1
With the breaking up of the stables at Morton came the breaking up of
their faithful servant. Old age took its toll of Williams at last, and
it got him under completely. Sore at heart and gone in both wind and
limb, he retired with a pension to his comfortable cottage; there to
cough and grumble throughout the winter, or to smoke disconsolate pipes
through the summer, seated on a chair in his trim little garden with a
rug wrapped around his knees.
‘It do be a scandal,’ he was now for ever saying, ‘and ’er such a
splendid woman to ’ounds!’
And then he would start remembering past glories, while his mind would
begin to grieve for Sir Philip. He would cry just a little because he
still loved him, so his wife must bring Williams a strong cup of tea.
‘There, there, Arth-thur, you’ll soon be meetin’ the master; we be old
me and you—it can’t be long now.’
At which Williams would glare: ‘I’m not thinkin’ of ’eaven—like as not
there won’t be no ’orses in ’eaven—I wants the master down ’ere at me
stables. Gawd knows they be needin’ a master!’
For now besides Anna’s carriage horses, there were only four inmates of
those once fine stables; Raftery and Sir Philip’s young upstanding
chestnut, a cob known as James, and the aged Collins who had taken to
vice in senile decay, and persisted in eating his bedding.
Anna had accepted this radical change quite calmly, as she now accepted
most things. She hardly ever opposed her daughter these days in matters
concerning Morton. But the burden of arranging the sale had been
Stephen’s; one by one she had said good-bye to the hunters, one by one
she had watched them led out of the yard, with a lump in her throat that
had almost choked her, and when they were gone she had turned back to
Raftery for comfort.
‘Oh, Raftery, I’m so unregenerate—I minded so terribly seeing them go!
Don’t let’s look at their empty boxes—’
2
Another year passed and Stephen was twenty-one, a rich, independent
woman. At any time now she could go where she chose, could do entirely
as she listed. Puddle remained at her post; she was waiting a little
grimly for something to happen. But nothing much happened, beyond the
fact that Stephen now dressed in tailor-made clothes to which Anna had
perforce to withdraw her opposition. Yet life was gradually reasserting
its claims on the girl, which was only natural, for the young may not be
delivered over to the dead, nor to grief that refuses consolation. She
still mourned her father, she would always mourn him, but at twenty-one
with a healthful body, there came a day when she noticed the sunshine,
when she smelt the good earth and was thankful for it, when she suddenly
knew herself to be alive and was glad, in despite of death.
On one such morning early that June, Stephen drove her car into Upton.
She was meaning to cash a cheque at the bank, she was meaning to call at
the local saddler’s, she was meaning to buy a new pair of gloves—in the
end, however, she did none of these things.
It was outside the butcher’s that the dog fight started. The butcher
owned an old rip of an Airedale, and the Airedale had taken up his post
in the doorway of the shop, as had long been his custom. Down the
street, on trim but belligerent tiptoes, came a very small, snow-white
West Highland terrier; perhaps he was looking for trouble, and if so he
certainly got it in less than two minutes. His yells were so loud that
Stephen stopped the car and turned round in her seat to see what was
happening. The butcher ran out to swell the confusion by shouting
commands that no one obeyed; he was trying to grasp his dog by the tail
which was short and not at all handy for grasping. And then, as it
seemed from nowhere at all, there suddenly appeared a very desperate
young woman; she was carrying her parasol as though it were a lance with
which she intended to enter the battle. Her wails of despair rose above
the dog’s yells:
‘Tony! My Tony! Won’t anyone stop them? My dog’s being killed, won’t any
of you stop them?’ And she actually tried to stop them herself, though
the parasol broke at the first encounter.
But Tony, while yelling, was as game as a ferret, and, moreover, the
Airedale had him by the back, so Stephen got hastily out of the car—it
seemed only a matter of moments for Tony. She grabbed the old rip by the
scruff of his neck, while the butcher dashed off for a bucket of water.
The desperate young woman seized her dog by a leg; she pulled, Stephen
pulled, they both pulled together. Then Stephen gave a punishing twist
which distracted the Airedale, he wanted to bite her; having only one
mouth he must let go of Tony, who was instantly clasped to his owner’s
bosom. The butcher arrived on the scene with his bucket while Stephen
was still clinging to the Airedale’s collar.
‘I’m so sorry, Miss Gordon, I do hope you’re not hurt?’
‘I’m all right. Here, take this grey devil and thrash him; he’s no
business to eat up a dog half his size.’
Meanwhile, Tony was dripping all over with gore, and his mistress, it
seemed, had got herself bitten. She alternately struggled to staunch
Tony’s wounds and to suck her own hand which was bleeding freely.
‘Better give me your dog and come across to the chemist, your hand will
want dressing,’ remarked Stephen.
Tony was instantly put into her arms, with a rather pale smile that
suggested a breakdown.
‘It’s quite all right now,’ said Stephen quickly, very much afraid the
young woman meant to cry.
‘Will he live, do you think?’ inquired a weak voice.
‘Yes, of course; but your hand—come along to the chemist.’
