So Allan went up the steps and found himself in the office of Dalabey
and Son.
Mr. Dalabey, a stout, red haired man, wearing no coat, was talking with
a visitor, he looked at Allan.
"My father had a letter about a house, an old house, he asked me----"
"Ah yes, to be sure, the house as Mr. Van Norden be after, well there be
nothing settled as yet, sir," Mr. Dalabey said as he reached up for a
huge key.
"I'll be ten minutes about," he said, "if you'll wait here while I get
finished with this gentleman!"
"Couldn't I go on? If you direct me I might find it."
"Aye, and I'll follow. Well you can't make any mistake, 'tis just
beyond the village, you'll see a high red wall, a very old wall it be,
follow the wall for maybe a quarter of a mile, then you will come to the
gates, well this key don't fit the gates, you'll hev to go a bit further
till you come to a green door. This key is the key of the door, if
you'll go on I'll get my bicycle and follow you and maybe I'll catch you
up before you get there."
"Thanks!" Allan said, he took the key, a ponderous thing and smiled at
it for its bigness and clumsiness.
Children in the roadway stared at the young man swinging the ponderous
key in his hand, women standing in their doorways nodded to one another.
They knew the key. "Very like he be the rich American who be coming to
buy the Manor," they said.
Allan walked on. Yes, certainly they must have motored through this
village, he remembered it vaguely, and yet it seemed to him always a
little changed. Now was there not, should there not be a Cross standing
here where the road widened, in front of the Inn.
He paused and stared about him. There was no Cross, no suggestion of
one.
An old man, typically Sussex, grey bearded and bent double by age, clad
in a smock and an ancient tall hat, stared at him with rheumy eyes.
"Grandfather," said Allan, "wasn't there a cross here once?"
"Aye, a cross there were and a very fine cross it was tu," said the old
man. "I du remember her, when I were a lad, seventy years ago; I du
remember that Cross, seventy years ago knocked down her were in broad
daylight, her were and I see it done, I did wi' my two eyes, see it
done, I did!" He nodded his hoary head. "'Twere this a way, the doing
of it. Village Street be wunnerful steep it be, they was bringing up
two great el'ums on a lurry, three strappin' hosses they were a-pulling
of the lurry up the hill, then down all on a sudden goes one o' the
hosses, and down goes another. T'other hoss rares up her did and crack
goes the chain, lurry wi' they two great el'ums goes running back'ard
down the bill it did. I say it, as seen it done seventy years ago,
seventy and one to be parfectly correct, and bash goes they el'um trunks
into the Cross. Bash goes the Cross, down it falls in little pieces. I
picked up a piece, I du remember, the bit I've got to this day, it
stands on the chimbley shelf, it du. Seventy and one years ago, and me
a lad of turned twelve a fine strapping lad tu."
Allan slipped a coin into the old man's willing palm.
Strange he should have thought that a Cross stood there. And yet, why
strange? He had seen some other village street like this one, with a
Cross set up in it. One often saw Crosses set up in old world villages.
So he went on, swinging the great key in his hand and presently he came
to the end of the village, where was the beginning of the old brick
wall, a very high brick wall it was, fully ten feet, and the bricks were
of that rare rose tint, the like of which have never been made since
Anne was Queen, but these seemed to go back far before the time of Anne
and here and there the wall was somewhat broken. But nature had done her
best to make good the gaps, filling them up with lichen and moss of
brilliant green and vivid yellow, a feast of colour for eyes tired of
London's sombre streets.
And he knew, because Mr. Dalabey had told him, that a quarter of a mile
on, he would come to the gates, wide gates of iron hung on stone pillars
and on each stone pillar was set the head of a deer, also carved in
stone.
And presently he came to the gates, and the pillars stood all moss
covered, surmounted, as he knew they would be, by the sculptured heads
of deer; but one had lost its antlers, and the other had its muzzle
broken short off.
Allan looked up at them and smiled, and then his smile vanished. Mr.
Dalabey had not told him of the deers' heads, and yet--they were here.
Curious! he thought.
It was as though he had come on a place that he had visited in a dream,
he could not shake off the feeling of familiarity, the knowledge, the
certainty that attended his every step. He knew that the green door
would be arched at the top and that it would be studded with great nails
and bound with iron in many places.
He knew that it would be and it was! He fitted the heavy key in the
lock and it turned at last with much rasping and complaining.
The door gave on a paved yard and in the crevices of the great flat
topped cobbles grew weeds of all kind that bloomed and flourished
untouched.
And now the feeling of familiarity, the knowledge of the place had grown
on him, so that he wondered at it no longer. He accepted it, because it
was right, because--he refused to consider it at all. He knew!
To the left stood the kitchen part of the house, he glanced towards it,
but turned to the right and picked his way across the weed grown yard
and came to a small wicket gate, between two tumble down buildings. The
wicket gate had fallen into rottenness and lay all in fragments on the
ground, but through the opening that was left he passed and found
himself in the wild tangle of the great garden.
Through the garden he walked, a man waking, yet in a strange dream. He
followed the flagged pathway past the old sundial that had lost its
gnomon, beyond the wild yew hedge and so to the lake, from which rose
the slim figure of a stone girl and at her he stared long.
He suddenly realised that, he had come here to see her, he had come on
purpose, just to see this stone figure of a girl. He would have been
disappointed, almost shocked, if she had not been here--and she was
here--but the pitcher on her shoulder was empty and the upflung water
flashed no longer in the sunlight.
Slowly, very slowly, he turned away, he went back through the rose
garden with bowed head, he came to the great circle of stone in the
midst of which was set the old sundial, and on a stone seat, warmed by
the sun, he sat down.
"Strange!" he said. He said it aloud. "Strange!" he repeated. "I seem
to know----" He stretched his arm out and laid it on the back of the
old stone seat, and sat there staring at the moss grown sundial
pedestal--staring till it seemed to waver, to become all uncertain
before his sight.
And then--then he lifted his head and looked about him.
He saw a garden all glowing with flowers, and trim green lawns, the
weeds, the desolation and the ruin of centuries had passed as with a
breath. The garden was all glowing and blowing as perhaps it had two
hundred years ago, and then slowly he turned his head and looked towards
the house and saw that doors and windows stood open and that curtains
swung from the casements lazily in the breeze. And as he watched a door
opened and into the sunshine stepped, somewhat timidly he thought, a
little maid, a trim, slim bodied little maid. She wore a flowered
cotton gown, short at the ankles and low in the neck, and how the sun
seemed to kiss it! And the little face above, a rarely sweet little
face, purely oval with ripe red lips and the bluest eyes in the world.
So she came hurrying along the wide stone pathway to him, a smile on her
red lips and the copper red of her hair all flaming in the sunlight
under the dainty mob cap.
But ere she reached him, she stood still suddenly and looked at him with
a pretty frown that was yet half a smile on her little face.
"Allan!" she said. "Allan, be you still angry wi' your Betty now, dear?
Will 'ee take back the words 'ee did speak in your anger, Allan? For
you should know I would not have let a gawky rogue like Tim Burnand buss
me, Allan, if I could 'a helped it. Before I could tell what he was at,
he did steal a kiss, and I have rubbed my poor face sore to rub it all
away for--for I want no kisses but thine Allan, my--my dear!"
Her voice was very soft and sweet and the tears gathered in her
wonderful blue eyes, tears that seemed to wring his heart.
"I--I was overharsh and rough wi' thee, my Betty," he said. "I know
'twas not your fault, but all the fault of Tim Burnand whose bones I'll
break for him, may----"
"Nay--swear not!" she said. "Oh Allan, I love thee for thy jealousy, I
love thee for it!" Her eyes were laughing and joyous now and her face
was all smiles and dimples and so she came to him, daintily, and put her
two small hands, little brown hands in queer black lace mittens, on his
shoulders and rising on her toes, she kissed him on the eyes.
