With Monseigneur Forest, other than in his capacity of uncle and counsellor to Miss Valerie French, we are not concerned. It is necessary, however, to record that the dignitary was no fool. He was, in fact, a very wise man, able to understand most men and women better than they understood themselves. With such understanding, naturally enough, went a rare kindness of heart; the addition to these things of a fine sense of humour argued a certain favouritism on the part of a Providence which bestows upon ninety-and-nine mortals but one virtue apiece, and to the hundredth but two. Monseigneur Forest was, I suppose, a man in a million.
A letter of some importance, which his niece had sent him, reached him in Rome ere October was old.
DEAR UNCLE JOHN,
I want to see and talk to you very badly, but I can't leave England just now. I suppose you guess what is coming. I can see you smile. You're quite right. I've fallen in love.
Listen. I was out with poor little Joe in the country, and went to an inn for tea. And there was a man in the garden. I didn't know he was there till his dog and Joe started scrapping, and then he ran up to separate them. The moment I saw him—I don't know how to tell you. I just felt floored…. Then—instinctively, I suppose, for I hardly knew what I was doing—I tried to cover up this feeling. I was furious with him for knocking me out. Can you ever understand? And I was pretty rude. He took it wonderfully and just apologized—Heaven knows what for—and cleared out. The moment he was gone, I could have torn my hair. I actually went again to the inn, to try and find him, though what I should have done if I had I don't know….
Then I saw him again—not to speak to—as I was coming away from the Opera. Now hold on to something—tight! He was in livery—a footman's livery.
Yes. It made me jump, mentally, for the moment. Of course, I'd never dreamed of that. And then I realized that he must be down on his luck, and I felt so sorry for him I could have cried. As a matter of fact, I did cry. And then, all of a sudden, I knew that I loved him.
We met properly a week or two later by accident—on his part. You must forgive me. If you knew him, you would. And now we know one another properly, and he's in service quite close to Bell Hammer, with George and Betty Alison—didn't you meet them at Christmas? Lost all their money, and went out as chauffeur and parlourmaid. Anne, George's sister, is there, too. And he came to dinner the other night, and Aunt Harriet likes him, and we're—well, great friends.
And I don't know what to do. You see, he's terribly proud and honourable, and, to him, being a footman matters very much indeed. Of course it doesn't really matter in the least, but he would never look at it that way. And all my money, instead of making everything possible, as it might, only makes things worse.
What is to be done?
I can't blame him. Indeed, I'd hate him to feel any other way, and yet…. If only the positions were reversed. Then it would be too easy. As things are, it's a deadlock. And I love him so, Uncle John. I suppose you couldn't possibly come. I have a feeling that you would straighten things out.
Your loving niece, VALERIE.
P.S.—I'm so terribly afraid he'll disappear or something. He's like that.
Monseigneur Forest read the letter with a grave smile. Then he read it again very carefully, looking to see if there was anything unwritten between the lines. Only once did he raise his eyes from the note-paper. This he did meditatively. Before returning to the letter, he went farther and raised his eyebrows….
The cause of this elevation is worthy of note. It was, in fact, none other than the reference to Anne—and yet not so much the reference itself as the manner in which this was made. The prelate, you will remember, was no fool.
For that matter, he was not a god, either. Consequently, the counsel which he presently offered his niece had to be communicated by the material channel of the "common or garden" post, and was, in fact, nearing Modane when Valerie rounded the edge of a belt of Scotch firs in Hampshire to come upon Anthony Lyveden regarding an old finger-post in some perplexity.
As my lady came up, Lyveden uncovered and pointed to a weather-beaten arm, upon which the words FRANCE 4 MILES were still discernible.
"Can you help me?" he said.
Valerie smiled.
"I think so. This is a very old post—over a hundred years old. You know Hawthorne?"
"I ought to."
"Well, once upon a time the village was called France. But during the Napoleonic wars the name was changed. For obvious reasons."
"And they forgot to alter this?" said Anthony, nodding at the cracked grey wood.
Valerie shook her head.
"No one would do the work. You know they used to bury suicides at the cross-roads? Well, one was buried here. That was when—when the post was set up…."
A little shiver accompanied her words.
"I see," said Anthony. "The body was staked, wasn't it? What a barbarous old world it was! I don't wonder they were afraid of the place."
"It's supposed to have been an old usurer who came from these parts and had ruined all sorts of people in his time."
"And why did he kill himself?" said Anthony.
"I forget. There was some mystery about it. I remember an old, old shepherd telling me some of the tale, when I was a little girl, and my nurse came up in the middle and scolded him and snatched me away."
"Quite right, too," said Anthony. "And if she was here now, History would probably repeat itself." With a sweep of his arm he indicated the country-side. "Was this your nursery?"
Valerie nodded.
"In the summer." She hesitated. "I'll show you my window, if you like. It's the best part of a mile, though."
Anthony laughed and turned to summon his terrier.
"Patch and I," he said, "have at least one afternoon a week. As long as I'm back in time to lay the table…."
A moment later he was stepping along by her side.
