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The Unbolted Door
by Mrs Belloc Lowndes

To-day, at almost the same place, oddly enough, she had had such an encounter with old Dr. Maynard which had not hurt, so much as angered, her. He had retired in 1919, and she never saw him alone, now. But this time his only son - a son the war had spared - had dropped him from their car, so that he might have a little walk.

The old man had taken her hand in his, and said feelingly, " I should like to think you happy, dear Mrs. Torquil." And, as she had shaken her head - she couldn't pretend to him - he had gone on, with a touch of real admiration in his feeble voice, "You're wonderful! You won't mind my saying so? But how young you keep! Why, this afternoon, you might be twenty-five instead of----"

"Nearly forty-five? Yes, and I do still feel young, worse luck. I'd give a good deal to feel old, Dr. Maynard."

And then he had said a word about her husband which brought the colour rushing up into her face. The doctor had always been chary of his words, but every word had always told. "Can't you bring yourself to be kind to him?" he had said, looking straight into her still lovely face. She had answered at once, and very coldly, " Not in the way you mean."

Shaking his white head sadly he had taken her hand in his again, "You must forgive an old friend - eh? " She had nodded quickly. But she had felt then, and she felt now, that she could not forgive that - yes, impertinent - question.

The twelfth stroke of the clock fell on the still air, and all at once she heard the electric light being turned out in the hall below, followed by the sound of her husband's footsteps coming up the stairs. There came over her an odd, unexpected impulse. Just to go out and bid him good night. But she restrained that impulse. All the same, she walked across to the door, and, turning off the light, noiselessly opened it a little way.

Jack Torquil was making his way up the easy stairs with the steps of an old man, though, as she and Dr. Maynard both knew, he was still young at heart, however deeply grief and hope deferred had scarred his face. And, still feeling moved by what their old manservant had unconsciously revealed, she waited to hear those slow footsteps make their way into the room which was no longer called "Mr. Torquil's dressing-room."

And then it was as if her heart stood still, for the handle of the unbolted door in the hall below turned in the darkness, and there came an upward rush of cold air, followed by her husband's startled shout, "Who goes there!"

There was a moment's pause, and after that pause, as if from infinitely far away, there rang out two words in a voice she had never thought to hear again, even in another life, for Anne Torquil had come not to believe the promise the Vicar had repeated, thinking to comfort her.

And the words uttered in her son's voice pierced her innermost soul, for "Poor father," was all her beloved had come back to say.

Then she heard Jack Torquil's eager, joyful - " John? My dear, dear boy!" and the sound of his feet pounding down the stairs.

As she rushed out to the circular gallery, she heard the handle turn again in the darkness. The lights below were put full on and, looking over the balustrade, she saw her husband standing in the empty hall, staring, with bewildered eyes, at the closed door.

At last he turned, and, looking up, saw her pale face and wide-open eyes gazing down.

"You heard him, too, Anne!"

Straightening herself, she ran round the gallery and so downstairs. There, with what had become a way of forgotten tenderness, she took his hand. " Of course I heard him too!"

The door opened, and he came in with the wind. Having said what was in his dear mind he went back - but where, Jack, where?"

Later that night, as Anne lay in his arms, John's father muttered, "He came back for you, my darling; to comfort you. That was quite right."

"For me, Jack? Oh no!"

"But he did, little love. Surely you heard what he said?" And she felt the surprise in his voice. She whispered, " What did he say - to you?"

"Only what you heard - only the two words, Anne, 'Dear mother.'"

He waited a moment, and then he said humbly, for he was a very simple kind of man, " Just to let you know, dearest, and perhaps to let me know, too, that all is well with the child."