"And never, never more will 'ee be angry and jealous of your Betty?" she
said.
"Never again!" he said. "But because I do love thee so, my maid I could
not bear to think that other lips----"
"Have never touched mine, 'twas but my cheek he bussed, and I boxed his
ears soundly for him--but hush--I hear my lady calling to me--Listen!
Betty! Betty! yes--I did but steal away, seeing you here--just to tell
thee----" She paused for breath for a moment "to tell thee, my Allan,
how I do love thee! Hark, my lady is calling again!"
"Blow me; sir, if I didn't think you'd been and lost yourself or fell
down the old well, which I did ought to have reminded you about, or
something!" said a voice.
Allan started up, stared up into the round red and over-heated face of
Mr. Dalabey. He looked about him with dazed eyes. Weeds were rioting
over the old garden, the grass stood knee high on the lawns, dandelions
thrust their golden heads between the paving stones at his feet. He
stared at the house and saw it all, sombre and lifeless, a house of the
dead. Its windows were broken, desolation and ruin were upon it, and
then he looked back at the jolly red face of Mr. Dalabey.
"Fell asleep!" Mr. Dalabey said. "And been dreaming!" he added.
"Yes--dreaming----" Allan said quietly. "Dreaming!"
*CHAPTER V*
*IN WHICH ALLAN BUYS THE MANOR HOUSE*
In and out and up and down Mr. Dalabey led Allan over the old house.
They pried into dark and dusty corners, they ascended narrow and rickety
stairs. It was a wonderful, rambling old place, the years had set their
mark on it. The old oaken floors, worn and roughened by a thousand
feet, took on many a queer pitch; from the pine panelling the paint had
come away in great flakes; scarce a window but had its broken pane and
through the pane some impertinent creeper thrust into the room and
nodded to them familiarly.
Allan followed the stout, red faced, good humoured man up and down the
stairs and in and out the old rooms. A great talker was Mr. Dalabey, a
born seller of houses.
"This here be the banquetting hall, a very noble room, sir, very noble,
fit for the aristocracy, her be, and a good many of the aristocracy it
hev seen, sir, and many a bottle hev been drunk here, sir, I'll wager!
Look at the ceiling, sir, some of the finest old plaster work to be met
with in the kingdom, wonderful fine plaster work it be, as many gents as
be connoisseurs, hev remarked. Greatly took with the plaster work was
Mr. Van Norden."
"Yes," Allan said, and "Yes!" For his thoughts were far away, he looked
through the broken and dusty windows into the garden with its weeds and
its broken pathways and overgrown flower beds, and a strange sense of
loss came to him. He felt a little ache at his heart, for the girl who
had come to him in that same strange dream and had kissed his eyes and
called him "her dear."
How real she had been. He marvelled now at the feeling that had been
his at the time, that she was a very part of his life. How sweet and
musical her voice, how warm and soft the touch of her red lips and yet
it had only been a dream!
"This be one o' the guest rooms and you'll notice the wig cupboard,
sir," said Mr. Dalabey; "very remarkable this wig cupboard, you'll see
'em in most of the bedrooms where the quality of them days kep' their
wigs. Much took Mr. Van Norden was with they wig cupboards!"
"Yes!" said Allan, and all the time his thoughts were with the maiden of
the garden, she who had kissed his eyes and had vanished as she had
come, leaving him with this strange sense of loneliness and longing and
hunger, and above all that deep, deep sense of loss.
"And now I think we've pretty well done it, sir, there's the stables,
rare fine stables they was once. Seldom less than twenty hosses did
they keep in them stables in the Elmacott's days----"
"Whose days?"
"Elmacott, that were the name o' the folk, dead and gone they be
now--Sir Nathaniel were the last, a rare wild devil of a man according
to history, my old grandfather, a wonderful man he were, would tell me
many a story of Sir Nat, as they called him, when I were a boy. Stories
my old granddad had from his father before him--well sir," Mr. Dalabey
paused, "well, sir, there it be, I've shewn you all there is to see,
hiding nothing, a rare lot of money'll be wanted to be spent on it, sir,
and there be no disguising the fact, nor have I attempted to disguise
it, as you'll bear witness, sir, but there be this Mr. Van Norden keen
set on the place and likely for to make up his mind any moment,
considering of it he is at this very time, I daresay!"
"Who are the owners?" Allan asked.
"A gentleman of the name of Stimpson be the owner, a distant relative of
the Elmacotts by marriage. I do understand, out in Canada he be, born
and bred there and never clapped eyes on the place, nor ever likely to.
I've got to get the best price I can for the place, seeing he be my
client, and the price I've asked Mr. Van Norden----" Dalabey paused.
He looked at Allan, he had no great opinion of Allan. "Queer and dreamy
like," Mr. Dalabey thought, "not businesslike, one of they sort who goes
through the world mooning----"
"And the price?" Allan asked.
"Er--thirty thousand pounds," said Dalabey.
"It's a great deal of money," Allan said, he said it more for the sake
of saying something than for any other reason. Had Dalabey said fifty
thousand pounds, he would probably have said the same thing.
"Open to an offer I be, but the offer's got to come quick and soon, or
Mr. Van Norden----"
"I know, I know!" Allan stood and stared out over the garden. He
wondered at its strange fascination for him. Of course it had only been
a dream, yet a dream so strangely real, so clear cut, so logical and
why--why should it have come to him here in this old garden--why?
Mr. Dalabey was staring at him.
"Gone to sleep he hev seemingly."
"Thirty thousand, sir, and that be no more than forty pounds an acre for
good Sussex land by my reckoning, to say nothing of the old house and
the buildings and a dozen cottages in the village wi' the alehouse, the
Elmacott Arms."
"Yes, yes!" Allan said. "Yes! I am acting for my father. I have his
permission to--to settle--the house will cost a great deal to repair, a
great deal!"
"I haven't disguised nothing from you and no one can say----"
"I will offer you twenty-five thousand on my father's behalf!"
"Oh sir, oh consider! A fine house her be and wunnerful good land the
best in all Sussex and twenty-five thousand b'ain't no more than about
thirty pounds an acre, a terribul little money that, sir, for land so
good and the historical association and all!"
"Twenty-seven!" Allan said briefly.
"There be Mr. Van Norden a considering of it at this very moment----"
Allan hated bargaining, hated money. His life had been spent in an
atmosphere of money. He knew that above and before all he wanted to be
rid of this man, he wanted to go back to the old garden and sit there on
the sun warmed stone seat and see if his dream would not come back to
him.
"Twenty-eight thousand, then, and no more, I have done, take it or leave
it!"
"You'll like to see the cottages and the Inn, a wunnerful old Inn her be
with historical interest and----"
"No!" said Allan. "No! do you take my offer, yes or no? Tell me now!"
Mr. Balabey stroked his chin. He did not like to do business in this
way. True it was profitable business, for Mr. Van Norden was
considering the offer at twenty-five thousand.
"Very well, sir, done and done!" said Mr. Dalabey. "Done with you, sir,
and I congratulate you on a rare bargain, I do, sir!" He held out his
large and moist hand.
Allan took it.
"Now," he said, "I will ask you to do me a favour! I have purchased the
place at twenty-eight thousand pounds. I have a cheque for five hundred
pounds as deposit in my pocket, if I had a pen----"
"I've got a fountain pen with me, sir," said Dalabey, "always carry one
I du!"
"Very well then, we will sit down here--and if you will lend me your
pen----?"
They sat down on the old stone seat and Allan filled in the cheque.
"Make it payable to me," Dalabey said. "Thomas J. Dalabey," which Allan
did.
"And now," Allan said, "I'd like to look about the old place alone, take
the cheque and I will call at your office on my way back, you can then
give me the receipt."