It had not occurred to him to ask what "her window" might be. If she had offered to show him the mouth of hell, he would have assented as blindly. Whither he went and what he saw did not matter at all, so he was to be in her company. All the same, his instinct pulled him by the sleeve. Hazily he reflected that to retrace such steps as you have taken along the path of Love is a bad business, and that the farther you have elected to venture, so much the more distressing must be your return. And he would have to return. In the absence of a miracle, that journey could not be avoided. For an instant the spectre of Reckoning leaned out of the future…. Then Patch flushed a stray pig, and Valerie laughed joyously, and—the shadow was gone. Cost what it might, Anthony determined to pluck the promise of the afternoon with an unsparing hand.
He had walked in the direction of Bell Hammer for the same reason that had caused Valerie French to bend her young steps towards Hawthorne. Each drew the other magnetically. It was not at all strange, therefore, that they should have met. Neither, since the attraction was mutual, is it surprising that the effect of each other's company was exhilarating to a degree. Together, they were at the very top of their bent. If the man trod upon air, the maid was glowing. His lady's breath sweetened the smell of autumn; the brush of her lord's jacket made the blood pelt through her veins. Grey eyes shone with the light that blue eyes kindled. Each found the other's voice full of rare melody—music to which their pulses danced in a fierce harmony. The world was all glorious….
Here was no making of love, but something finer—nothing less, indeed, than the jewel natural, uncut, unworked, unpolished, blazing out of a twofold crown that sat, yoke-like, upon their heads for all to see. Since, however, they met no one, the diadem was unobserved….
So Jack and Jill passed with full hearts by yellow lanes into the red-gold woods, and presently along a bridle-path that curled mysteriously into a great sunlit shoulder of forest, where the driven leaves fussed over their footsteps, and the miniature roar of a toy waterfall strove to make itself heard above the swish and crackle of the carpet the trees had laid.
"I'll tell you one thing I've learned," said Lyveden.
"What?" said Valerie.
"That what you do doesn't matter half as much as who you do it with. I found that out in the Army. The work didn't matter. The discomfort, the food, didn't count—comparatively. It was the company you had to keep that made the difference."
"'Better is a dinner of herbs,'" quoted Valerie.
"Exactly. And it's the same now. I don't say I'd pick out a footman's job, but there's nothing the matter with the work. Everything depends on the other servants. My first two places nearly broke my heart: with the Alison crowd——"
He hesitated, and Valerie completed the sentence.
"Everything in the garden is lovely," she said slowly.
"Comparatively—yes. Of course, it's—it's only a back garden."
"Is it?"
Anthony nodded.
"Entered by the back door and approached by the back stairs. You can't get away from it."
"I can," said Valerie. "Speak for yourself. It's you who can't—won't get away from it. They say that in Russia there are noblemen sweeping the streets. If one of them was a friend of yours, would you turn him down because he carried a broom? Of course you wouldn't."
"No, but——"
"But what?"
"The first duty of a servant," said Anthony, "is to know his place."
Valerie stood still and looked at him.
"I wonder you don't call me 'miss,'" she said, shaking her head gravely.
"Very good, miss," said Lyveden.
"That's better," said Miss French contentedly, slipping an arm through his. "And now, if we leave the path and bear to the right, in about two minutes we shall come to my window."
The two had been climbing steadily, but another fifty paces in the direction Miss French had indicated brought them to the foot of a steeper ascent than ever. This was, in fact, a broad natural bank, some thirty feet high. The careful negotiation of a tiny path, followed by a plunge into a thicket, where the stubborn protests of boughs had to be overruled, landed them in a dwarf clearing, which the density of the surrounding bocage rendered a fastness.
Valerie stepped to the far side and parted the branches.
"Look," she said.
They were upon the lip of a heather-edged bluff which fell sheer for perhaps two hundred feet into a pinewood. Beyond, by mammoth terraces, the glory of the forest sank step by colossal step into the purple distance, from which distant in turn a thread of silver argued the ocean. There never was such a staircase. The grandeur of its proportions diminished the rolling world. The splendour of its covering made colour pale.
Anthony gazed spellbound. At length—
"I didn't know there was such a view in all England," he said.
Miss French smiled. Then she moved cautiously forward, till she was clear of the bushes, there to sit down upon a billowing cushion of heather which grew conveniently about as close to the edge of the bluff as it was prudent to venture. Abstractedly Anthony followed her and, after a glance about him, took his seat by her side upon a patch of gravel.
"I'm in your debt," he said simply. "Deeper than I was before."
Valerie nodded at the wonder of landscape.
"I'll make you a present of this," she said. "What else do you owe me for?"
Anthony spread out his hands.
"Your society," he said.
"You've paid for that—with your own."
"Your pity, then."
"I've never pitied you," said Valerie.
"You've stooped," said Anthony.
"I've not stooped," was the fierce reply.
"We won't argue it," said Anthony. "I owe you for your—your interest, at any rate. You've been good enough to interest yourself in my——"
"Aren't—you—interested?" said Valerie, staring into the distance and seeing nothing.
For a long minute the man sat motionless, not seeming to breathe. Then—
"Yes," he said slowly, "I am. And that's the devil of it." With a sudden jerk he was on one knee beside her and had caught her hand. "Oh, lady, don't you see? That's what kills everything. Am I interested? Good God, I'm—I'm crazy! I can think of nothing else. You blot out everything in the world. Whatever I do, or say, or think, you're always there. There's nothing but you, you, you! And you ask if I'm interested!"
