Braxfield, who had been butler to Sir Anthony Markenmore, Baronet, of Markenmore Court, for thirty years, was a man of method. All his life he had cultivated the habit of doing certain things at certain times: the older he grew (and he was now a little over sixty) the more this habit grew upon him. Virtually, he was master of the house; Sir Anthony was an invalid who kept his room; Mr. Guy Markenmore, the elder son, had never crossed his father’s threshold for some years; Mr. Harry Markenmore, the younger son, preferred anybody but himself to exercise merely domestic authority; Miss Valencia Markenmore, the only daughter, had been but recently released from the schoolroom; accordingly, Braxfield, one way and another, and without seeming to do so, wielded a mild, unobtrusive autocracy. He had many good rules, and some others that were little better than fads—amongst the last was his trick of locking up the house at precisely eight o’clock every evening. Had anybody questioned Braxfield as to this curious regulation, the old butler would have given what he believed to be good reasons for his insistence upon it. Markenmore Court was a very old and a very large house, originally built in the last years of Queen Elizabeth, added to during the reign of Charles the Second, and finally restored and modernized in the time of George the Fourth. It stood on the slope of a gently-rising hill, a mile out of a village which had taken its name from the Markenmore family—a family that had been settled in those parts since the early days of the Norman Conquest; with the exception of a lodge at the entrance gates, there was no dwelling very near it. It possessed an unusual number of doors; doors opening on the terrace, on the courtyard, on the gardens, on the lawns, on the stables, on private walks that wound through the thick shrubberies; it had also corridors, galleries, chambers, little used by the family and the servants.
The family was small; the servants were few; for the Markenmores were comparatively poor, and kept up next to nothing of their ancient state. But poor though they were, they possessed a considerable share of gold and silver plate, of rare china, of valuable glass; there were also pictures in the house that were worth a fortune, and there was scarcely an apartment in which some easily removable thing that would have fetched a handsome price in the sale-room was not openly displayed.
Braxfield, a highly conscientious man, felt himself to be custodian of these family treasures, and he lived in perpetual, nervous fear of their being stolen. Had he been able to have his own way, he would have long since constructed a strong-room, fire-proof, thief-proof, and bundled into it everything of value that the old house contained. But the Markenmores, easily as they allowed their butler to rule them in certain things, were folk who would not permit interference with time-honoured custom and arrangement, and so gold cups and silver salvers, meticulously polished and carefully dusted, glittered in careless profusion on the massive oak sideboards, and rare ivories and priceless china stood on the open presses and ancient cabinets—as if, said Braxfield plaintively, they were of no more value than the trumpery things arranged in the museum of the neighbouring market-town. And therefore he locked up the house at eight o’clock every night, and carried the keys of some baker’s dozen of doors to his butler’s pantry: whoever, master or man, maid or mistress, desired to walk out of Markenmore Court, after that hour, had to apply to Braxfield for the means of egress.
On a certain evening in the third week of April, in the year 1912, Braxfield, the simple dinner to which Mr. Harry Markenmore and his sister Valencia sat down every night at seven o’clock, being well over, set out on his usual round of the doors. He always began with the smaller ones and ended up with the great triple door that opened on the terrace. And here came in another of his fads—before finally locking and bolting that door, Braxfield invariably stepped out on the terrace, crossed it to the balustrade which fenced it in from the widespreading park that stretched in front, and took a view of all that lay before him: he did this irrespective of the seasons; sometimes, therefore, as in the case of dark winter evenings, he saw nothing but gloom: in summer he saw a great deal of beauty. On this particular occasion he saw the twilight settling upon the old elms and beeches, and over the undulating meadows which lay between Markenmore and the level lands to the southward. The twilight was settling fast, then: within the few minutes during which Braxfield stood there, looking about him, he saw it through the dusk; the woods and coverts became blurred and indistinct shapes, and beyond them, a mile away, the lights of the village began to twinkle in the darkness. At that he turned towards the door—and then suddenly stopped. Somewhere behind him, a man, taking long rapid strides, was advancing across the lawn beneath the terrace.