"To be sure and so I will, and once more congratulate you I do, and if
so be you'll honour me, sir, I'll have a cup of tea ready and waiting
for you when you come back!"
"Thank you!" Allan said. "And now, one thing more, how is the old place
called, Mr. Dalabey?"
"Why 'tis Homewood Manor, I thought as I mentioned the name in my
letter----"
"No, you did not, though I remember someone else spoke of it to
me--Homewood Manor, that is strange!"
"In the Parish of Homewood it be," said Dalabey, "just within, and the
next Parish be Little Stretton, but as this----"
"I understand, I quite understand, but all the same it is curious!"
"I don't see how," said Mr. Dalabey, "curious it 'ud be if it were
called anything else, sir!"
"Look at the cheque, at the signature!" Allan said.
Mr. Dalabey looked, he uttered an exclamation as he spelled out Josiah
Homewood's crabbed handwriting.
"Very odd it be, I swear!" he said. "And very right and proper too,
come to that, nothing could be better! Mr. Homewood of Homewood Manor,
it sounds good, sir! And now I'll get back and a cup o' tea'll be ready
for you in say an hour's time----"
"Say two----" Allan said, "and thank you!"
So Dalabey hurried off to spread the news through Little Stretton.
Beaming with joy he was, as he cycled down the road.
"Ah, Mrs. Hanson, there you be, Ma'am!" he shouted, slowing down by the
little cottage. "News I've got for 'ee and for that little gel o'
thine!"
"News--hev the American----"
"No, ma'am, he hasn't! Why, my maid, what be the matter wi' 'ee?"
Dalabey added, for he had caught sight of Betty's blooming face in the
window.
And a pretty picture the girl made, her sweet face framed in the
clinging greenery and the roses on the point of breaking into bloom, but
the sweetest rose of all was there in the window.
"Fair joyous you do look," said Dalabey, "joyous be the word, all
bubbling over wi' delight--and yet--you cannot have heard the news of
the selling yet?"
"The--the selling--Mr. Dalabey, not--not the selling of--my--of--oh you
said--the American hasn't bought----"
"Homewood Manor be sold, sold by I, this very day, Mrs. Hanson, sold by
I within the hour!" He rubbed his big red hands, "and a fair price, yes
I'll admit, a fair price as things go--but sold it be, sold and done
for, but not to the American gentleman--Why, Mrs. Hanson, what be the
matter wi' that gel o' thine?"
For Betty had gone white, white as death, and the joy had gone out of
her face and her little red lips dragged down pitifully and into her
blue eyes had come tears, tears which all unnoticed trickled down her
pale cheeks.
"Fair daft that maid be about that old garden!" said Mrs. Hanson. "And
glad I be, Mr. Dalabey, as the place be sold, and put to orders, I hope
it'll be, so this maid of mine will go no more roamin' where her haven't
no business to be!"
"Ah yes, to be sure, to be sure!" Mr. Dalabey said. "To be sure," he
added, "well! sold it be and, strangest of all, to a young gentleman,
leastways his father, which be all the same, of the name of Homewood.
There, what do 'ee think of that now? Homewood Manor sold to a
Homewood, curious, eh? Well, well, I must be getting along!"
"Sold it be and a dratted good job too!" Mrs. Hanson said.
Betty crept away to her attic room under the thatched roof. Sold! Her
garden sold and for ever now barred against her! No more rambles in the
enchanted garden by moonlight, no more dreams in which she peopled the
old garden with all those strange folk, of whom she had seen visions.
And He--she would never see Him more, bending over the flower beds at
his work. He whose face she had hardly seen, and yet somehow she knew
that He meant so much to her. So the little maid crept to her room with
bursting heart.
"Sold it be, sold it be," she whispered to herself.
*CHAPTER VI*
*"I HATE HIM--HATE HIM I DU!"*
Allan sat on the old stone seat in the warm sunshine. He watched the
rioting weeds, the broken sundial, the long pathway of flagged stone
leading to the grim desolate house.
He closed his eyes and opened them again, hoping to see that vision he
had seen, but it came to him no more. No! there were only the weeds and
the decay and the green moss.
So he sat there for a full hour and tried to force that which would not
come. He could see her, in fancy, tripping down the flagged path to
him, with love and tenderness in her blue eyes, that dainty little
figure with the head of flaming gold and the white neck. But it was a
vision that could not be forced.
So presently, disheartened and hopeless, he rose and went to the lake
and stared hard at the broken stone nymph and watched the great idle
fish and the sense of loss grew stronger and yet stronger on him.
Who was she who had come out of the past to kiss his eyes and to tell
him that she loved him? Why should such dreams come to him? He had
never dreamed in all his life before, but she had been so real, even to
the little black lace mittens, black lace mittens such he had never seen
on a girl's hands before. Yet he had dreamed of her and the sweet voice
of her and the sweet Sussex speech and strangely enough, had he not
answered her in that same speech? He remembered it now with a sudden
start of surprise.
Yes, he with Eton and Oxford behind him, had spoken as she had spoken,
as the old man who had told him about the broken Cross in Little
Stretton had spoken.
He turned away, he made his way back through the garden. He wondered at
his seeming previous knowledge of it now, for that knowledge was gone,
it took him some time to find the gap where the broken wicket gate had
been, but he found it and went, blundering and uncertain, across the
grass grown stable yard.
He locked the battered green door behind him and thrust the great key
into his coat pocket and went along the road, and on the way to the
village he passed a little thatched roofed cottage and under that
thatched roof a maid was lying on her little bed, face downward, weeping
her heart out for the thing that he had done, yet he could not know
that. How could he? He saw an old dame standing by the little gate, an
upright severe old dame, with white hair and a wrinkled face, and she
bobbed him a country curtsey.
To her Allan lifted his hat politely.
"A beautiful day!" he said.
"And that it be, a wunnerful fine day and hot like for May her be, sir
and might--might I make bold----" she hesitated.
Allan stopped and looked at her with kindly eyes.
"You were going to ask me something?"
"Cur-us I be, which be a besetting sin!" she admitted. "But Mr. Dalabey
he hev passed by just now when my maid and I--my granddarter her be,
were here and he told we as he hev sold the old Manor House and I were
thinking, sir, seeing the key was sticking out, of your pocket----"
Allan laughed. "Yes," he said, "you are right, I have bought it, for my
father, that is----"
"A wunnerful fine place it be!" she said.
"And we shall be near neighbours, eh?"
Again she dropped a curtsey.
"'Tisn't for the like of we to be a neighbour to the like of gentry,"
she added, "but if any little thing I can du----"
"Be sure I will come and ask you Mrs.----"
"Hanson be my name, sir, as anyone can tell 'ee. Old this cottage be,
but there never yet lived in it one whose name was not Hanson. 'Twere
Hansons lived here in the days when the Elmacotts lived at the Manor,
Hansons hev been servants there, always served the Elmacotts, they did,
and if, sir, there be any little thing that we can du----"
"You are very good!" Allan said.
"A dear talkative old soul," he thought; he held out a friendly hand to
her and she blushed at the honour and bobbed him a dozen curtseys as he
went his way.
"Betty, Betty, my maid, Betty, come 'ee here, Betty, where be 'ee? Come
here!" cried Mrs. Hanson, when Allan had gone.
"Here I be, Grandmother!" Betty came, a pale sorrowful faced little
maiden.
"And crying 'ee've been, shame on 'ee my maid for to cry because that
dirty old place hev been sold and who do 'ee think I have been talkin'
wi'? Why bless 'ee wi' the young gentleman as hev bought her and a
proper young gentleman he be, not above shaking hands wi' an old body
like me and lifting of his hat to I, for all the world like I were a
fine lady! Bless 'ee my maid, a fine, upstanding, smart, young
gentleman he be, one of the quality too, aye of the quality, my maid,
for mark 'ee the real quality are never above shaking hands wi' a poor
body and talking pleasant to the likes o' we! 'Tis they upstarts and
nobodys as looks down on poor folks! When 'ee sees him Betty,
'ee'll----"
"I never want to see him, never!" the girl cried, "Never, never, I hope
I never shall see him!"