A wandering puff of salt air swooped out of the windless sky, ruffled his thick dark hair, and was gone, panting. A gull sailed close to them, circled, dipped and sped seaward with a smooth rush. The league-long shadow of a cloud swept stately over the gleaming woods, driving the sunlight before it, itself driven before the twin of its prey…. The silver wire of silence became more and more tense. Each second gave another turn to the screw. Valerie began to tremble….
"And that," said Lyveden at last, "that's why we can't be friends. I can't be your friend because I love you; and I mustn't love you because——"
"Why?"
"Because it's out of the question," he flashed. "Don't tempt me, Valerie. You know it is. I'm crying for something that's utterly, hopelessly, laughably out of my reach. I haven't the right to the moonlight, and I want—the moon."
He stopped suddenly and dropped his head, ashamed that he had let his passion ride him so recklessly, limp after his outburst, sick at heart for the truth of his words.
Valerie sat very still, exultation and anxiety fighting for a grip on her heart. Anthony had told his love, raved of her, called her by name. (Anxiety's claw-like fingers began to yield.) The very intensity of his utterance declared his conviction that he must give her up. The exceeding bitterness of his tone rang too true to be ill-founded. (Exultation's clutch weakened, and Anxiety took a fresh hold.) Of a sudden Valerie felt persuaded that Time could win her battle, could she but gain his aid. As if to establish this persuasion, the reflection that the old fellow had straightened more crookedness than any other minister of love came to her hotfoot, and then and there she made up her mind to court him. She yearned to put her arms about her man's neck, but felt that somehow that way lay ruin. Anthony being what he was, it was all-important that she should not show him her hand. He had seen—should see a card or two, certainly. That the rest were the same, card for card, as those he had just flung down, in his present mood he must on no account realize. Such knowledge were fatal. He would, presumably, kiss her, and then call Patch and walk out of her life for ever. So long, however, as he did not believe her lovesick, he would—well, he would not disappear, at any rate. There are who lay hold on hopelessness rather faster than they lay hold on life….
"Anthony, dear," said Valerie, "let's—please don't let go of my hand—let's look for a way out. You know, I think——"
What she would have said should not matter to us. We have peered into her brain-pan. The sentence, however, was never completed, and that for a reason which shall pass muster.
On perceiving that Valerie and he were moving, Anthony for a moment of time suspected an earthquake. Almost instantaneously he appreciated that, while it affected him pretty closely, it was a much smaller matter—nothing more, in fact, than the giving way of that portion of the cliff upon which the two were disposed. It was typical of the man that he neither swore nor cried out, and of the soldier that he thought and acted simultaneously…. By the mercy of Heaven, he was, as you know, upon one knee. Had he been sitting, like his companion, they must have gone with the avalanche. As it was, they were able, after a painful silence, to hear this crash evilly with a dull roar into the pinewood.
The echoes rumbled curiously into the distance, and a startled medley of cries rose from all manner of birds, which soared out of their shelter, dismayed and whirling. One bird was fairly gibbering. Miss French and Lyveden both noticed it. Valerie found herself wondering whether it had lost its wits.
For the perfection to which their senses focussed these and other very ordinary things, their plight was responsible. It has been said that the faculty of observation is never so pronounced as when the observer is face to face with Death. Anthony and the lady were looking him in the eyes. The pair of them was, in fact, hanging in space, dangling two hundred feet up, with an inch and a half of ash-plant between them and Eternity.
With his right hand Lyveden was grasping the slender trunk of a sapling which grew three feet to an inch from the new edge of the bluff. As he was, arm and all, at full length, it follows that from the breast-bone downwards the whole of him was over the cliff. Valerie was altogether in mid-air. She was directly suspended, with her back flat against Anthony, by the latter's left arm, which if he had released she would have fallen plumb into the pinewood….
In a quiet voice Lyveden was speaking.
"Try and free your right arm."
Providentially, the girl's elbow was on a level with the edge, and at the expense of a torn sleeve she was able to work the arm free and on to the heather. This, when pulled, came away in her hand. Her fingers scratched upon the gravel frantically. No handfast was there. After a moment they abandoned the search.
"Now the other arm."
This was pinioned by her supporter's. By dint, however, of almost dislocating her shoulder, she managed to disengage it.
Again she waited for instructions.
None came, however, for Anthony could not think what to do. She could not turn, and he could not turn her. Neither could he haul them both up. He had not the strength. As it was, the strain upon his two arms was frightful—too frightful to last…. If she could have held herself for five seconds, he could have dragged himself up and the girl after him; but she could get no shadow of hold upon the ground. And all the time his arms were tiring—both of them—tiring rapidly….
The muscles under his arm-pits were aching unbearably, and there was a queer tingling in his right wrist.
As he looked at this, he saw how it was quivering. His left arm was quivering, too. He could feel it. He realized with a shock that this was a movement over which he had no control. Nature, apparently, was rebelling against his will…. And his fingers, crooked about the trunk of the sapling, were getting hot—making the bark greasy….
Convulsively he sought foothold for the thirtieth time, but, except for tweaking the agony in his chest, the effort was vain. Desperately he blinked the sweat out of his eyes….
Patch appeared upon the scene, snuffing the ground casually enough. His surprise to see his master in so strange an attitude was unmistakable. After a moment's reflection he decided that the position was that required by the rules of a new game in which he was intended to participate. He therefore made ready to play, and, lowering his head to his paws, put up his nose and barked joyously.
"Come here, Patch," said Anthony.
