“He will certainly not be pleased to hear that,” he retorted maliciously. He knew that he was misbehaving, but he could not refrain. “If you take my advice you will not mention it.”
“I shall tell him the moment I reach the house,” she declared.
“You will be very unwise if you do.”
“I shall be honest at least! For the rest I would rather not discuss the matter, Mr. Basset. I am a good deal shaken by what we have gone through, and I am very tired.”
He muttered humbly that he was sorry—that he only meant——
“Please leave it there,” she said. “Enough has been said.”
Too late the anger and the spirit died out of the unlucky man, and he would have grovelled before her, he would have done anything to earn his pardon. But Etruria’s presence tied his tongue, and gloomy and wretched—oh, why had he not gone farther to meet them, why had he not been the one to rescue her?—he walked on beside them, cursing his unhappy temper. It was dark, the tired girls lagged, Etruria hung heavily on her mistress’s arm; he longed to help them. But he did not dare to offer. He knew too well that Mary would reject the offer.
Etruria had her own dreams, and in spite of an aching head was happy. But to Mary, fatigued by the walk, and vexed by Basset’s conduct, the way seemed endless. At last the house loomed dark above them, their steps rang hard on the flagged court. The outer door stood ajar, and entering, they found a lamp burning in the hall; but the silence which prevailed, above and below, struck a chill. Silence and an open door go ill together.
Etruria at Mary’s bidding went up at once to her room. Basset called angrily for Toft. But no Toft appeared, and Mary, resentment still hot in her, opened the door of the library and went in to see her uncle. She felt that the sooner her story was told the better.
But the library was empty. Lights burned on the several tables, the wood fire smouldered on the hearth, the tall clock ticked in the silence, the old hound flopped his tail. But John Audley was not there.