"Bless me what nonsense are 'ee talking now?"
"I never want to see him, for--for if I du, I shall hate him, hate him,
aye, I hate him now, I du--hate him terribul bad, I du----"
"For shame and to your room wi' 'ee till you du come to your senses--I
be ashamed o' you, Betty Hanson, that I be! Hate him indeed, hate him, a
fine upstanding----"
"I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!" Betty said, and then once again,
with defiance and anger and sorrow too in her blue eyes, "I hate him, I
du, Grandmother!"
Mrs. Hanson lifted a rigid arm, she pointed at the door.
"To your room wi' 'ee, Betty Hanson," she said, "I be ashamed of 'ee, I
be, to your room, you perilous bad maid!"
*CHAPTER VII*
*"HOW WONDERFUL--THE WAY OF THINGS"*
"Bless my soul!" Sir Josiah said, "Bless my soul!" He said it several
times, there was a look of astonishment on his red round face, "Bless my
soul, sir!"
He walked up and down the large and imposing room, his hands behind his
back.
"And how about the drains, did you make any enquiry about the drains?
"No!" said Allan.
"No, you wouldn't, nor about the water! Is water laid on, eh, answer me
that?"
"I--I don't know, father, I am afraid I--I was a bad representative!"
"It's enough to worry a man's head off," cried his father. "Here do I go
trusting you to go and--and--not a thing do you know! Hand over my
cheque for five hundred pounds like it was a bagatelle as the saying is.
You don't know anythin' about the title deeds, nothing about the drains,
nothing about the water, while you admit the state of repair of the
house is somethin' disgraceful!"
"Father, I wish you had gone yourself, I told you----"
"Yes, I know, you told me I know, you did--told me you weren't no good
at bargaining, and I'm afraid you were right! Here you go
and--and--and----" Sir Josiah paused, a little breathlessly.
"Well, what's the place like? Just try my lad and pull yourself
together and describe it!"
"Homewood Manor is----"
"What Manor?"
"Homewood--it bears the same name as we do, father!"
Sir Josiah sat down, he sat down abruptly and stared wide eyed at his
son.
"Homewood----" he gasped, "Little Stretton--Homewood Manor--well, well
if this don't beat anything--anything I've ever heard--Homewood----"
"It is an odd coincidence," said Allan.
"Odd coincidence, it's more--it's more. It is the very hand of Fate,
that's what it is, the hand of Fate, you don't understand of course you
don't----" he paused. "Allan, did you ever hear the name Pringle?"
"Pringle?" asked Allan, puzzled, "of course I have heard it, but----"
"Heard it, just heard it--eh? That's all, just heard it, mentioned and
nothing more, eh?"
"It's a name I have heard, father, that's all!"
"And don't signify anything to you, nothing particular, out of the way,
eh?"
"Nothing, father!"
"Bless me, bless me, you never heard me speak of Allan Pringle of The
Green Gate Inn in Aldgate?"
Allan shook his head.
"A wonderful man!" said Sir Josiah. "Allan, his name was, the same as
yours and Allan was his father before him and his father before him, yes
Allans all along the line, till they came to me, only me they called
Josiah, Josiah after Josiah Rodwell, my mother's father, hoping to get a
bit out of the old man, which they never did, bless me! and never heard
of Allan Pringle, you haven't?
"Queer too," Josiah rambled on, "that he should be the kind of man he
was, they said of him as he could squeeze gold out of a stone and I
b'lieve he could. Coming from the country, a farm hand he was and his
father a gardener and his father's father a gardener, grubbing about in
the earth, Allan, and yet Allan Pringle came to London, a farmer's boy
and makes a little fortune!"
"But who was he?"
"My grandfather, Allan Pringle was. He laid the foundation of our
fortune! My father was keen and clever, not up to the old man though.
Still he did not do so badly, he left me forty thousand when he died,
that's what I've been building on, Allan, and now--now--maybe it's
nearer twenty times forty thousand, my boy! That comes of having a head
on you--a head which you haven't got and never will have!"
"Then your name is--is Pringle?"
"Was!" said Sir Josiah. "It was my father who took the name of Homewood
when he began to get on a bit and wanted to sink the aleshop, called
himself Homewood after the place where his father was born and where all
the family came from----"
"And it is this very place that to-day----?"
Sir Josiah nodded. "The very place!" he said. "Queer, isn't it, Allan?
Very queer! When I heard the name Little Stretton, it set me thinking,
but even then I didn't quite catch on. But now, Homewood Manor, why
bless me, boy--my grandfather, Allan Pringle's mother, was maid in that
very house and my great grandfather, Allan Pringle he was, Allan, the
same as you, he and she was sweethearting, her the lady's maid, he the
under gardener, and got married, they did. A wonderful pretty young
woman, so I've heard and a sad story if what one hears is true, hadn't
been married a year when she died when the boy was born, him as
afterwards kept the Green Gate Inn in Aldgate. And now, now after all
these years, Allan, here am I, buying the very house, the very house, my
boy, where my great-grandfather was under gardener and my
great-grandmother was lady's maid. Wonderful, isn't it? Wonderful the
way of things, Allan?"
"Wonderful!" Allan said dreamily. "Very wonderful--the way of
things--Father----" He turned suddenly on Sir Josiah, "This--this
marriage of mine----"
"Well, what about it?"
"It--it must go on--there's no way----"
Sir Josiah stared, his round face grew redder, it turned purple. "Way,"
he shouted, "to what? Are you going to kick against it now? Are you
going to, to turn everything down now? But--but you can't do it--you
can't do it! If you do I'll never forgive you, never to my dying day
and after and then--think of her ladyship--Lady Kathleen, do you mean
you want to back out of it, Allan, now?"
Allan did not answer, he stared out of the window, he did not see the
gloomy London Square, he saw a garden, sweet with flowers and down the
paved pathway a little maid with sunkissed hair and eyes as blue as the
Heavens came tripping towards him.
"Allan, Allan," she said, "my dear, I love you so!"
"Allan you--you can't do it!" Sir Josiah's old voice trembled, he came
and put a hand on Allan's shoulder. "It--it isn't as if it was only a
promise to me, to me now, it's a promise to her, you can't shame and
disgrace her--Lady Kathleen--you can't--by--by Heaven you can't! Allan,
it isn't a thing that even I'd do, much less a gentleman like you!"
"I understand, father, I understand that, it--it must go on, I shall not
back out of it as you say--it shall go on!"
"Ah!" Sir Josiah said, "ah, a lady, an Earl's daughter, Lady Kathleen
Homewood of Homewood Manor, that sounds good, Allan boy, eh? Sounds
good, don't it? I can hear myself saying it at the Club--my
daughter-in-law, Lady Kathleen Homewood! No, you can't back out of it
now, Allan, I'd never forgive you if you did--Besides, why should you?
Last night, you weren't against it, Allan----"
"Last night," Allan said, "last night----" he paused. How far away
seemed last night! Sir Josiah was watching him anxiously and Allan
smiled.
"Yes, I understand, it must go on now, but--last night--was last night!"
*CHAPTER VIII*
*"KATHLEEN--DO YOU REMEMBER?"*
My lady sat with her chin in her hand, her dressing gown had slipped
over the polished loveliness of her white shoulders, on which the soft
dark brown of her hair fell in heavy glistening curls.
