"Beware of a silent dog and still water."
If you are travelling across Middleshire on the local line between
Southminster and Westhope, after you have passed Wilderleigh with its
gray gables and park wall, close at hand you will perceive to nestle (at
least, Mr. Gresley said it nestled) Warpington Vicarage; and perhaps, if
you know where to look, you will catch a glimpse of Hester's narrow
bedroom window under the roof. Half a mile farther on Warpington Towers,
the gorgeous residence of the Pratts, bursts into view, with flag on
turret flying, and two tightly bitted rustic bridges leaping high over
the Drone. You cannot see all the lodges of Warpington Towers from the
line, which is a source of some regret to Mr. Pratt; but if he happens
to be travelling with you he will point out two of them, chaste stucco
Gothic erections with church windows, and inform you that the three
others are on the northern and eastern sides, vaguely indicating the
directions of Scotland and Ireland.
And the Drone, kept in order on your left by the low line of the
Slumberleigh hills, will follow you and leave you, leave you and return
all the way to Westhope. You are getting out at Westhope, of course, if
you are a Middleshire man; for Westhope is on the verge of Middleshire,
and the train does not go any farther--at least, it only goes into one
of the insignificant counties which jostle each other to hold on to
Middleshire, unknown Saharas, where passengers who oversleep themselves
wake to find themselves cast away.
Westhope Abbey stands in its long, low meadows and level gardens, close
to the little town, straggling red roof above red roof, up its steep
cobbled streets.
Down the great central aisle you may walk on mossy stones between the
high shafts of broken pillars under the sky. God's stars look down once
more where the piety of man had for a time shut them out. Through the
slender tracery of what was once the east window, instead of glazed
saint and crucifix, you may see the little town clasping its hill.
The purple clematis and the small lizard-like leaf of the ivy have laid
tender hands on all that is left of that stately house of prayer. The
pigeons wheel round it, and nest in its niches. The soft, contented
murmur of bird praise has replaced the noise of bitter human prayer. A
thin wind-whipped grass holds the summit of the broken walls against all
corners. The fallen stones, quaintly carved with angel and griffin, are
going slowly back year by year, helped by the rain and hindered by the
frost, slowly back through the sod to the generations of human hands
that held and hewed them, and fell to dust below them hundreds of years
ago. The spirit returns to the God who gave it, and the stone to the
hand that fashioned it.
The adjoining monastery had been turned into a dwelling-house, without
altering it externally, and it was here that Lord Newhaven loved to pass
the summer months. Into its one long upper passage all the many rooms
opened, up white stone steps through arched doors, rooms which had once
been monks' dormitories, abbots' cells, where Lady Newhaven and her
guests now crimped their hair and slept under down quilts till noon.
It was this long passage, with its interminable row of low latticed
windows, that Lord Newhaven was turning into a depository for the old
English weapons which he was slowly collecting. He was standing now
gazing lovingly at them, drawing one finger slowly along an inlaid
arquebus, when a yell from the garden made him turn and look out.
It was not a yell of anguish, and Lord Newhaven remained at the window
leaning on his elbows and watching at his ease the little scene which
was taking place below him.
On his bicycle on the smooth-shaven lawn was Dick, wheeling slowly in
and out among the stone-edged flower-beds, an apricot in each broad
palm, while he discoursed in a dispassionate manner to the two excited
little boys who were making futile rushes for the apricots. The
governess and Rachel were looking on. Rachel had arrived at Westhope the
day before from Southminster. "Take your time, my son," said Dick, just
eluding by a hair's-breadth a charge through a geranium-bed on the part
of the eldest boy. "If you are such jolly little fools as to crack your
little skulls on the sun-dial, I shall eat them both myself. Miss Turner
says you may have them, so you've only got to take them. I can't keep on
offering them all day long. My time"--(Dick ran his bicycle up a
terrace, and, as soon as the boys were up, glided down again)--"my time
is valuable. You don't want them?" A shrill disclaimer and a fresh
onslaught. "Miss Turner, they thank you very much, but they don't care
for apricots."
Half a second more and Dick skilfully parted from his bicycle and was
charged by his two admirers and severely pummelled as high as they could
reach. When they had been led away by Miss Turner, each biting an
apricot and casting longing backward looks at their friend, Rachel and
Dick wandered to the north side of the abbey and sat down there in the
shade.
Lord Newhaven could still see them, could still note her amused face
under her wide white hat. He was doing his best for Dick, and Dick was
certainly having his chance, and making the most of it according to his
lights.
"But, all the same, I don't think he has a chance," said Lord Newhaven
to himself. "That woman, in spite of her frank manner and her
self-possession, is afraid of men; not of being married for her money,
but of man himself. And whatever else he may not be, Dick is a man.
It's the best chance she will ever get, so it is probable she won't take
it."
Lord Newhaven sauntered back down the narrow black oak staircase to his
own room on the ground-floor. He sat down at his writing-table and took
out of his pocket a letter which he had evidently read before. He now
read it slowly once more.
"Your last letter to me had been opened," wrote his brother from India,
"or else it had not been properly closed. As you wrote on business, I
wish you would be more careful."
"I will," said Lord Newhaven, and he wrote a short letter in his small,
upright hand, closed the envelope, addressed and stamped it, and
sauntered out through the low-arched door into the garden.
