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."

"He could not have walked farther without help," Mrs. Toft said. "If the Master's not between us and the gardens he's not that way."

"Then where is he?" Mary cried, aghast. She looked from one to the other. "Where can he be, Toft?"

Toft raised his hands and let them fall. It was clear that he had given up hope.

But his wife was of different mettle. "That's to be seen," she said briskly. "Anyway, you'll be perished here, Miss, and I don't want another invalid on my hands. We'll go in, if you please."

Mary gave way. They turned to go in, but it was noticeable that as they moved towards the house each, stirred by the same thought, swept the extent of the park with eyes that clung to it, and were loth to leave it. Each hung for a moment, searching this alley or that, fancying a clue in some distant object, or taking a clump of gorse, or a jagged stump for the fallen man. All were hara.s.sed by the thought that they might be abandoning him; that in turning their backs on the bald, wintry landscape they might be carrying away with them his last chance.

"'T would take a day to search the park," the keeper muttered. "And a dozen men, I'm afeared, to do it thoroughly."

"Why not take a round yourself!" Mrs. Toft replied. "And if you find nothing be at the house in an hour, Petch, and we'll know better what's to do. The poor gentleman's off his head, I doubt, and there's no saying where he'd wander. But he can't be far, and I'm beginning to think he's in the house after all."

The man agreed willingly, and strode away across the turf. The others entered the hall. Mary was for pausing there, but Mrs. Toft swept them all into the parlor where a good fire was burning. "You'll excuse me, Miss," she said, "but Toft will be the better for this," and without ceremony she poured out a cup of coffee, jerked into it a little brandy from the decanter on the sideboard, and handed it to her husband. "Drink that," she said, "and get your wits together, man! You're no better than a wisp of paper now, and it's only you can help us. Now think! You know him best. Where can he be? Did he say no word last night to give you a clue?"

A little color came back to Toft's face. He sighed and pa.s.sed his hand across his forehead. "If I'd never left him!" he said. "I never ought to have left him!"

"It's no good going over that!" Mrs. Toft replied impatiently. "He means, Miss, that up to three nights ago he slept in the Master's room. Then when the Master seemed better Toft came back to his bed."

"I ought to have stayed with him," Toft repeated. That seemed the one thought in his mind.

"But where is he?" Mary cried. "Where? Every moment we stand talking--can't you think where he might go? Are there no hiding--places in the house? No secret pa.s.sages?"

Mrs. Toft raised her hands. "Lord's sake!" she exclaimed. "There's the locked closet in his room where he keeps his papers. I never looked there. It's seldom opened, and----"

She did not finish. With one accord they hurried through the library and up the stairs to the old tapestried room, where Mr. Audley had slept and for the last month had lived. The others had been in it since his disappearance, Mary had not; and she felt a thrill of awe as she pa.s.sed the threshold. The angular faces, the oblique eyes, of the watchers in the needlework on the wall, that from generation to generation had looked down on marriage and birth and death--what had they seen during the past night? On what had they gazed, she asked herself. Mrs. Toft, less fanciful or more familiar with the room, had no such thoughts. She crossed the floor to a low door which was outlined for those who knew of its existence, by rough cuts in the arras. It led into a closet, contained in one of the turrets.

Mrs. Toft tried the door, shook it, knocked on it. Finally she set her eye to the keyhole. "He's not there," she said. "There's no key in the lock. He'd not take out the key, that's certain."

Mary scanned the disordered room. Books lay in heaps on the deep window-seats, and even on the floor. A table by one of the windows was strewn with papers and letters; on another beside the bed-head stood a tray with night drinks, a pair of candles, an antique hour-gla.s.s, a steel pistol. The bedclothes were dragged down, as if the bed had been slept in, and over the rail at the foot, half hidden by the heavy curtains, hung a nightgown. She took this up and found beneath it a pair of slippers and a shoehorn.

"He was dressed then?" she exclaimed.

Toft eyed the things. "Yes, Miss, I've no doubt he was," he said despondently. "His overcoat's gone."

"Then he meant to leave the house?" Mary cried.

"G.o.d save us!"

"He's taken his silver flask too," Etruria said in a low voice. She was examining the dressing-table. "And his watch."

"His watch?"

"Yes, Miss."

"But that's odd," Mary said, fixing her eyes on Toft. "Don't you think that's odd? If my uncle had rambled out in some nightmare or--or wandering, would he have taken his flask and his watch, Toft? Are his spectacles there?"

Toft inspected the table, raised the pillow, felt under the bolster. "No, Miss," he said; "he's taken them."

"Ah!" Mary replied; "then I have hope. Wherever he is, he is in his senses. Now, Toft!"--she looked hard at the man--"think again! Surely since he had this in his mind last night he must have let something drop? Some word?"

The man shook his head. "Not that I heard, Miss," he said.

Mary sighed. But Mrs. Toft was less patient. She exploded. "You gaby!" she cried. "Where's your senses? It's to you we're looking, and a poor stick you are in time of trouble! I couldn't have believed it! Find your tongue, Toft, say something! You knew the Master down to his shoe leather. Let's hear what you do think! He couldn't walk far! He couldn't walk a mile without help. Where is he? Where do you think he is?"