She had sat here for many minutes, her thoughts away in the past. Now
she stirred, she sighed a little, she roused herself and laughed
wearily, then reached out a white hand and took a ring from the dressing
table. A magnificent ring, one of immense value, a ring worthy of her
and of the man who had put it on her finger, yet she doubted if Allan
had bought it. It looked in its ostentatious magnificence more like his
father, somehow, and she shivered suddenly and cast the ring aside. And
then laughed again a queer, uncertain, trembling little laugh that might
have sounded naturally enough from the lips of a maiden of eighteen, but
which came a little oddly from the lips of a woman of twenty-eight.
But to-night her eyes were soft and misty. To-night memory was there,
tapping at the door of her soul. "You can't shut me out," it seemed to
say, "close the door, bolt it, bar it against me, but you can't shut out
memory, you never, never can! Fight against me, but I am always here,
always ready to come to you--a chance word, a chance gesture, the scent
of a flower or a perfume, the music of an old song and though you think
you have locked the door against me, see I am back again! Listen, even
the ticking of the clock--the little clock on your mantel. Kathleen, do
you remember how the clock ticked that night when you--you and he----"
She threw out her hands suddenly, she rose, a tall, queenly young
figure.
"The past is past, is dead and will remain dead!" she said, then she
crossed the room, and very resolutely she unlocked a drawer, from the
drawer took a little steel japanned box, she unlocked it and from it
took a packet of letters.
Should she read them before she destroyed them? Should she? No, and
yet she hesitated--the strength and resolution of a moment ago were
gone, she sat down and toyed with the ribbon that held the papers
together.
"Just for the last time," she said, "and then I shall forget them
utterly!" So she untied the ribbon and took the letters one by one and
read them and the misty look in her eyes seemed to grow more soft and
more gentle and there came a sweet womanly tenderness to her lips that
the world until now had thought a little hard and contemptuous.
Is there not some little packet of old letters jealously hidden away in
your possession? Haven't you treasured just one or two? Open the
packet with reverent fingers, touch them gently, for here are holy
things!
A child's unformed hand, the unsteady letters yet so neatly and so
carefully made. Can't you see him as he makes them? that little chubby
fist, that somehow cannot hold the pen in just the way the master says
it must be held.
Can't you see the little curly head leaning a little to one side?
Slowly he forms the great round "Os" and fashions the long tailed "Ys"
and does his honest best to keep them fair and square upon the pencilled
line that even now you can see ruled faintly on the old paper?
A child's letter, a little odd glove, a lock of yellow hair, his hair!
Only these, but they bring back memories, don't they? Do you
remember--? Ah, can you forget? When you held him so tightly in your
arms that day--when he went away for ever. Such a great strong fellow,
so brave, so confident of the future! How he looked into that future
with clear shining eyes, eyes that were unafraid.
"Dear, it is all right, I shall come back to you, safe and sound!" So
he said, and then the waiting, the agony of it, the long suspense, the
silence, the hourly prayers to Almighty God that all might be well with
him--and then--then the news--that came at last!
And all that you have now is the child's letter--the little glove and
the curl of yellow hair.
And there are other letters, yours, Kathleen. I wonder did he think
when he wrote them ten long years ago that you would be sitting here
to-night reading them over yet once again? I wonder, did he think that
those letters of his could bring the tears to your eyes, Kathleen? Did
he dream when in his eagerness and his passion and his love for you, as
he penned them, never weighing his words, only eager to pour out his
soul to you, that you would keep them and cherish them all these years,
Kathleen, only to destroy them at last?
The unsteady writing fades and is gone. Your eyes through a mist of
tears see a young, ardent, boyish face, you see eyes that plead and are
filled with a hope that fights valiantly against despair. Those hastily
scrawled, passionate words are as voices that come to you out of the
past, voices that remind you of how he loved you once--when you were but
eighteen!
There came from the little clock on, the mantel a whirring sound, then
it struck One--Two--She lifted her head for a moment, there was a step
on the stairs outside, her father come home from the Club, he passed her
door.
A mist was before her eyes, the letters were all blurred and indistinct,
the writing--she could no longer see, yet, she knew every word written
there. How many times had she read them over and over and yet over
again!
And what need to read them when, she knew them so well? Would she ever
forget them? So many pages, so closely written and yet all that had
been said, could have been said in but three words, three short words,
"I love you!"
So she sat there with the letters all in a heap in her lap, and her head
bowed.
Memory--Memory was monarch of all to-night. Memory ruled and reigned
supreme.
That night, do you remember, Kathleen? The night when the raindrops
pattered on the glossy leaves of the magnolia that grew beneath your
window? Do you remember how he stood there looking up at you, the light
from your lamp on his face? Do you remember? And that day, the day you
met him by the end of the lane and put your hand in his and went with
him down the long road? Do you remember? And then again----
She moved suddenly, she flung her head back, her face was white and
drawn and there was agony in her eyes. She rose suddenly and thrust the
letters into the empty grate, she bent over them and struck a match and
watched them burn.
And then, when the last was turned to grey and black ash, she went back
to the table and took up the great expensive, glittering ring, the ring
that represented more money than He had ever owned. And so she turned
it over and over between her white fingers and laughed suddenly. But
the laughter was not good to hear.
*CHAPTER IX*
*HOW SIR JOSIAH OPENED HIS PURSE*
Sir Josiah garaged his two thousand guinea car in the old coach house of
"The Fighting Cocks" Inn. He ordered a sumptuous repast in that antique
house of call, the best and the oldest wines must be brought up from the
cellars for him.
A keen money getter, yet he was at heart a very generous man. The
respect, the bobbing curtseys, the doffed hats and smiling faces here at
Little Stretton delighted him. He felt just a thrill of regret that he
had bought the old place for Allan rather than for himself. He had an
idea that he would make a far better and more imposing Lord of the Manor
than Allan.
In the City of London he was "somebody," but here in little quiet out of
the world Little Stretton, he was "everybody."
Mr. Dalabey fawned on him, he fetched and carried, he was hat in hand.
A cunning, artful fellow Mr. Dalabey, he sized Sir Josiah up, he called
him "Squire," and Sir Josiah glowed with satisfaction.
"A good feller, that Dalabey, a sensible man!" Sir Josiah said to Allan,
"a useful feller!" It puzzled the Baronet that his son refused to
accompany him on his many trips to Little Stretton and Homewood. Allan
went once, and on that once he was moody and silent. While his father
stamped about the house and thrust the blade of his pen-knife into
suspicious woodwork, Allen held aloof, he went out into the old garden
by himself and stood staring at the battered nymph, whose slim stone
figure was reflected in the dark pool. He sat down, on the old mossy
stone seat in the great circle about the sundial and stared at the weeds
and decay, and somehow the desolation of the place seemed to creep into
his heart. He was glad to get away.
He loved his father, he knew what a fine old fellow he was at heart,
what noble and generous impulses he was capable of. But to-day his
father's loud self-confident voice, his intense self-satisfaction, his
huge importance, Dalabey's servility all irked him. He was intensely
glad to leave Homewood behind him and thereafter he always found some
excuse that prevented him from accompanying Sir Josiah on his many
visits to Homewood.
So the Baronet came and gave his orders to Dalabey and to the builders
and decorators and the gardeners, and he spent money like water.
"When I do things, I don't half do things, eh Dalabey?" Sir Josiah
enquired.
"No, that you don't, Squire, beg your pardon, Sir Josiah!" said Dalabey.
"Never was such a free and open handed gentleman, sir!"
"Your Mr. Van Norden wouldn't have done the thing in such style, eh?"
enquired Sir Josiah.
"No, sir, not to be thought of, not for a moment, Squire!"
It meant thousands, yet what did thousands matter to Sir Josiah with his
hundreds of thousands? He spent and spent, he was extravagant. Before,
as he said himself, one could say "Jack Robinson," he had an army of
workpeople slaving at the place, and he walked about the house and
garden and saw his men doing his work and drawing his pay, and for the
first time in his life he felt himself a really great man.