‘Oh, never mind that, I’m thinking of Tony!’
‘He’s all right. We’ll take him straight off to the vet when your hand’s
been seen to; there’s quite a good one.’
The chemist applied fairly strong carbolic; the hand had been bitten on
two of the fingers, and Stephen was impressed by the pluck of this
stranger, who set her small teeth and endured in silence. The hand
bandaged they drove along to the vet, who was fortunately in and could
sew up poor Tony. Stephen held his front paws, while his mistress held
his head as best she could in her own maimed condition. She kept
pressing his face against her shoulder, presumably so that he should not
see the needle.
‘Don’t look, darling—you mustn’t look at it, honey!’ Stephen heard her
whispering to Tony.
At last he too was carbolicked and bandaged, and Stephen had time to
examine her companion. It occurred to her that she had better introduce
herself, so she said: ‘I’m Stephen Gordon.’
‘And I’m Angela Crossby,’ came the reply; ‘we’ve taken The Grange, just
the other side of Upton.’
Angela Crossby was amazingly blonde, her hair was not so much golden as
silver. She wore it cut short like a mediæval page; it was straight, and
came just to the lobes of her ears, which at that time of pompadours and
much curling gave her an unusual appearance. Her skin was very white,
and Stephen decided that this woman would never have a great deal of
colour, nor would her rather wide mouth be red, it would always remain
the tint of pale coral. All the colour that she had seemed to lie in her
eyes, which were large and fringed with long fair lashes. Her eyes were
of rather an unusual blue that almost seemed to be tinted with purple,
and their candid expression was that of a child—very innocent it was, a
trustful expression. And Stephen as she looked at those eyes felt
indignant, remembering the gossip she had heard about the Crossbys.
The Crossbys, as she knew, were deeply resented. He had been an
important Birmingham magnate who had lately retired from some hardware
concern, on account of his health, or so ran the gossip. His wife, it
was rumoured, had been on the stage in New York, so that her antecedents
were doubtful—no one really knew anything at all about her, but her
curious hair gave grounds for suspicion. An American wife who had been
an actress was a very bad asset for Crossby. Nor was Crossby himself a
prepossessing person; when judged by the county’s standards, he bounded.
Moreover he showed signs of unpardonable meanness. His subscription to
the Hunt had been a paltry five guineas. He had written to say that his
very poor health would preclude his hunting, and had actually added that
he hoped the Hunt would keep clear of his covers! And then every one
felt a natural resentment that The Grange should have had to be
sacrificed for money—quite a small Tudor house it was yet very perfect.
But Captain Ramsay, its erstwhile owner, had died recently, leaving
large debts behind him, so his heir, a young cousin who lived in London,
had promptly sold to the first wealthy bidder—hence the advent of Mr.
Crossby.
Stephen, looking at Angela, remembered these things, but they suddenly
seemed devoid of importance, for now those child-like eyes were upon
her, and Angela was saying: ‘I don’t know how to thank you for saving my
Tony, it was wonderful of you! If you hadn’t been there they’d have let
him get killed, and I’m just devoted to Tony.’
Her voice had the soft, thick drawl of the South, an indolent voice,
very lazy and restful. It was quite new to Stephen, that soft, Southern
drawl, and she found it unexpectedly pleasant. Then it dawned on the
girl that this woman was lovely—she was like some queer flower that had
grown up in darkness, like some rare, pale flower without blemish or
stain, and Stephen said flushing:
‘I was glad to help you—I’ll drive you back to The Grange, if you’ll
let me?’
‘Why, of course we’ll let you,’ came the prompt answer. ‘Tony says he’ll
be most grateful, don’t you, Tony?’ Tony wagged his tail rather faintly.
Stephen wrapped him up in a motor rug at the back of the car, where he
lay as though prostrate. Angela she placed in the seat beside herself,
helping her carefully as she did so.
Presently Angela said: ‘Thanks to Tony I’ve met you at last; I’ve been
longing to meet you!’ And she stared rather disconcertingly at Stephen,
then smiled as though something she saw had amused her.
Stephen wondered why anyone should have longed to meet her. Feeling
suddenly shy she became suspicious: ‘Who told you about me?’ she asked
abruptly.
‘Mrs. Antrim, I think—yes, it was Mrs. Antrim. She said you were such a
wonderful rider but that now, for some reason, you’d given up hunting.
Oh, yes, and she said you fenced like a man. Do you fence like a man?’
‘I don’t know,’ muttered Stephen.
‘Well, I’ll tell you whether you do when I’ve seen you; my father was
quite a well-known fencer at one time, so I learnt a lot about fencing
in the States—perhaps some day, Miss Gordon, you’ll let me see you?’
By now Stephen’s face was the colour of a beetroot, and she gripped the
wheel as though she meant to hurt it. She was longing to turn round and
look at her companion, the desire to look at her was almost
overwhelming, but even her eyes seemed too stiff to move, so she gazed
at the long dusty road in silence.
