing that in her
trouble she had had to lean on the other. It was not the first time
during the long hours of the day that the thought had come to her; and
though she had put it away, as she put it away now, the opening flower
of love is delicate—the showers pass but leave their mark.
When Etruria had slipped out, and left them, Basset came forward, and
warmed himself at the fire. “Perhaps it is as well you did not go to
bed,” he said. “You can go now with an easy mind. It was as I
thought—he lay on the stairs of the Great House and he had been dead
many hours. Dr. Pepper will tell us more to-morrow, but I have no doubt
that he died of syncope brought on by exertion. Toft had tried to give
him brandy.”
Shocked and grieved, yet sensible of relief, she was silent for a time.
She had known John Audley less than a year, but he had been good to her
in his way and she sorrowed for him. But at least she was freed from
the nightmare which had ridden her all day. Or was she? “May I know
what took him there?” she asked in a low voice. “And Toft?”
“He believed that there were papers in the Great House, which would
prove his claim. It was an obsession. He asked me more than once to go
with him and search for them, and I refused. He fell back on Toft. They
had begun to search—so Toft tells me—when Mr. Audley was taken ill.
Before he could get him down the stairs, the end came. He sank down and
died.”
With a shudder Mary pictured the scene in the empty house. She saw the
light of the lantern fall on the huddled group, as the panic-stricken
servant strove to pour brandy between the lips of the dying man; and
truly she was thankful that in this strait she had Basset to support
her, to assist her, to advise her! “It is very dreadful,” she said. “I
do not wonder that Toft gave way. But had he—had my uncle—any right to
be there?”
“In his opinion, yes. And if the papers were there, they were his
papers, the house was his, all was his. In my opinion he was wrong. But
if he believed anything, he believed that he was justified in what he
did.”
“I am glad of that!”
“There must be an inquest, I am afraid,” Basset continued. “One or two
will know, and one or two more will guess what Mr. Audley’s errand was.
But Lord Audley will have nothing to gain by moving in it. And if only
for your sake—but you must go to bed. Etruria is waiting in the hall. I
will send her to you. Good-night.”
She stood up. She wished to thank him, she longed to say something,
anything, which would convey to him what his coming had been to her.
But she could not find words, she was tongue-tied. And Etruria came in.