And once--once his forebears had delved and dug this very soil that was
now his own! Once for a few miserable shillings a week had they turned
over the sweet brown earth over which he was lord and master.
In Little Stretton, in Homewood, at Bargate and Bushcorner, and all the
little villages round about, there were smiling faces and curtseys for
him and he was utterly unconscious that one pair of blue eyes grew hard
and bitter and one red lipped mouth curled with contempt and dislike,
that in one soft little breast a usually tender little heart was filled
with hate for him. For this was the mab who had bought "her" garden,
and who was spoiling it, spoiling it so that it would never, never
again, be as it hud been. With one wave of his thick hand he had
banished all those dear ghosts of the past who had been her friends,
even more her friends than the honest, red faced rustics who were very
much real flesh and blood, and who regarded her with commiserating eyes
as a "queer" maid.
Oozing satisfaction and gold, Sir Josiah was beloved of everyone save of
this unreasonable little maid, who hated his jolly round red face and
loathed the sound of his loud and domineering voice.
"Get some of them old trees cut down and out of the way, Dalabey, get
all this tangle rooted out of it and get that wall pointed, yes that's
what it wants--pointing, make it look smart--and Dalabey----"
"Yes, Squire?"
"How about some broken class along the top of the walls? We don't want
people climbing over and trespassing, Dalabey!"
"Certainly, Squire, broken glass!"
So on moonlight nights broken glass, securely set in cement, glittered
and twinkled like a line of frost along the top of the walls and the
little maid looked at it with bursting heart and a terrible sense of
loss.
"Very sullen, not to say quiet, my granddarter du be getting," said Mrs.
Hanson to Mrs. Colley, her neighbour.
"Maids du get that way," said Mrs. Colley. "'Tis a home of her own her
be pining for--gone eighteen your maid be, Mrs. Hanson?"
"Gone eighteen Feb'ry last," said Mrs. Hanson.
"Then time it is her was married and in a home of her own, with, things
to look after to keep her hands and her mind full! Marriage be the
right and proper and nat'ral thing for young maids of her years----"
"And her not wanting for chances," said Mrs. Hanson; "why she hev but to
hold up her finger and there be a dozen ready to run to she!"
Mrs. Colley wagged her head. "And who be they?" she asked jealously,
for she had a granddaughter of her own who was as yet unappropriated.
"There be Tom Spinner, who du be spending his evenings in the bar of the
Three Ploughs, and Bob Domer, a nice ne'er-do-well he, and young Frank
Peasgood as du make eyes at every maid he sees. Why I did order him the
door myself when he would have come a-courting my 'Lizbeth."
"And there be Abram Lestwick," said Mrs. Hanson, "who be a fine and
proper young man, reg'lar to Church, one as walks in fear of the Lord
and no beer drinker, nor smoker neither, and a steady worker with a nice
cottage of his own, and standing high with Farmer Patcham. Aye, there
be Abram Lestwick as would kneel down and kiss the very floor my maid
treads on!"
Mrs. Colley sniffed. She had had designs on Abram Lestwick herself for
her 'Lizbeth, but Abram had always stolidly passed her inviting door by
and never had be given a second glance to sallow faced, black haired,
shrewish tempered 'Lizbeth Colley.
"Too mysterious he be and too quiet and sullen like, I count him, for a
young man. I like young men as enjoys life, not such as walks about
with a book in his pocket and scarce ever takes his eyes from the
ground. Fair and square and open I du like young men to be, Mrs.
Hanson, and as for your Abram Lestwick, I give him to you, I du!"
"Very gen'rous you be, givin' what bain't yours to give!" said Mrs.
Hanson with spirit; "and thank you kindly, I be sure, Mrs. Colley!"
So they parted, not the best of friends, but into Mrs. Hanson's mind had
come an image of Betty settling down with Abram Lestwick as her partner,
and that same evening she opened fire on Betty with:
"A very proper young man be Abram Lestwick, a pity 'tis there bain't a
few more like he!"
Betty made no answer.
"And very frequent he du pass this cottage, whiles round by Perry's
medder be the nearest and nighest way for he."
"Well, what about Abram Lestwick, Grandmother?"
"I du believe, Betty, he hev serious intentions," said the old lady,
"and a nice little cottage, well furnished and steady money coming in,
not less than thirty-five shillings every week, as would make a maid
happy and comfortable."
Betty sprang to her feet, her face flushed, her eyes seemed to dart
points of light.
"What do 'ee mean, Grandmother? Be 'ee goading I to marry Abram
Lestwick? Do 'ee want to get rid o' I, is that it?"
"Bless me, my maid, what tantrums 'ee do fly into!" cried the astonished
old body. "Wherever did 'ee get thy temper from I don't know, a
peaceful soul thy mother was and thy father being my own son, was as
easy a man as ever trod and here be 'ee, my maid, with a hot temper, of
which I be ashamed, and down on your knees and ask God to forgive 'ee
and make a better maid of 'ee!"
"I shan't!" said Betty.
Mrs. Hanson rose: "'Tis the first time as ever 'ee said shan't to me,
Betty Hanson, and after this I be determined and my mind be made
up--marry Abram Lestwick 'ee shall!"
"No, no!"
"Or out through that door do 'ee go, never was there a maid so bad and
so ungrateful as 'ee be. Go to your room and consider of things, Betty
Hanson, till 'ee be come to a better frame of mind!"
*CHAPTER X*
*CONFIDENCES*
When Sir Josiah had enquired of Mr. Dalabey how long it would take to
put Homewood into the order in which he desired to see it, Mr. Dalabey
had scratched his head.
"Three months, maybe four, and I shouldn't he s'prised, seeing how
powerful a lot there du be to du, no I shouldn't be s'prised, Squire, if
it warn't five months, aye, all five months I should say it would be!"
"And now, listen to me, Dalabey," said Sir Josiah, "two months I say,
and not a minute longer, two mouths I give you and if the last workman
isn't out of the house and the last bit of timber and papering and what
not in and done with, the garden straight and all the rest of it, then
I'll get someone else to do my work for me, Dalabey!"
"Har!" said Dalabey.
"And it's not money I'm stinting you of, my man, get twenty more men at
work on the place, I don't care, get as many as you can handle, but two
months is the time I give you and then I clear you all out, lock, stock
and barrel. So get busy, Dalabey my man, if you wish to remain in my
good graces."
Dalabey got busy. He hired more painters and carpenters and joiners,
more labourers and gardeners, stone masons and brick layers till
Homewood was given over to a small industrial army, of which Dalabey was
the indefatigable general.
There was no slacking at Homewood, Dalabey saw to that, he was here,
there and everywhere. He himself was doing very well, he had no cause
to complain, he charged his own time very handsomely and there were
other pickings besides. But he worked, he was honest at least in that,
and he made the others work. A week did wonders, a fortnight shewed an
amazing change, at the end of the first month Sir Josiah nodded
approval.
"Getting to be something like shipshape, Dalabey," he said. "And you
got talking to me about five months, here we ain't been five weeks on
the job and look you----"
"You be right, Squire, and I were wrong," said Dalabey humbly.
In one thing at least Dalabey was to be highly complimented. He was out
to "restore" the old place, to make it look as nearly like it had been
in the time of the Elmacotts as possible. He introduced no newfangled
ideas and innovations, no modern improvements, except of course the
power plant and the dynamo and the huge collection of storage cells
which were to light the old house with electricity. Except for the
electric lighting outfit, the old house was to look so like its old own
and original self that had an eighteenth century Elmacott come to life
and walked in through the hall door, he would not have been in the least
surprised by anything he saw.
In the garden Dalabey had a very able lieutenant in old Markabee.