The tone was not that of the playground, and the terrier obeyed mechanically—circumspectly, too, though, for he disliked heights.
Anthony addressed his companion.
"When he's near enough, take hold of his collar. Hang on like grim death. Listen! My arm's giving out. I'm going to let you go while I pull myself up. It's the only chance. You're light, and he'll stick his toes in. Put a strain on him now, so that he's ready."
"I shall pull him over," said Valerie.
"No, you won't, dear. Do as I say. Quick!"
He almost screamed the last word.
The moment he felt the strain, the terrier resisted wildly. Planting his forefeet against the heather-roots, he refused with all the instinctive terror of the dumb animal, straining every muscle of his little thick-set frame to avoid a closer acquaintance with that horrible brink….
Very gently Anthony lowered his companion till her arm was resting upon the turf and the edge of the cliff was in her arm-pit. Then—
"Only a second, sweet," he said quietly, and let her go….
With a frightful heave he was on his stomach … on his thighs … his knees … feet. He turned, staggering.
His back hunched like a cat's, Patch was sliding forward.
In a flash Lyveden had stooped, caught Valerie's arm with both hands, dug in his heels and flung himself backward….
The three landed in a heap anyhow.
The moment he was at length detached from Valerie, Patch retired a good score of paces from the edge of the bluff. He had had enough of cliffs for the rest of his life. His master's interpretation of games was usually brilliant. This last was an exception. He could see nothing in it.
* * * * *
Betty Alison laid her hand orderly upon the green baize, with the complacent air of the player who is presenting his or her partner with all the essential factors of Grand Slam.
After staring fixedly at the display, her husband put his cards face downwards upon the table and covered his eyes.
"I suppose," he said brokenly, "I suppose you had a reason for overbidding me. I confess I can't see it, but I expect that's because it's too subtle."
"What d'you mean?" was the indignant reply. "Look at those"—and Betty pointed proudly to a queen-high flush of six diamonds.
"But you called hearts!"
Betty started. Then—
"So I did," she said guiltily. "I meant diamonds."
"I see," said her husband grimly. "After all, they're both red, aren't they?"
Here the laughter which Anne and Anthony had been endeavouring to restrain broke out tempestuously. Betty's procedure and bearing at the Bridge table would have unhinged an enthusiast, but since the four domestics played for amusement and a penny a hundred her short-comings hurt nobody and were highly diverting.
With a sorrowful look at his opponents, George proceeded laboriously to amass three tricks.
With the game went the rubber, and by mutual consent the party broke up. It was half-past nine, and all had duties to do. Anne went singing to fill Mrs. Bumble's hot-water bottle, and Betty to heat the milk which it was her mistress's practice to consume at bed-time. Mr. Bumble, as became his sex, favoured something more substantial, and light refreshment in the shape of a ham sandwich and a bottle of beer before retiring suited him admirably. In Anthony he had a conscientious victualler. The sandwich was invariably fresh, the bottle of beer untasted, the glass clean. Mr. Bumble had marked these qualities and hugged himself.
This night, when Anthony entered the dressing-room, his master was sitting coatless upon a chair.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Lyveden, "I hope you've not been waiting."
"No, no," was the cheery reply. "Not your fault, me boy. I'm early. There now! Maria!" Mrs. Bumble appeared in her doorway in a red dressing-gown. "Look at that there tray, me dear. Ain't it a treat?"
"Deluscious!" said Mrs. Bumble.
"The very look," continued Mr. Bumble, "o' that sanwidge makes me that 'ungry you wouldden believe."
"May I cut you another one, sir?" said Anthony.
"'Ark at the boy," said his employer. "Wants ter kill me with kindness. Why, I could eat sixty, I could. But one's too many, reelly, at my time o' life."
"Joo drink beer, Tony?" inquired Mrs. Bumble.
"Yes, madam."
"Then go an' 'ave a nice bottle," she said, beaming.
"Thank you very much, madam."
"Yes, an' give George one," said Mr. Bumble, not to be outdone in generosity.
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't mention it," was the agreeable reply.
Anthony bade them "Good night" and left them breathing good-will.
As he descended the stairs, the particular verity of the adage which Valerie had quoted upon a memorable afternoon nearly three weeks ago appealed to him forcibly. "Better is a dinner of herbs where love is." Certainly he was leading the humble life. Born and educated to administer, if not to rule, here was he fetching and carrying, a hewer of ham and a drawer of corks. He wondered if there were any other footmen who were also Companions of the Distinguished Service Order. That there were no other footmen who were so comfortably housed, he was sure. And Patch was in clover. Anthony reflected that he had much to be thankful for. A dinner of herbs was infinitely better than none at all. He was, you observe, unconsciously converting the proverb to his own use. Stalled oxen, with or without hatred, were not nowadays in his line. He had quite forgotten what they were like, and cared as little. Indeed, but for Valerie, his Ambition would have been dead. Even now it lay very sick. High stomachs are easily upset. But a nodding acquaintance with Hunger will make Ambition turn her face to the wall.
The duty of George Alison at nine-thirty was to take the dogs for a run. When he returned this evening to find Anthony in the act of setting two bottles of beer upon the table, he lifted up his voice and thanked Heaven that he had at least one friend.