There was a powerful lamp just within the big doorway: its rays spread fanwise across the terrace and over the steps which led to the lawn. As Braxfield lingered, wondering who it was that approached (for visitors of any sort were rare at Markenmore Court in those days) a tall figure strode into this arc of light and moved hurriedly up the steps, making for the door—the figure of a big, athletic man, whose evening clothes were only partly concealed by a light, unbuttoned overcoat. That he had not come far seemed evident from the fact that he was bareheaded; he looked, indeed, like a man who has hastily risen from his own dinner-table to hurry to a neighbour’s house. Yet the butler gave voice to a sharp, surprised exclamation at the sight of him.
“God bless my life and soul!” he said, as he started out of the shadow in which he was standing. “Mr. John Harborough? Welcome back, sir—I’d no idea you were home again.”
The man thus accosted, now in the full glare of the lamp, turned a bronzed face and a pair of keen, dark, deep-set eyes on the round cheeks and well-filled figure of the old butler. He stretched out his right hand, laughing.
“Hello, Braxfield!” he said cheerily, in the tone of one who greets an ancient acquaintance. “That you? Still going it as strong as ever, eh? You don’t look a day older.”
“Men don’t alter much at my age, sir,” replied Braxfield, shaking the offered hand respectfully. “That comes a bit later, Mr. Harborough. But—you’re really back, sir? I hadn’t heard of it—still, we don’t hear very much our way, now—quieter than ever at Markenmore Court, sir.”
“I only got home this afternoon, Braxfield,” answered Harborough. “And just as I was finishing my dinner I heard that Sir Anthony was ill, so I came straight across to hear about him? Is it serious?”
“Well, sir, he’s been a bit bad this last day or two,” said Braxfield. “He varies—of course, it’s now a good two years since he ever left his room. Between you and me, Mr. Harborough, he might go any time—any time. So the doctors say, sir.”
“Who’s here?” asked Harborough, glancing at the lighted windows in front.
“Nobody but Mr. Harry and Miss Valencia,” replied the butler. “Mr. Guy—ah, we haven’t seen him at Markenmore for—aye, it must be quite seven years. He went off—why, just about the time that you did, Mr. Harborough, and he’s never been back—never once! I don’t know where he is—I don’t believe they do, either.”
“Um!” said Harborough. “Harry, now—he was a boy when I went away, and Valencia—she was a slip of a girl.”
“Aye, sir,” said Braxfield, “but Mr. Harry’s now a young man of three-and-twenty, and Miss Valencia—she’s a young lady of well over nineteen. You’ve been away a long time, sir! But come in, Mr. Harborough, come in!—glad to see you at Markenmore again, sir.”
Harborough followed the old butler inside the house, and through the ancient stone hall, ornamented with deers’ antlers, foxes’ masks, old muskets, and other trophies of the chase and of country life, to a room which he remembered well enough—one which the family now used as a usual gathering-place. There was a bright fire of logs in the hearth; Braxfield pulled up a chair to it.
“Never use the drawing-room nowadays, Mr. Harborough,” he whispered confidentially. “This room does for everything—dining-room, sitting-room, and so on. Not as well off as we used to be, sir—eh? But—we’ve still a glass of rare good port wine for old friends! Can I get you anything, Mr. Harborough?—say the word, sir!”
“Nothing, nothing, Braxfield, thank you,” replied Harborough. He looked round and nodded at various objects. “I remember it all,” he murmured. “Nothing changed! Well, tell the young folks I’m here, Braxfield.”
He stood up by the mantelpiece—a heavily-built, finely-carved piece of old oak—when the butler had gone, and looked once more round the room. He had known that room when he was a boy, nearly thirty years before: it was then the breakfast and morning-room, and the most comfortable place in the big, rambling house. It was comfortable now, with its old furniture, old pictures, old books—everything in it suggested the antiquity of the family to whom it belonged. But in spite of the comfort, homely and sufficient, Harborough’s sharp eyes and acute perceptions noticed an atmosphere which he summed up in one word, Decay!—its evidences were all around him. Everything was wearing out, slowly, no doubt, but surely.