"Restore," said Dalabey, "find out all the lines of the old beds and
borders and replace 'em, clean up the stone work, but not too much. You
got to remember, Markabee, as time du meller things, an old garden this
be and an old garden it hev got to remain, mark that, Markabee. It have
got to look like, so be as if a gentleman in powdered wig and silk
stockings and maybe a sword at his side were to come strolling down yon
path, a-taking snuff out of his box and walking with a lady in hoops,
Markabee, and patches and her hair all done high and whitened, as--as
you wouldn't take, it to be the Fifth of November, Markabee, you get the
hang of my meaning?"
"I du!" said Markabee, and he did his work well.
Inch by inch the old ground was reclaimed, the old yew hedge was clipped
and trimmed, till it began to assume a faint suggestion of its once
fanciful shape, the grass was scythed and weeded and patched and rolled
and mowed. The weeds were torn up from the crevices in the old pathway
of stone, but Markabee was artist enough to leave many a flower blooming
where perhaps a flower should not have been.
The stonemasons and the rest would have pulled down and replaced the
little stone nymph, but Dalabey ordered them off sternly.
"You leave yon maid alone, her be in keeping wi' the old place, her be!
Too true some o' they weeds might be cleared off the pond, Markabee, but
there be a line beyond which no one must go, so let the stone maid
bide!"
So the little nymph was left in her old place, and the sunlight kissed
her white stone shoulders, and dappled the slender little stone body
with splashes of vivid brightness, and, little by little, the old garden
came back to its own again. The weeds were all gone and the flowers
bloomed, and the June sunshine and the June showers made the grass green
and pleasant to the sight.
Meanwhile Allan stayed away; he was in London and his time was not
unpleasantly employed.
He was too healthy and too young to brood over what after all had been
merely a dream. It had been wonderfully real and wonderfully tender and
beautiful while it had lasted. He had come back to reality with a sense
of loss and a heartache for the little maid who had looked at him with
such love in her blue eyes, who had put her arms about, his neck and
called him her dear and kissed his eyes. Very, very real it had been
and for many a day and many a night he could not put it out of his
memory.
But this was to-day and there was all the world about him and he was to
be married to a girl who was beautiful and good, and for whom he felt a
liking and admiration that bordered on real affection.
Most of all he felt sorry for her, why he hardly knew, sometimes when
she did not know that he was looking at her, there was a sadness about
her eyes, a sad pensive little droop to her lips, which was gone all in
a moment if he spoke to her.
There was a very comfortable understanding between them. They were going
to be man and wife very soon, in the natural course of events they would
have to live their lives together. They were beginning that life with
mutual regard, liking and friendship. Love and passion were entirely
absent.
"I am old, Allan," Kathleen said, "much, much older than you dear, in
every way, not only in years, but----" she paused.
"In suffering and knowledge!" she might have said, but did not.
"You will never be old, I think," he said, he took her hand. "Kathleen,
we understand one another. I--I'm a clumsy fellow, clumsy and slow of
speech. I belong to a different world from yours!"
She shook her head.
"I am not going to apologise for my people, for in my heart I am proud
of them. They were nothing and nobodies and they have made a place for
themselves in the world--I love my father, honour and respect him,
though I know, I know that you in your heart cannot like him."
"Your father is kind and generous, mine cynical and selfish, I think
that you are richer in this matter than I am, Allan, but----"
It was the first night of a new play. London was still full, the season
had not waned, the new play was dull and lifeless, the audience was
yawning consumedly. These two had retired to the back of the box which
Lord Gowerhurst had quitted just now and found more interest in
discussing their own affairs than in following the fortunes of the
characters on the boards.
Kathleen was looking wonderfully, regally beautifully to-night, and
Allan was looking--what he was--an honest, clean living, stalwart young
Englishman, whose dress clothes sat well on his shapely body. Son of
the people he might be, but he was not a man to feel shame for.
"I do not disguise anything from myself, Allan, nor from you. I want to
feel that you are my friend, that you are the friend I can come to and
open my heart and speak to plainly as I might to one who is truly and
indeed my friend!"
He pressed her hand by way of answer.
"I've wanted this opportunity to speak to you, it has come unexpectedly,
but I shall speak now," she paused. "Our marriage was only a bargain, a
very sordid bargain, and it--it hurt me at first, it hurt me a great
deal. I--I hated myself, despised myself for agreeing to it, but since
then, since I have come to know you better and understand you better,
Allan, I think we can make something more of our lives than most others
similarly placed might. I do not love you, my dear, and I know that you
do not love me--No, don't speak yet, Allan, let me say what I have to
say! Years ago there was someone--I was scarcely more than a child and I
loved him very, very truly, very deeply. He was poor and so was I,
marriage was impossible. He--went, away, I have never seen him since
and I shall never see him again--the night we became engaged--you and
I--I burned his letters. It hurt a little, Allan, but I did it, dear,
because I want to come to you without a secret on my soul. I want to
lay my heart bare to you. I want to look you in the face, to take your
hand, knowing that I am keeping nothing back from you, knowing there is
no secret that might lead to bitterness and anger and perhaps even to
dislike. Though I feel very, very old sometimes, Allan, I know that I
am young yet; we are both young, there are many years before us in the
natural course of events. All those years we must spend together, so we
will be truthful and frank and honest with each other and keeping our
own self-respect, dear, we shall keep our respect for one another."
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.
"You are a good, sweet, woman, Kathleen!" he said.
She laughed a little, very softly, "And you, Allan, have you nothing to
tell me?"
"Nothing!" he said, yet hesitated and smiled to himself.
"I think there is something----" she said, "was there never even for a
little while, someone!"
"Yes," he said, "a girl who called me her dear, who looked at me with
loving tender blue eyes, who put her arms about my neck and kissed
me----"
"Oh Allan, and yet----"
"Wait!" he said, he smiled, he still held her hand. "To me she was the
most wonderful, the most lovely thing I ever saw, I loved her with all
my heart----"
Kathleen would have drawn her hand away, gently, yet have drawn it away,
but he, smiling down at her, would not let the little hand go.
"But she was not real, she was only a dream maiden. I never thought to
tell anyone, Kathleen, but will you listen to me?"
"Yes!"
And so, still holding her hand, he told her.
"That was a very wonderful dream, Allan," she said.
"It was a very wonderful dream, and when I looked about me and saw all
the weeds and the desolation, then I felt as if I had lost something--as
if----"
"I understand!" she said. She was pensive and thoughtful. "What can it
mean? Why should such a dream be sent to you? There was some meaning
behind it, something--I wish I knew!"
"It was only a dream, and I am trying to forget it, perhaps I have
nearly forgotten it--the sense of loss is passing away--not quite----"
She looked at him. "It will never quite pass, I think," she said.
"Allan," she hesitated, "Allan, if--if it ever became real, if someone
else, someone who awakened your heart ever came into your life----"
"I should remember that you are----"
"No, no, listen, I want you to promise me something, to promise me on
your honour, and I know that I can trust that--if such a thing comes to
you, if the real love that may come that comes into nearly every man's
life does come--Allan, will you tell me, frankly, as one friend to
another, will you tell me, dear?"
"I promise," he said, "and you, Kathleen!"
"It--it came--it can never come again--I was only a child, but he was
all my world. I have never seen him since and shall never see him
again----"
"But if you did--then will you tell me, will you be less frank with me
than I with you?"
"No!" she said. "I will tell you, I promise, if--but it never, never
will, still, if--if it should--then I promise, always we will be frank
with one another!"
"Always!" he said.
Lord Gowerhurst opened the door of the box and closed it very softly
behind him.
"Ah!" he said, "quite so; you are wise, the play is not the thing--it is
rubbish--I am sorry for the author, I am sorry for the management, but
as usual I am sorry most of all for myself. You two young people have
something more interesting to discuss. I don't blame you! No, hang me,
I don't blame you! Now I'll confess, I met Lumeyer, an excellent
fellow, one who knows of good things, he put me on to one 'The Stelling
Reef Gold Mine,' shares bound to go up. I've a good mind to have a
flutter. By the way, Allan, where's your father? Our worthy and
excellent Baronet!"