Dick was sitting alone on the high-carved stone edge of the round pool
where the monks used to wash, and where gold-fish now lived cloistered
lives. A moment of depression seemed to have overtaken that cheerful
personage.
"Come as far as the post-office," said Lord Newhaven.
Dick gathered himself together, and rose slowly to his large feet.
"You millionaires are all the same," he said. "Because you have a house
crawling with servants till they stick to the ceiling you have to go to
the post-office to buy a penny stamp. It's like keeping a dog and
barking yourself."
"I don't fancy I bark much," said Lord Newhaven.
"No, and you don't bite _often_, but when you do you take out the piece.
Do you remember that colored chap at Broken Hill?"
"He deserved it," said Lord Newhaven.
"He richly deserved it. But you took him in, poor devil, all the same.
You were so uncommonly mild and limp beforehand, and letting pass things
you ought not to have let pass, that, like the low beast he was, he
thought he could play you any dog's trick, and that you would never
turn on him."
"It's a way worms have."
"Oh, hang worms; it does not matter whether they turn or not. But cobras
have no business to imitate them till poor rookies think they have no
poison in them, and that they can tickle them with a switch. What a
great hulking brute that man was! You ricked him when you threw him! I
saw him just before I left Adelaide. He's been lame ever since."
"He'd have done for me if he could."
"Of course he would. His blood was up. He meant to break your back. I
saw him break a chap's back once, and it did not take so very long
either. I heard it snap. But why did you let him go so far to start with
before you pulled him up? That's what I've never been able to understand
about you. If you behaved different to start with they would behave
different to you. They would know they'd have to."
"I have not your art," said Lord Newhaven, tranquilly, "of letting a man
know when he's getting out of hand that unless he goes steady there will
be a row, and he'll be in it. I'm not made like that."
"It works well," said Dick. "It's a sort of peaceful way of rubbing
along and keeping friends. If you let those poor bullies know what to
expect they aren't, as a rule, over-anxious to toe the mark. But you
never _do_ let them know."
"No," said Lord Newhaven, as he shot his letter into the brass mouth in
the cottage wall, just below a window of "bulls'-eyes" and peppermints,
"I never do. I don't defend it. But--"
"But what?"
Lord Newhaven's face underwent some subtle change. His eyes fixed
themselves on a bottle of heart-shaped peppermints, and then met Dick's
suddenly, with the clear, frank glance of a schoolboy.
"But somehow, for the life of me, until things get serious--_I can't_."
Dick, whose perceptions were rather of a colossal than an acute order,
nevertheless perceived that he had received a confidence, and changed
the subject.
"Aren't you going to buy some stamps?" he asked, perfectly aware that
Lord Newhaven had had his reasons for walking to the post-office.
Lord Newhaven, who was being watched with affectionate interest from
behind the counter by the grocer postmaster, went in, hit his head
against a pendent ham, and presently emerged with brine in his hair and
a shilling's worth of stamps in his hand.
Later in the day, when he and Dick were riding up the little street,
with a view to having a look at the moor--for Middleshire actually has a
grouse moor, although it is in the Midlands--the grocer in his white
apron rushed out and waylaid them.
"Very sorry about the letter, my lord," he repeated volubly, touching
his forelock. "Hope her la'ship told you as I could not get it out
again, or I'm sure I would have done to oblige your lordship, and her
la'ship calling on purpose. But the post-office is that mean and
distrustful as it don't leave me the key, and once hanything is in, in
it is."
"Ah!" said Lord Newhaven, slowly. "Well, Jones, it's not your fault. I
ought not to have changed my mind. I suppose her ladyship gave you my
message that I wanted it back?"
"Yes, my lord, and her la'ship come herself, not ten minutes after you
was gone. But I've no more power over that there receptacle than a
hunlaid hegg, and that's the long and short of it. I've allus said, and
I say it again, 'Them as have charge of the post-office should have the
key.'"
"When I am made postmaster-general you _shall_ have it," said Lord
Newhaven, smiling. "It is the first reform that I shall bring about."
And he nodded to the smiling, apologetic man and trotted on, Dick beside
him, who was apparently absorbed in the action of his roan cob.
But Dick's mind had sustained a severe shock. That Lady Newhaven, "that
jolly little woman," the fond mother of those two "jolly little chaps,"
should have been guilty of an underhand trick, was astonishing to him.
Poor Dick had started life with a religious reverence for woman; had
carried out his brittle possession to bush-life in Australia, from
thence through two A.D.C.-ships, and, after many vicissitudes, had
brought it safely back with a large consignment of his own Burgundy to
his native land. It was still sufficiently intact--save for a chip or
two--to make a pretty wedding-present to his future wife. But it had had
a knock since he mounted the roan cob. For, unfortunately, the kind of
man who has what are called "illusions" about women is too often the man
whose discrimination lies in other directions, in fields where little
high-heeled shoes are not admitted.
Rachel had the doubtful advantage of knowing that, in spite of Dick's
shrewdness respecting shades of difference in muscatels, she and Lady
Newhaven were nevertheless ranged on the same pedestal in Dick's mind as
flawless twins of equal moral beauty. But after this particular day she
observed that Lady Newhaven had somehow slipped off the pedestal, and
that she, Rachel, had the honor of occupying it alone.