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!