A scornful laugh from Mrs. Betts was the answer, and Graves coolly turned the key as she was told.
Brian Bellis had gone down to look for Zach and the torch, but no Zach was to be found. He had made off to earn another gold-piece, and had performed his errand well, as the event proved.
Poor Griselda had need of the support of Graves's strong arm as she hurried her along to the North Parade. What if Lady Betty were before her! What if it should come to her being really refused admittance to the house! Graves trembled to think of it, and of what she would personally be made to suffer if she were not at her post in her mistress's bedroom at the appointed hour.
Griselda had really no thought about this. Her one longing was to get back—back to her room, where she could pour forth her trouble, and consider how she should tell him who had loved her so well, that she was the daughter of the man by whose bedside they had stood together, all unconscious that they were doing anything more than responding to the entreaty of a child who was almost starving, and who was the only friend the wretched man seemed to possess.
To Graves's intense relief, Mrs. Abbott opened the door, and, in reply to the anxious question, said:
"No, her ladyship is not come home. Nobody has been here since Zach returned to say you did not want him any more."
"I never said so!" Graves exclaimed. "We've groped home as best we could, for the rain and mist put out the lights, and as to the lamps, the glass is so thick with damp you can scarce see a spark in them."
While Graves was speaking, Griselda had gone wearily upstairs. Her cloak was saturated with rain, and as she unfastened her calèche the masses of her hair fell back. At the top of the first flight she stopped.
"Graves! ask if a messenger has brought a letter for me."
"No," Mrs. Abbott said, answering—"no. Not a soul has been near the house since you left it."