"Thirteen perishing months," he concluded, "have I been in this house, and this is the first time I've ever had an extra rum ration. And that with my own flesh and blood, to say nothing of a lawful wife, running round the Bumbles from morning till night. I admit that on two several occasions your predecessor produced to me my master's liquor, but his ribald reception of my inquiry whether such production was authorized left me no alternative but to refuse to consume it."
"What's that?" said Betty, bustling into the room. "I recognized the tone of abuse, but I couldn't hear the words."
"My love," said George, "I was but remarking that beer is thicker than water. And now will you take my boots off before you clean them? Or clean them first and take them off afterwards?"
Betty Alison seated herself upon the table and raised her husband's glass to her lips.
"I looks," she said, "towards you."
When she set it down, the glass was half empty.
After a moment's silence—
"You've—you've left some," said her husband in a shaking voice.
"I know," she said. "That's because I can't drink any more. I hate beer." She slipped off the table with a yawn. "And now I'm going to bed. Don't let him sit up, Anthony. The car's ordered for nine, and he's got to get a new tire on."
"Where are we going?" said Lyveden.
"First meet of the season," said George. "I forgot to tell you. Buck's Folly, the Bumbles think, but they're not certain. Deuce of a job for me, I tell you. Everybody drives anywhere and anyhow. You're backed into, you're always being called on to stop your engine, you're expected to be able to turn in a six-foot lane and to manoeuvre on a marsh as if it was wood pavement. To do any good, you want something between a gyroscope and a Tank. A car's useless."
"Stacks of people, obviously," said Anthony.
"Unfortunately, yes. Hardened as I am, I'm not looking forward to that side. I suppose you hunted—in the old days."
Anthony nodded.
"At Oxford, and sometimes with the Blackmore Vale. My uncle had a house in Dorset."
"Ah! We used to do a bit with the Pytchley before—before the War."
For a moment nobody spoke.
One and all they had stumbled into the closet of Memory. Pictures of dead days stared at them—days when they had come and gone as they pleased, before there had been a new earth and, seemingly, a new heaven. Old sounds rang in their wistful ears, forgotten scents came floating out of the darkness…. The closet grew into a gallery….
"Good night," said Betty quietly. "Don't sit up late."
She slipped out of the room.
It was a tired face that George Alison raised to Anthony.
"Thank your stars," he said jerkily, "that you aren't married. I don't matter. I don't mean I like service, but I'm well enough off. But Bet—poor Bet. Think what her life should be, and then look at what it is. And her father's worth half a million. He cut her off when she married me. I had enough for two then, so it didn't much matter. But now…. She's wonderful—perfectly marvellous, but—it's hard to see her hands getting rough, man. Very hard. Her hands…."
Anthony crossed the room and touched him upon the shoulder.
"If I were married," he said, "I should feel just the same. And then there'd be two fools instead of one. My dear fellow, if Betty regretted her bargain, then she'd need your sympathy. As it is, so long as she's got you, d'you think she cares whether she wears sables or an apron?"
"But you saw how she dried up just now."
"Shall I tell you why?" said Anthony.
"Why?"
"Because to-morrow morning you're going to a meet in blue, and she's sorry it can't be pink."
The two finished their beer, and George retired somewhat comforted.
As he had predicted, their attendance of the meet the next morning was only effected at the expense of more patience than Alison possessed. He was forced, in fact, to borrow from Anthony. Indeed, he afterwards confessed that, but for the latter's presence, he should undoubtedly have committed an aggravated assault.
The vicinity of Buck's Folly proved to be suspiciously vacant, and upon arrival at the standpoint itself if was instantly and painfully clear that the Bumbles had been mistaken. A passing butcher, when interrogated, grinningly vouchsafed the information that the meet was at Saddle Tree Cross, a spot of which all the occupants of the car had heard, but the way to which no one of them could tell.
Swelling with importance, Mr. Bumble produced a map, and George's face fell. He had seen that map before—from a distance. So had others. No one but Mr. Bumble had ever seen it at close quarters. Unhappily for all concerned, the latter's accomplishments did not include map-reading, an omission distressingly obvious to every one but himself. To follow his directions was fatal. Failure to appreciate his directions was at once easier and more disastrous. What was still more unfavourable was that, in possessing himself of the map, Mr. Bumble became possessed of a devil. There was no doubt about it. From being the most kindly of masters he became a snarling absurdity, whose endeavours simultaneously to study the canvas, observe the configuration of the country-side, and rave into the speaking-tube were consistently vain. George raised his eyes to heaven and prepared for the worst….
This came almost immediately.
After having obediently turned the car round, George was peremptorily advised that, after all, he had been facing the right way. Mr. Bumble rather unfairly added that in his opinion the fool who had made the map ought to be prosecuted. The warmth with which he committed this belief to the speaking-tube rendered it not so much inaudible as incoherent, and George, who believed it to be a further direction, had to ask him to repeat the remark. By the time Mr. Bumble had realized that he was being addressed and had placed his ear to the tube, George had concluded his inquiry and was patiently listening at the opposite end….
With such a beginning, the rest was easy. The wheels of wrath were greased. Thereafter it was no longer a question of revolution, but of speed. At times the velocity attained was appalling.
Seven hideous miles slunk staggering by.
Mrs. Bumble, of course, had been in tears from the outset. Anthony, as we know, was busily engaged in administering comfort, temporal and spiritual. The difficulty was to get George to take the nourishment.
"The fool's like a drowning man," he protested, "with his arms round your neck. Your only chance is to hit him under the jaw. Get out and do it."