Toft's answer silenced them. If one of the mute, staring figures on the walls--that watched as from the boxes of a theatre the living actors--had stepped down, it would hardly have affected them more deeply. The man sat down on the bed, covered his face with his hands, and rocking himself to and fro broke into a pa.s.sion of weeping. "The poor Master!" he cried between his sobs. "The poor Master!"

Quickly at that Mary's feelings underwent a change. As if she had stood already beside her uncle's grave, sorrow took the place of perplexity. His past kindness dragged at her heart-strings. She forgot that she had never been able to love him, she forgot that behind the man whom she had known she had been ever conscious of another being, vague, shifting, inhuman. She remembered only the help he had given, the home he had offered, the rare hours of sympathy. "Don't, Toft, don't!" she cried, tears in her voice. She touched the man on the shoulder. "Don't give up hope!"

As for Mrs. Toft, surprise silenced her. When she found her voice, "Well," she said, looking round her with a sort of pride, "who'll say after this that Toft's a hard man? Why, if the Master was lying on that bed ready for burial--and we're some way off that, the Lord be thanked!--he couldn't carry on more! But there, let's look now, and weep afterwards! Pull yourself together, Toft, or who's the young lady to depend on? If you take my advice, Miss," she continued, "we'll get out of this room. It always did give me the fantods with them Egyptians staring at me from the walls, and to-day it's worse than a hea.r.s.e! Now downstairs----"

"You are quite right, Mrs. Toft," Mary said. "We'll go downstairs." She shared to the full Mrs. Toft's distaste for the room. "We're doing no good here, and your husband can follow us when he is himself again. Petch should be back by this time, and we ought to arrange what is to be done outside."

Toft made no demur, and they went down. They found the keeper waiting in the hall. He had made no discovery, and Mary, to whom Toft's breakdown had given fresh energy, took things into her own hands. She gave Petch his orders. He must get together a dozen men, and search the park and every place within a mile of the Gatehouse. He must report by messenger every two hours to the house, and in the meantime he must send a man on horseback to the town for Dr. Pepper.

"And Mr. Ba.s.set?" Mrs. Toft murmured.

"I will write a note to Mr. Ba.s.set," Mary said, "and the man must send it by post-horses from the Audley Arms. I will write it now." She sat down in the library, cold as the room was, and scrawled three lines, telling Ba.s.set that her uncle had disappeared during the night, and that, ill as he was, she feared the worst.

Then, when Petch had gone to get his men together--a task which would take time as there were no farms at hand--she and Mrs. Toft searched the house room by room, while Etruria and her father went again through the outbuildings. But the quest was as fruitless as the former search had been.

Mary had known many unhappy days in Paris, days of anxiety, of loneliness, of apprehension, when she had doubted where she would lodge or what she would eat for her next meal. Now she had a source of strength in her engagement and her love, which should have been inexhaustible. But she never forgot the misery of this day, nor ever looked back on it without a shudder. Probably there were moments when she sat down, when she took a tasty meal, when she sought Mrs. Toft in her warm kitchen or talked with Etruria before her own fire. But as she remembered the day, she spent the long hours gazing across the wintry park; now catching a glimpse of the line of beaters as it appeared for a moment crossing a glade, now watching the approach of the messenger who came to tell her that they had found nothing; or again straining her eyes for the arrival of Dr. Pepper, who, had she known it, was at the deathbed of an old patient, ten miles on the farther side of Riddsley.

Now and again a hailstorm swept across the park, and Mrs. Toft came out and scolded her into shelter; or a farmer, whose men had been borrowed, "happened that way," and after a gruff question touched his hat and went off to join the searchers. Once a distant cry seemed to herald a discovery, and she tried to steady her leaping pulses. But nothing came of it except some minutes of anxiety. And once her waiting ear caught the clang of the bell that hung in the hall and she flew through the house to the front door, only to learn that the visitor was the carrier who three times a week called for letters on his way to town. The dreary house with its open doors, its cold draughts, its unusual aspect, the hurried meals, the furtive glances, the hours of suspense and fear--these stamped the day for ever on Mary's memory: as sometimes an hour of loneliness prints itself on the mind of a child who all his life long hears with distaste the clash of wedding bells.

At length the wintry day with its gusts of snow began to draw in. Before four Petch sent in to say that he had beaten the park and also the gardens at the Great House, but had found nothing. Half his men were now searching the slope on either side of the Riddsley road. With the other half he was going to explore, while the light lasted, the fringe of the Chase towards Brown Heath.

That left Mary face to face with the night; with the long hours of darkness, which inaction must render infinitely worse than those of the day. She had visions of the windswept park, the sullen ponds, the frozen moorland; they spread before her fraught with some brooding terror. She had never much marked, she had seldom felt the loneliness of the house. Now it pressed itself upon her, isolated her, menaced her. It made the thought of the night, that lay before her, almost unbearable.

CHAPTER XXVII.

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, G.o.d 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. Ba.s.set 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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.sed?"

The keeper shook his head. "If he had pa.s.sed that way this afternoon it isn't one but six pairs of eyes would ha' seen him."

There was a murmur of a.s.sent. 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 pa.s.sed 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 n.o.body would ha' laid a hand on the Master!" she said. "n.o.body in these parts and n.o.body 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 att.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed. 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 gra.s.s; 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.