He looked up suddenly from the threadbare carpet on which he stood to see the door open, and a girl enter and come towards him with outstretched hand—a tall, lissome-figured girl, dark as all the Markenmores were, handsome, and somehow, in a way he could not immediately define, suggestive of life and spirit. She was a young beauty, and her freshness was all the more striking in those ancient surroundings: it struck Harborough so much, indeed, that he became tongue-tied, and held her hand and stared incredulously at her for a full minute before he found a word.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed at last, looking down at her, tall as she was, from his six-foot-two of feet and inches-. “Are—are you Valencia?”
“Nobody else—that I’m aware of!” she answered, with a laugh. “Didn’t you know me? I knew you.”
“Ah!” said Harborough. “I was already an oldish sort of chap when I went away!—nearly thirty. But you, then, you were——”
“Thirteen,” she broke in, with another laugh. “All legs and wings, I suppose. And so you have really come home again?”
She pointed to a chair, dropping into one herself, and Harborough sat down too, and continued to look at her, still marvelling that what he remembered as a somewhat plain and awkward child should have been transformed into this bright young creature.
“Only today,” he answered; “and as soon as I heard of your father’s illness I came straight across to enquire.”
“Thank you,” she said simply. “But I don’t think he is worse than he has been for a long time. He has bad days, of course—he was not so well yesterday—that’s no doubt why you came to hear anything. He is very old now, you know—and very feeble.”
“If there’s anything I can do?” suggested Harborough. “You see—I’ve come home for good. Nearly seven years of wandering.”
“You must have seen a great deal,” said Valencia.
“No end,” assented Harborough. “In all corners of the globe! But—I thought I’d never seen anything half so attractive as my own old house when I reached it, today! And I’m not going to leave it again. Settle down, you know.”
“Greycloister is a beautiful place,” said Valencia. “I have often walked through your park during your absence—and wondered how you could leave it so long.”
“I had reasons,” said Harborough. “However, here I am again, and very glad to see everybody once more. I’ve brought home a tremendous collection of all sorts of things—I hope you’ll come across and see them, soon?”
“Delighted!” replied Valencia. “I suppose you’ll make a sort of museum?”
“Give a lot of ’em away, I think,” said Harborough. “No end of things from one place or another. But—bless me, is this Harry?”
The door had opened again, and a young man had come quietly into the room. He was tall, thin, dark; he wore spectacles, and had a shy, reserved look about him that suggested the student. He smiled slightly as he shook hands with the visitor, but said nothing.
“Harry to be sure,” assented Valencia. “Changed, no doubt, as much as—as I have. Still—you remember him?”
“I remember that he went out shooting with me, in my woods, a day or two before I cleared off,” said Harborough. He looked from brother to sister with a ruminative inquisitiveness. These two were the younger lot, he was thinking: Guy Markenmore, their elder brother, son of Sir Anthony’s first marriage, was several years their senior; he would now be about Harborough’s own age. “Done a lot of shooting since those days, no doubt?” he continued, glancing at the brother. “Used to be famous, your lands, for game of all sorts.”
Harry Markenmore smiled again, and again said nothing; his sister replied for him.
“Harry’s not much of a sportsman,” she said. “He’s all for books and for business. He’s making an effort to—to pull things round. Somehow or other, the estate’s got into a poor way. There may be hares and rabbits and pheasants and partridges in plenty—perhaps—but there’s precious little money!”
“We had a bad steward,” remarked Harry Markenmore, finding his tongue, and giving Harborough a significant glance. “He let things slide. I’ve taken it over myself, during the last two years. But—all our land’s let too reasonably: the rents ought to be raised.”
“Stiff proposition, that,” said Harborough.
“Most of ’em want their rents reducing, instead of raising. I expect I shall have to go into matters of that sort myself—perhaps we can put our heads together.”