Mr. Bumble had just formed and blasphemously announced the horrifying resolve to return to Buck's Folly and start all over again, when Anthony heard a horse whinny. In a flash he was on the running-board and touching his hat.
"I think we're just there, sir," he ventured.
Mr. Bumble hesitated, George set his foot upon the accelerator, and a moment later they swept round a bend to see the familiar medley of cars and dog-carts, bicycles and phaetons, saddle-horses and governess-cars, writhing below them upon a high-road into which the lane they were using almost immediately debouched.
With a sigh of relief, Mr. Bumble dropped the map and proceeded to mop his face….
Comparatively, the chauffeur's troubles were over. After such a drubbing, the nuisance of the congestion to which they were soon contributing was like a flick on the collar, and ten minutes later the car was berthed safely with two or three others upon an apron of turf.
Mr. and Mrs. Bumble alighted, and George and Anthony were left to themselves.
Then another car squirmed out of the ruck of vehicles and came rolling on to the sward. The gentleman ensconced upon its back seat was for the saddle, and plainly glad of it. His careless, handsome face was radiant, his manner full of an easy, inoffensive confidence, his gaiety—to judge from his companions' laughter—infectious. His turn-out was simple, but faultless. Despite the fact that he was sitting between Lady Touchstone and Valerie, Anthony liked the look of him.
Since their experience upon the edge of the cliff, Lyveden had not till now set eyes upon the lady. Unwilling to visit her home, he had inquired by letter how she was doing. After receiving two little notes, each of which assured him that she was not one penny the worse, he wrote no more. Letters and notes were sober and to the point. Any one might have read them. The truth is, the two were love-shy.
Give to a dog a finer and meatier bone than he has ever dreamed of, and mark his reception of your favour. Ten to one he will be afraid of it. He will walk about the fragment delicately; possibly he will touch it with the tip of an envious tongue; presently he will lie down at a respectful distance, watching it with big eyes. The thing is too vast for him. He must have time to become familiar with his stupendous luck.
So with Miss French and Lyveden. The gods had tossed the two title-deeds of a dream so wonderful that they were frightened. The gift was too precious to be handled at once. Like the poor dog they must have time….
You will understand, gentlemen, that this was no ordinary affair of love. Convenience had had no hand in it. My tale had been shorter if she had thrust but the tip of a finger into the pie. Pity, Selfishness, Gratitude—none of the stock emotions went to the making of the foundations of this fabric. It was not founded at all. Neither had it grown out of friendship. It had no infancy. Had the two never met, it is probable that—circumstances permitting—each would some day have fallen in love with somebody else. And that would have been a regular business. Convenience, Friendship, and other hard-working matchmakers would all have put shoulders to the wheel and clapped one another on the back when the banns were published. The fact that the two had met saved, in a way, infinite trouble.
Valerie had many swains, and more than a few women had looked twice at Anthony. Such hearts, however, as had bleated for their sympathy had either bleated altogether in vain, or, finding the sympathy vouchsafed not at all what they wanted, bleated more fiercely than before. All the same, the two were not seraphim. They were mortal enough, and, if more than ordinarily attractive, revealed upon close examination a very ordinary collection of failings. The wonder was not in themselves. The fact that their natures were in just accord, was, at the most, curious. It was true, nevertheless. Each wanted precisely what the other was ready to give. Their personalities agreed like two indentures—proved themselves mutual elixirs. The wonder began and ended when they encountered one another. It was then that the seed of love flashed into bloom. Miracles alone beget miracles. Parallel lines had met.
The sight of Valerie gladdened Anthony's eyes. He sat very still in his seat, staring under the wind screen and wondering whether she would recognize his back. He hoped that it was not because of her mishap that she was not in a habit. He could hardly be expected to divine the true reason. This was, shortly, that the lady, who had expected to see him, could not enjoy a pastime from participation in which footmen are for a variety of reasons so rigorously debarred. Incidentally, she had seen Anthony before he had seen her, and the smile with which he had credited her companion's bonhomie was due to his presence alone. Had this been explained to the young sportsman, as one of Valerie's swains it would have spoiled his day. As it was, he emerged from the car with the genial air of one who is in high favour, and, after a word with a groom who had come up bustling, mounted a good-looking grey and, waving his hat to the ladies, proceeded to join his fellows with his eyes sparkling and his chin on his shoulder.
"Mason," said Lady Touchstone.
The chauffeur, who had descended, sprang to the door.
"Open the door." The man did so, and her ladyship alighted. "I'm going to look at the hounds. You'd better come with me."
"Very good, my lady."
The pair moved off in single file.
Though the office was new to him, the dignity of Mason's demeanour was irreproachable. It was clear that the blood of flunkeys was in his veins. As a matter of fact, one hundred years before, his grandfather had done much escort duty, with a band on his hat and a cane in his hand. Though Mason did not know it, the manner had been bred in his bone.
"'Ere's a lady wants yer."
This was quite true. Miss French had not put it so bluntly, but it was not her fault that the messenger she had selected knew a footman when he saw one.
Major Anthony Lyveden thanked his informant with a smile. Had it been Caliban himself that had growled the message, the smile would have been as ready. Such a summons lost nothing in the telling.
George received the intimation that his colleague would be back in a minute apathetically. He was yet in some dudgeon. Beyond heaving a sigh charged with the resignation of a martyr who remembers that he has left his gloves in the torture-chamber, he evinced no interest at all.