Allan flushed. He always did when his Lordship spoke of his father.
Unintentional it might be, but there was always a suggestion of a sneer
in the cultivated voice of the man whose pockets were at this moment
supplied with the Baronet's money.
"My father is at Little Stretton to-day and staying over night, he is
very busy down there at Homewood, sir, our--my--our future home--he
takes a great interest in it and is doing the place up thoroughly!"
"An excellent man, you're lucky to have such a father!"
"I never lose sight of that fact, my lord!" Allan said gravely.
"Quite right, quite right--would to Heaven----" his lordship said
tragically, "would to Heaven Kathleen could say the same! She can't,
she can't, sir, too deuced honest to tell lies! She is like her sainted
Mother! Bless me this drivel doesn't seem to be shaping for a finish.
Supposing we clear out, eh? What about a snack of supper at
Poligninis?"
Kathleen rose, "I would prefer to go home," she said, "I am tired
to-night!" She looked at Allan, her eyes were very bright, very kind
and friendly.
"My dear child," said his lordship, "at Poligninis they have some
eighty-seven Heidsick, which I regard practically as my own property.
It is never offered to casual customers. Polignini is an excellent
fellow who appreciates my taste and keeps it for me," he paused.
"I am tired and I shall go home!" Kathleen said briefly.
"I will see you home!" Allan said.
His lordship shrugged his shoulders. "So be it, I will go to my lonely
caravanserie and a frugal meal. I'm an old fellow, an old fellow, I
realise that youth must be served!" He waved a white hand. "Youth,
youth!" he said. "How lightly we hold it when it is ours, how we even
resent it, and how, when it is lost to us forever, do we worship and
yearn and long for it. Oh the happy, goutless indigestionless days of
our long since fled youth, how precious they were! And how ill spent!
Give me my lost youth back again, as I think it was Faust, remarked, and
what would I do with it? I am afraid, my dears, I would do with it
exactly as I did with it before. We never learn wisdom! Adieu mes
enfants, bon repos, my Kathleen! May angels guard thee and bring happy
dreams! Allan, dear lad, good night, my respectful compliments to the
Baronet, an old man, my dears, and a lonely; I realise that youth is
impatient of garrulous though well intentioned age! Good night once
again!" He waved his hand and the box door closed on him, he was gone.
Kathleen sighed a little, she looked at Allan with a queer smile on her
lips.
"Yes, I think Allan," she said, "you are more fortunate than I, and now,
dear, I am tired, I am going home--to bed!"
*CHAPTER XI*
*IN WHICH SIR JOSIAH PROVES HIMSELF A GENTLEMAN*
St. George's, Hanover Square, had always been at the back of Sir
Josiah's mind. His lordship had favoured St. Margaret's, Westminster.
July was nearly out, London was emptying, if not emptied of people who
really count, which was a great disappointment to Sir Josiah. But
Homewood was nearly complete, the old gentleman walked through the
transformed and glorious rooms, he looked through sound windows into a
garden that was a delight to see with never a weed to mar its
perfection. He took Montague Davenham, the celebrated art dealer, down
with him to see the place.
"There you are, you ought to have seen it two months ago, you'd never
believe, a ruin it was!" said Sir Josiah. "Fairly hopeless it looked,
said I, keep to the old lines! It's an old house and you've got to make
it look like an old house, but a well kept one, renew and restore! If
you take away a piece of old moulding that's gone rotten, put back a new
piece shaped the same, nothing new, that was my instructions, and they
have carried 'em out, and now the rest's up to you, Mr. Davenham. I
don't pretend to know what I don't know. But I do know this, that if you
were to put say bamboo furniture and Japanese fans and umbrellas in this
here old room with that ceiling and them panelled walls, why they'd be
out of place, you wouldn't go and make a mistake like that! I've got
money, I don't deny, and this house has been a bit of a hobby with me.
I want to see it looking like it should look, so just take a look round,
make up your mind and put the right stuff into it!"
"My dear sir, if every rich man were as wise as you, the world would
certainly look a great deal more pleasant than it does. The house will
form an admirable setting for furnishings of the right period. I
compliment you on the manner in which the work has been done. I
couldn't have done it better myself, the garden in particular is
delightful, simply delightful!"
"Markabee here, done it, under Dalabey, a useful man. Dalabey, I don't
know what I'd done without him, but it's ready for you now. Mr.
Davenham, get ahead, get the place fixed up as it should be, the right
furniture, the right decorations. Keep the price reasonable, I don't
say stint, nor I don't say launch out too wildly. I leave it to you!"
"It is a commission that I accept with a great deal of pleasure. I
think and hope that I shall please you and at a not too terrible
expenditure!"
"Get ahead with it!" Sir Josiah said.
"Fine feller Davenham!" he said to Allan. "Knows his business; one
thing you'll have a house that you needn't be ashamed to shew to anyone,
a fit setting, my boy, a fit setting for a very sweet and lovely young
lady, bless her heart, and a lucky fellow you are!"
"To have such a father!" Allan said, in all honest sincerity.
"Bless you, bless you, it's been a pleasure, I don't know when I've put
myself heart and soul into a thing like I've done into this! I'm almost
sorry I've put it in Davenham's hands now, but then he knows what's
right and I don't. Now about the wedding, Allan! His lordship and me
was talking last night. Something about St. Margaret's, Westminster, he
said. 'I beg your pardon, my lord,' I said. 'St. Georges, Hanover
Square, if you don't mind.' I've set my heart on it, Allan; I always
had an idea I'd like you to be married at Hanover Square; there's
something solid about the very name of it, right down respectable!" he
paused. "Then, for the reception afterwards, I'm for taking the
Whitehall Rooms at----"
"Father, I want to speak to you!" Allan said. "I--I hate to disappoint
you, but in this matter I think the first person to be considered is
Kathleen!"
"Bless me, and so it is! What she says goes!"
"She wishes the wedding to be very quiet, very quiet indeed; she wants
only our own selves there, my father and hers and no one besides!"
"Why--why, bless me, bless my soul! You don't mean to say----" Sir
Josiah's face was almost pitiful.
"She asked me last night, she begged me to side with her and uphold her
wishes and I promised. I--I know, father, it's a disappointment to you,
but we can't go against her, can we?"
"No, no, we can't go against her, that's right, right enough, no we
can't go against her--never think of such a thing, I wouldn't, but I'd a
thought that a young girl with all her friends would have liked----"
"It cannot be too quiet for her! And I promised to speak to you about
it. Her father is very angry, unnecessarily angry, he spoke to her
sharply, almost rudely in my presence last night, in a way----" Allan
paused, "that my father would not have spoken to a woman!" he added
proudly.
Sir Josiah gripped Allan's hand. "You--you're right, the little girl
shall have her way, tell her; give her my love, Allan, and tell her what
she says goes. As for his Lordship, his Lordship can--can go to the
Dickens----"
Allan smiled. "I think his Lordship has been making for that quarter
all his life!"
It was a bitter blow to the Baronet, but he took it like a man. He had
counted on a gorgeous spectacle, for which he had been very willing to
find the money. He had counted on portraits of the bride and bridegroom
and bridegroom's father, to say nothing of the bride's father in the
fashionable illustrated papers, as well as the daily illustrated press.
He had cut out paragraphs from the _Times_ and the _Morning Post_.
"A marriage has been arranged between Mr. Allan Homewood, only son of
Sir Josiah Homewood, Bart., of Homewood, Sussex, and the Lady Kathleen
Nora Stanwys, only daughter of the Earl of Gowerhurst."