“Ah, but you aren’t dependent on your farm rents!” said Valencia with a knowing look. “You’ve got town property. You see what a knowing young woman I am! All we’ve got is rent from our farms—and we landed folk are doomed: we aren’t as well off as the people we let our land to. If Harry and I could do what we’d like, we’d sell, and be done with it.”
“A good way—sometimes,” said Harborough. “Why not?”
The brother and sister looked at each other.
“It’s entailed,” said Valencia.
She glanced at Harborough with meaning in her eyes, and Harborough nodded.
“Just so,” he remarked. “But—that could be got over if—if your elder brother was agreeable.”
Once more the other two exchanged glances.
“We don’t know where Guy is,” said Harry. “Nobody does—at least, nobody that we know. He’s never been heard of for—I think it’s nearly seven years.”
“It is seven years,” remarked Valencia. “I remember.” She looked again at Harborough. “He went away, suddenly, just before you did,” she added. “And that’s seven years ago.”
Harborough moved a little uneasily in his chair. He had no wish to be drawn into discussion of the Markenmore family secrets. But he felt a certain curiosity.
“Do you mean that—literally?” he asked.
“Absolutely!” replied Valencia. “None of us—and no one connected with us—have heard a word of him since then.”
“But—money matters?” suggested Harborough. “He’d want money. Has he never applied for any?—some allowance, for instance?”
“He’d money of his own,” said Harry. “His mother’s money all came to him at her death. No—it’s as Val says, we’ve never heard anything of him since he left Markenmore, and we don’t know where he is. I wish we did!—my father can’t last long.”
Harborough rose from his chair.
“Well, I must go,” he said. “You’ll be sure to let me know if there’s anything I can do? But you say Sir Anthony’s not in immediate danger?”
“Not immediate,” replied Harry. “But—any time. And, as he’s fidgety about not being left, you’ll excuse me if I go back to him? If he seems a bit stronger tomorrow, I’ll tell him you’re home again, and no doubt you can see him when you look in. You’ll come again soon?”
“Surely!” said Harborough. He walked into the hall with Valencia when Harry had gone, and once more gave her an admonitory look. “You’ll not forget to send for me if I can ever give any help?” he continued. “I’m not to be treated as a mere neighbour, you know—now that I’m back!”
“I’ll not forget,” she answered. She glanced round: at the far end of the shadow-laden hall Braxfield was just appearing, key in hand; she motioned Harborough aside. “There’s something I want to ask you,” she whispered. “Have you any idea why my brother Guy left home, and why he’s never returned? You!—yourself?”
Her eyes, big and dark, were fixed upon him with a peculiar earnestness, and she saw him start a little and compress his lips.
“Tell—me!” she said. “Me!”
Harborough, too, glanced at Braxfield: the old butler, unconscious of this intimate question—and—answer, was drawing nearer.
“I may know—something,” murmured Harborough. “If—if I think—on reflection—I ought to tell you—I will. Later.”
She gave him an understanding nod, a whispered word of thanks, and went away up the dark staircase behind them. And Braxfield, after a word or two with Harborough, let the visitor out, and locked the big door, and drew across it a weighty chair which had done duty in that respect for many a generation of Markenmores. The house was secured for the night.
Braxfield went back to his pantry—a snug and comfortable sitting-room at the end of the big main corridor. There was a bright fire there, and his easy, well-cushioned arm-chair placed by it. Now was his time of rest and recreation. All done, all quiet, he would smoke his pipe, read the newspaper, and enjoy his glass of whisky. His pipe lay ready to hand: the newspaper flanked it; he went to the cupboard to get out his decanter and his glass. And just as he laid hands on these things, Braxfield heard a sound. His fingers relinquished their hold, dropped to his side, began to tremble. For Braxfield knew that sound—it was familiar enough to him, though it was seven years since he had heard it last. He stood, listening—it came again; a tap, light but firm, three times repeated on the pantry window. And at that he left the room, turned down a side-passage, and opened a door that admitted to the rose garden. A man stepped in, and in the dim light of a neighbouring lamp the butler saw his face.
“Good Lord ha’ mercy!” he exclaimed, shrinking back against the wall. “Mr. Guy?”