Anthony crossed the turf to where Miss French sat smiling in a brown laudaulette, and touched his hat. Appearances had to be kept up. Valerie inclined her head gravely enough, but the look with which she honoured his action was not of this world. Anthony felt astoundingly rich.
"How are you?" he asked anxiously.
"Perfectly all right."
"Sure?"
Valerie nodded, smiling.
"I wasn't even tired the next day," she said. "Were your arms very stiff?"
"Only for a day or two."
"And Patch?"
"As right as rain."
"Will you be free on Sunday?" said Valerie.
"From two o'clock on."
"Will you come to Bell Hammer?"
"I will," said Anthony.
"I'll come to meet you with the two-seater. To-morrow I'm going away. Aunt Harriet has to go to London. Have—have you been back … since?"
"To your window?"
"To our window," said Valerie.
Anthony nodded.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I—I can't keep away."
It was true. The place fascinated him. Tremendous happenings had made it a shrine. Already worshipful as Valerie's bower, the ledge was freshly consecrate to two most excellent saints—Love Confessed and Life Triumphant.
"I thought you had," said Valerie. "I saw your footsteps. And—oh, please don't go so close to the edge, Anthony. Promise me you won't. It—it frightens me so."
Love lent the words an earnestness which there was no mistaking. My lady leaned forward, with her hand gripping the woodwork. There was a strained, pleading look upon the beautiful face, the proud lips humbling themselves, the glorious eyes beggars—Royalty upon its knees.
Quite naturally, Anthony's heart answered her.
"I promise, sweet," he said.
The vocative transfigured the lady. Anthony found himself mirrored in two dew-burning stars. To deck her favourite, Nature had robbed the firmament. To see such larceny, it is not surprising that the round world stood still….
With a supreme effort Anthony pulled himself together.
"Patch is too funny," he said. "He'll come as far as the bank—you know, below the thicket—and not a step farther. He just stands there and wags his tail apologetically. And there at the foot of the bank he waits until I return."
Valerie laughed merrily.
"Poor little dog," she said. "It was enough to——"
"I say, Val, did I leave my flask in the car?"
The two had been too much absorbed to observe the return of the fresh-faced youngster, and the latter's words cut their communion short, much as the sudden rasp of curtain-rings scatters the rear of slumber. It was providential that the world was moving again. The suspension of perpetual motion would have been bound to excite remark. As it was, the new-comer was upon the very edge of staring, when—
"Let me introduce Mr. Every—Major Lyveden," said Valerie. The two men nodded mechanically and murmured politeness. "Yes, you did, Peter. Here you are." She plucked the lost property from the bowels of the seat and rose to restore it. "By the way," she added adroitly, "now's your chance. Major Lyveden'll tell you whether you ought to wash a horse's legs."
Thus appealed to—
"Unless," said Anthony, "you've got a groom in a million, I shouldn't advise it. It means mud-fever."
"There you are," said Valerie, doubly triumphant.
The youth's face was a study. Respect was fairly bundling Astonishment out of the way. Anthony had spoken as one having authority, and Every was visibly impressed.
"You really think so, sir?"
With one accord Valerie and Anthony smiled. The employment of the title was at once so irregular and so appropriate. Instinct had shown herself to be above raiment. Surely no manner of man ever was paid so exquisite a compliment.
A motor-horn coughed, and Anthony glanced over his shoulder. Then—
"I must go," he said quietly. "Good-bye."
He touched his cap with a smile and left them. Every gazed after him with his hat in his hand. Then he looked at Valerie with wide eyes.
"But—but he's a footman," he said stupidly.
* * * * *
When upon the following day Anthony admitted that he had never seen the view from The Beacon, the Alisons, all three, cried out upon the omission with no uncertain voice.
The four were breakfasting.
"But," declared Anne, "you simply must see it. It's the most wonderful view in the world."
Anthony doubted this. He did not say so, of course, but he would have staked a month's wages that he could have shown them a finer. As it was, he expressed politely enthusiastic astonishment.
"It is, really," said Betty. "And the tints at this time of year—why, even George raves about it!"
"That's right," said her husband. "Never lose an opportunity of insult. Why 'even George'? Can't a chauffeur have a soul?"
"Who went to sleep at the Russian Ballet?" said Betty.
"Go on," said George. "Rake over the muck-heap. And what if I did? The music suggested slumber. I merely adopted the suggestion."
"Did it also suggest that you should snore?" said his wife. "Or was that your own idea?"
George touched Anthony on the arm and nodded towards the speaker.
"Look at the scorn in that eye," he said. "See? The one that's looking our way."
With an air of unutterable contempt, Betty lighted a cigarette and then hurled the matchbox at her unsuspecting spouse. The missile ricocheted off his chin and fell noisily into the cup of tea which was halfway to his lips….
When order had been restored—
"He must see it at once," said Betty. "Before the leaves fall."
"The view, or the ballet?" said George.
"Idiot!" She turned to Anne. "Why don't you take him this afternoon? It's his day out, and you know you can always go."
"Yes, please do," said Anthony.
He could not very well have said anything else. Besides, Anne was all right. He liked her. There was, of course, but one woman in the world. Still Anne was a good sort, and he would not have hurt her feelings for anything.
The matter was arranged then and there.
