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.”
CHAPTER XXVI
MISSING
Mary scrambled into her clothes without pausing to do more than knot up her hair. She tried to steady her nerves and to put from her the thought that it was her visit which had upset her uncle. That thought would only flurry her, and she must be cool. In little more than the five minutes that she had named she was in the hall, and found Mrs. Toft waiting for her. The door into the courtyard stood open, the bleak light and raw air of a January morning poured in, but neither of them heeded this. Their eyes met, and Mary saw that the woman, who was usually so placid, was frightened.
“Where is Toft?” Mary asked.
“He’s away this ten minutes,” Mrs. Toft replied. “He’s gone to the Yew Walk, where you found the Master before. But law, Miss, if he’s there in this weather!” She lifted up her hands.
Mary controlled herself. “And Etruria?” she asked.
“She’s searching outside the house. If she does not find him she is to run over to Petch the keeper, and bring him.”
“Quite right,” Mary said. “Did Toft take any brandy?”
“He did. Miss. And the big kettle is on, if there is a bath wanted, and I’ve put a couple of bricks to heat in the oven.”
“You’re sure you’ve looked everywhere in the house?”
“As sure as can be, Miss! More by token, I’ve some coffee ready for you in the parlor.”
But Mary said, “Bring it here, Mrs. Toft.” And snatching up a shawl and folding it about her, she stepped outside. It was a gray, foggy morning, and the flagged court wore a desolate air. In one corner a crowd of dead leaves were circling in the gusts of wind, in another a little pile of snow had drifted, and between the monsters that flanked the Gateway, the old hound, deaf and crippled, stood peering across the park. Mary fancied that the dog descried Toft returning, and she ran across the court. But no one was in sight. The park with its clumps of dead bracken, its naked trees and gnarled blackthorns, stretched away under a thin sprinkling of snow. Shivering she returned to the hall, where Mrs. Toft awaited her with the coffee.
“Now,” Mary said, “tell me about it, please — from the beginning.”
“Toft had left Mr. Audley about eleven,” Mrs. Toft explained. “The Master had been a bit put out, and that kept him. But he’d settled down, and when Toft left him he was much as usual. It could not have been before eleven,” Mrs. Toft continued, rubbing her nose, “for I heard the kitchen clock strike eleven, and I was asleep when Toft came in. The next I remember was finding Toft had got out of bed. ‘What is it?’ says I. He didn’t answer, and I roused up and was going to get a light. But he told me not to make a noise, he’d been woke by hearing a door slam, and thought that some one had crossed the court. He was at the window then, looking out, but we heard nothing, and after a while Toft came back to bed.”
“What time was that?”
“I couldn’t say, Miss, and I don’t suppose Toft could. It was dark and before six, because when I woke again it was on six. But God knows it was a thousand pities we didn’t search then, for it’s on my mind that it was the poor Master. And if we’d known, Toft would have stopped him.”
“Well?” Mary said gravely. “And when did you miss him?”
“Most mornings Etruria’d let me into the house. But this morning she found the door unlocked; howsomever she thought nothing of it, for Toft has a key as well, and since the Master’s illness and him coming and going at all hours, he has not always locked the door; so she made no remark. A bit before eight Toft came down — I didn’t see him but I heard him — and at eight he took up the Master’s cup of tea. Toft makes it in the pantry and takes it up.”
Mrs. Toft paused heavily — not without enjoyment.
“Yes,” Mary said anxiously, “and then?”
“I suppose it was five minutes after, he came out to me — I was in the kitchen getting our breakfast — and he was shaking all over. I don’t know that I ever saw a man more upset. ‘He’s gone!’ he said. ‘Law, Toft,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter? Who’s gone?’ ‘The Master!’ he said. ‘Fiddlesticks!’ says I. ‘Where should he go?’ And with that I went into the house and up to the Master’s room. When I saw it was empty you could have knocked me down with a feather! I looked round a bit, and then I went up to Mr. Basset’s room that’s over, and down again to the library, and so forth. By that time Toft was there, gawpin about. ‘He’s gone!’ he kept saying. I don’t know as I ever saw Toft truly upset before.”
“And what then?” Mary asked. Twice she had looked through the door, but to no purpose.
“We
ll,” I said, “if he’s not here he can’t be far! Don’t twitter, man, but think! It’s my belief he’s away sleepwalking or what not, to the place you found him before. On that I gave Toft some brandy and he went off.”
“Shouldn’t he be back by now?”
“He should, Miss, if he’s not found him,” Mrs. Toft answered. “But, if he’s found him, he couldn’t carry him! Toft’s not all that strong. And if the Master’s lain out long, it’s not all the brandy in the world will bring him round!”
Mary shuddered, and moved by a common impulse the two went out and crossed the court. The old hound was still at gaze in the gateway, still staring with purblind eyes down the vistas of the park. “Maybe he sees more than we see,” Mrs. Toft muttered. “He’d not stand there, would the old dog, as he’s stood twenty minutes, for nothing.”
She was right, for the next moment three figures appeared hurrying across the park towards them. It was impossible to mistake Toft’s lanky figure. The others were Etruria, with a shawl about her head, and the keeper Petch.
Mary scanned them anxiously. “Have they found him?” she murmured.
“No,” Mrs. Toft said. “If they’d found him, one would have stopped with him.”
“Of course,” Mary said. And heedless of the cold, searching wind that swung their skirts and carried showers of dead leaves sailing past them, they waited until Toft and the others, talking together, came up. Mary saw that, in spite of the pace at which he had walked, Toft’s face was colorless. He was almost livid. His daughter wore an anxious look, while the keeper was pleasantly excited.
As soon as the three were within hearing, “You’ve not found him?” Mary cried.
“No, Miss,” Etruria answered.
“Nor any trace?”
“No, Miss. My father has been as far as the iron gate, and found it locked. It was no use going on.”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 599