‘Don’t punish the poor, wooden thing that way,’ murmured Angela, ‘it
can’t help being just wood!’ Then she went on talking as though to
herself: ‘What should I have done if that brute had killed Tony? He’s a
real companion to me on my walks—I don’t know what I’d do if it weren’t
for Tony, he’s such a devoted, cute little fellow, and these days I’m
kind of thrown back on my dog—it’s a melancholy business walking alone,
yet I’ve always been fond of walking—’
Stephen wanted to say: ‘But I like walking too; let me come with you
sometimes as well as Tony.’ Then suddenly mustering up her courage, she
jerked round in the seat and looked at this woman. As their eyes met and
held each other for a moment, something vaguely disturbing stirred in
Stephen, so that the car made a dangerous swerve. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said
quickly, ‘that was rotten bad driving.’
But Angela did not answer.
3
Ralph Crossby was standing at the open doorway as the car swung up and
came to a halt. Stephen noticed that he was immaculately dressed in a
grey tweed suit that by rights should have been shabby. But everything
about him looked aggressively new, his very hair had a quality of
newness—it was thin brown hair that shone as though polished.
‘I wonder if he puts it out with his boots,’ thought Stephen, surveying
him with interest.
He was one of those rather indefinite men, who are neither short nor
tall, fat nor thin, old nor young, good-looking nor actually ugly. As
his wife would have said, had anybody asked her, he was just ‘plain
man,’ which exactly described him, for his only distinctive features
were his newness and the peevish expression about his mouth—his mouth
was intensely peevish.
When he spoke his high-pitched voice sounded fretful. ‘What on earth
have you been doing? It’s past two o’clock. I’ve been waiting since one,
the lunch must be ruined; I do wish you’d try and be punctual, Angela!’
He appeared not to notice Stephen’s existence, for he went on nagging as
though no one were present. ‘Oh, I see, that damn dog of yours has been
fighting again, I’ve a good mind to give him a thrashing; and what in
God’s name’s the matter with your hand—you _don’t_ mean to say that
you’ve got yourself bitten? Really, Angela, this is a bit too bad!’ His
whole manner suggested a personal grievance.
‘Well,’ drawled Angela, extending the bandaged hand for inspection,
‘I’ve not been getting manicured, Ralph.’ And her voice was distinctly
if gently provoking, so that he winced with quick irritation. Then she
seemed quite suddenly to remember Stephen: ‘Miss Gordon, let me
introduce my husband.’
He bowed, and pulling himself together: ‘Thank you for driving my wife
home, Miss Gordon, it was most kind, I’m sure.’ But he did not seem
friendly, he kept glaring at Angela’s dog-bitten hand, and his tone,
Stephen thought, was distinctly ungracious.
Getting out of the car she started her engine.
‘Good-bye,’ smiled Angela, holding out her hand, the left one, which
Stephen grasped much too firmly. ‘Good-bye—perhaps one day you’ll come
to tea. We’re on the telephone, Upton 25; ring up and suggest yourself
some day quite soon.’
‘Thanks awfully, I will,’ said Stephen.
4
‘Had a breakdown or something?’ inquired Puddle brightly, as at three
o’clock Stephen slouched into the schoolroom.
‘No—but Mrs. Crossby’s dog had a fight. She got bitten, so I drove her
back to The Grange.’
Puddle pricked up her ears: ‘What’s she like? I’ve heard rumours—’
‘Well, she’s not at all like them,’ snapped Stephen.
There ensued a long silence while Puddle considered, but consideration
does not always bring wise counsel, and now Puddle made a really bad
break: ‘She’s pretty impossible, isn’t she, Stephen? They say he
unearthed her somewhere in New York; Mrs. Antrim says she was a
music-hall actress. I suppose you were obliged to give her a lift, but
be careful, I believe she’s fearfully pushing.’
Stephen flared up like an emotional schoolgirl: ‘I’m not going to
discuss her if that’s your opinion; Mrs. Crossby is quite as much a lady
as you are, or any of the others round here, for that matter. I’m sick
unto death of your beastly gossip.’ And turning abruptly she strode from
the room.
‘Oh, Lord!’ murmured Puddle, frowning.
5
That evening Stephen rang up The Grange. ‘Is that Upton 25? It’s Miss
Gordon speaking—no, _no_, Miss Gordon, speaking from Morton. How is
Mrs. Crossby and how is the dog? I hope Mrs. Crossby’s hand isn’t very
painful? Yes, of course I’ll hold on while you go and inquire.’ She felt
shy, yet unusually daring.
Presently the butler came back and said gravely that Mrs. Crossby had
just seen the doctor and had now gone to bed, as her hand was aching,
but that Tony felt better and sent his love. He added: ‘Madam says would
you come to tea on Sunday? She’d be very glad indeed if you would.’
And Stephen answered: ‘Will you thank Mrs. Crossby and tell her that
I’ll certainly come on Sunday.’ Then she gave the message all over
again, very slowly, with pauses. ‘Will—you thank—Mrs. Crossby—and
tell her—I’ll certainly come—on Sunday. Do you quite understand. Have
I made it quite clear? Say I’m coming to tea on Sunday.’