Seven hours later the two, with Patch, were tramping over a rising moor towards a dense promise of woodland which rose in a steep slope, jagged and tossing. This day the ragamuffin winds were out—a plaguy, blustering crew, driving hither and thither in a frolic that knew no law, buffeting either cheek, hustling bewildered vanes, cuffing the patient trees into a dull roar of protest that rose and fell, a sullen harmony, joyless and menacing. The skies were comfortless, and there was a sinister look about the cold grey pall that spoke of winter and the pitiless rain and the scream of the wind in tree-tops, and even remembered the existence of snow.
"I wish it was a better day," said Anne. "It's always worth seeing; but you won't see so far to-day, and there's no sun."
Anthony glanced at the sky.
"Unless," he said, "it's worth seeing when the trees are bare, it's just as well we're going there to-day. That sky means mischief. Are you sure you're warm enough?"
Anne laughed.
"Supposing I said I wasn't," she said, "what would you do about it? Give me your coat?"
Anthony stood still.
"I should take you home—quick," he said gravely.
Honestly he hoped that she would waver. He had never wanted to come. Left to himself, he and Patch would have walked—elsewhither. Had he not known that Valerie was away, he would have excused himself at breakfast. Not for anything in the world would he have forfeited a chance of meeting her. Poor Anne's feelings would have had to rough it.
"I'm as warm as toast," said Miss Alison cheerfully. "And I know you don't want to come," she added, bubbling, "but you've just got to. You'll thank me afterwards."
Fiercely as he protested his innocence, Anthony felt extremely guilty. He had, it seemed, committed a breach of good taste, which must be repaired forthwith. He determined to be very nice to Anne. This should not have been difficult, for she was full of good points.
Fate had not been kind, but Anne found no fault with her heritage. Indeed, her temper was infectiously healthy. For years now Fortune had never piped to her, but that did not keep her from dancing. In the circumstances, that she should have been so good to look upon seemed almost hard….
The two passed on.
It was a way Anthony had never gone, and, once in the thick of the woods, he could not have told where he was. Anne, apparently, knew her line backwards, for she climbed steadily, chattering all the time and taking odd paths and random grass-grown tracks with an unconscious confidence which was almost uncanny. More than once she turned to strike across some ground no foot had charted, each time unerringly to find the track upon the far side waiting to point them upward—sometimes gently, and sometimes with a sharp rise, but always upward.
For all that, the pace his companion set was almost punishing, and Anthony was on the point of pleading a respite, when—
"Almost there now," panted Miss Alison. "Round to the right here, and——"
The rest of the sentence was lost upon Anthony, and is of no consequence to us.
As he was rounding the corner, he had turned to whistle for Patch. For two very excellent reasons the whistle was never delivered. The first was that the Sealyham was only five paces in rear. The second was that he was standing quite still in the middle of the path, wagging his tail apologetically.
For a moment Anthony stared at him. Then he swung round, to find himself face to face with a broad natural bank, some thirty feet high.
* * * * *
When Valerie French, who had come by way of the finger-post, saw Patch dormant at the foot of the broad bank, she could have jumped for joy.
At the last minute rheumatism had laid its irreverent hand upon the patrician muscles of Lady Touchstone's back, and the visit to Town had been summarily postponed. Valerie, who should have been sorry, was undeniably glad. She could not communicate with Anthony, but there was a bare chance that she might do better than that. What afternoons he had free she did not know. How he employed such as he had, he had told her in plain terms. She was, of course, to see him on Sunday, but that was four days away. Besides, she wanted to meet him upon that gravel cliff—that window-sill whose freehold they shared. High matters were on the edge of settlement. It was appropriate that they should there be settled where, in a mad moment, Fate had staked upon one cast all the kingdoms of the earth and their glory—staked them and lost them. That it was now but a question of taking possession of their inheritance, Valerie never doubted. In this she was right. The crooked way of Love had been made straight: only the treading of it remained—a simple business. That he had saved her life did not weigh with Anthony at all. That Death had summoned them, looked in their eyes, and let them go—together, made all the difference. It was as though a hand had written upon the wall….
The sight, then, of the terrier verified hopes which she had been afraid to harbour. She had wanted so much, and it had all come to pass. She had wanted to meet her man, to see him ere he knew she was there, to find him there at the window, to come delicately behind him, to have him turn and see her, to mark the sudden gladdening of his dear grey eyes….
Tremulously she ascended the tiny path and passed a-tiptoe into the thicket….
You would have sworn it an elf that stole across the clearing beyond….
As she glided into cover—
"Rain," said Anthony. "Now we're for it. No coats, no umbrella, no nothing. Anne, you're in for a wetting."
"Won't be the first time," said Anne cheerfully.
"Well, come on, any way," said Anthony. "The woods'll shelter us for a while, and then——"
"I shall have a bath," said Anne. "A nice hot bath directly I get in. You know, all steaming and——"
"Will you come on?" said Anthony, laughing.
The two thrust through the screen and across the clearing. A moment later the thicket had swallowed them up.
As in a dream, Valerie heard their voices getting fainter and fainter….
Presently they died altogether, and she was left alone with the rain. This fairly pelted upon her, but she never moved. The truth is, she never noticed it.
A sudden rush of wind whipped a strand of her dark hair loose and flung it across her lips, but she never moved.
After a little while the wind died too, and for the second time she was left alone with the rain.
