IT was a dismal wet afternoon when Tony Palliser stood bareheaded beside
a dripping yew tree under the eastern window of Northrop church. His
head was aching, for the last few days and nights had not passed
pleasantly with him, and confused as his thoughts were he realized what
he owed to the man the bearers were then waiting to carry to his resting
place. Godfrey Palliser had been autocratic and a trifle exacting, but
he had taken his nephew into the place of his dead son, and bestowed all
he had on him, while Tony remembered what his part had been. He had with
false words hindered the dying man making a reparation which would have
lightened his last hours.
Tony was not usually superstitious, or addicted to speculation about
anything that did not concern the present world, but as he glanced at
the faces close packed beyond the tall marble pillar with its gleaming
cross, and heard the words of ponderous import the surpliced vicar read,
he was troubled by a vague sense of fear. Godfrey Palliser had gone out
into the unknown, unforgiving, and with heart hardened against his
kinsman who had done no wrong, but it seemed to Tony that the man who
had deceived him would be held responsible.
By and by somebody touched his arm, the droning voice died away, there
was a shuffle of feet, and he watched the bearers, who vanished with
their burden beyond a narrow granite portal. Then the voice that seemed
faint and indistinct went on again, there was a grinding of hinges, an
iron gate closed with a crash, and though Tony felt the damp upon his
forehead he straightened himself with a little sigh of relief. He need,
at least, no longer fear the righteous indignation of Godfrey Palliser,
who had gone down into the darkness with his trust in him unshaken.
Still, it was with an effort he met the rows of faces that were turned
in his direction as he walked slowly between them to the gate. They were
respectfully sympathetic, for Godfrey Palliser had held the esteem of
his tenants and neighbors, who had only good will for the man who would
succeed him. They still stood bareheaded, for the most part, in the
rain, and Tony closed the fingers of one hand tight, for he had erred
from fear and weakness and not with deliberate intent, and the men's
silent homage hurt him.
It was but a short drive back to the hall, and bracing himself for a
last effort he met the little group of kinsmen and friends who were
assembled about lawyer Craythorne in the great dining-room. Nobody
desired to prolong the proceedings, and there was a little murmur of
approbation when the elderly lawyer took out the will. He read it in a
low, clear voice, while the rain lashed the windows and the light grew
dim. Providing for certain charges and a list of small legacies it left
Tony owner of the Northrop property. His nearest kinsman shook hands
with him.
"It is a burdened inheritance, Tony, and perhaps the heaviest obligation
attached to it is that of walking in its departed owner's steps," he
said. "There are not many men fit to take his place, but you have our
confidence, and, I think, the good will of everybody on the estate."
There was a little murmur, and a gray-haired farmer, who was a legatee,
also shook Tony's hand.
"I've lived under your uncle, and his father too," he said. "They were
gentlemen of the right kind, both of them, and this would have been a
sadder day for Northrop if we hadn't a man we trusted to step into
Godfrey Palliser's shoes!"
Tony did not know what he answered, but his voice broke, and he stood
leaning silently on a chair back while the company filed out and left
him with the lawyer. The latter was, however, a little puzzled by his
attitude, for he had seen other men betray at least a trace of content
under similar circumstances, while there was apparently only care in
Tony's face.
"I would not ask your attention just now, only that the affair is
somewhat urgent, and I must go back to town this evening," he said. "As
you know, the electrical manufacturing company have been desirous of
purchasing a site for a factory at Dane Cop, and I expect the manager
to-morrow. The price he is willing to pay is, I think, a fair one; and
as they will get their power from the river there will be little smoke
or other nuisance, while the establishing of this industry cannot fail
to improve the value of the adjacent land. I have their proposals with
me, and I fancy we could see the suggested site for the dam and factory
from the window."
Tony went with him and looked out on the dripping valley which lay
colorless under the rain and driving cloud. The swollen river which had
spread across the low meadows flowed through the midst of it, and all
the prospect was gray and dreary.
"Of course we need the money, but I do not feel greatly tempted," he
said. "Rows of workmen's dwellings are scarcely an ornament to an
estate, and there are other drawbacks to the introduction of a
manufacturing community. I am not sure that it would not rather be my
duty to make up for what we should lose through letting them find
another site by personal economy."
The lawyer nodded. "Your point of view is commendable, but as the
company seem quite willing to agree to any reasonable stipulations as to
the type of workmen's dwellings, and would do what they could to render
the factory pleasant to the eye, I should urge you to make the bargain,"
he said. "I wonder if you know that your uncle had for a long while
decided that Dane Cop should go to Bernard Appleby. It has but little
agricultural value, and is almost cut off from the estate by Sir
George's property, but he realized that with its abundant water power it
would, now the local taxation in the cities is growing so burdensome,
sooner or later command attention as a manufacturing site. It is
somewhat curious that this offer should come just when it has passed out
of Appleby's hands."
Tony made a little abrupt movement. "This is the only time I have heard
of it," he said. "Well, if you are convinced it would be a wise thing
you may sell."
The lawyer looked at him curiously, and wondered what had so swiftly
changed his views. "You have until to-morrow afternoon to consider it
in," he said. "In any case, I should not commit myself until you have
approved of all conditions and stipulations."
"If you consider them reasonable you can sell, but I would have the
purchase money invested separately, and whatever dividend or interest I
derive from it kept apart in the accounts. You understand?"
"It is only a question of book-keeping. You have no doubt a reason for
wishing it?"
"I think you would call it a fancy," said Tony, with a curious smile.
"Still, I want it done."
The lawyer went out, and for half an hour Tony sat alone with a haggard
face in the gloomy room listening to the patter of the rain. It had
ceased, however, when he drove Violet Wayne, who had remained at
Northrop with her mother, home. Mrs. Wayne was to follow with a
neighbor, and Tony and the girl were alone in the dog-cart, which went
splashing down the miry road until he pulled the horse up where the
river came roaring down in brown flood under a straggling wood on the
side of a hill. Tony glanced at the flying vapors overhead, wet trees,
and dimly gleaming water that spread among the rushes on the meadow
land, while the hoarse clamor of the flood almost drowned his voice when
he turned to his companion.
"That force will no longer go to waste. I told Craythorne to-day he
could let the people who want to put up their mill have the land," he
said. "He told me something I have not heard before. It appears that
Godfrey Palliser had intended this strip of the property for Appleby. It
could be converted into money without any detriment to the rest, you
see."
"Hopkins always complained that Dane Cop was not worth the rent, but it
will bring you in a good revenue now," said the girl. "Still, doesn't
that seem a little hard upon the man who has lost it?"
Tony flicked the horse with the whip. "The land was Godfrey Palliser's,
and he did what he thought was right with it."
"I almost fancy he would not have left it to you if you had only had a
little more faith in your friend."
Tony turned his head away. "You mean if I had defended Bernard when
Godfrey sent for me? Still, I would like you to believe that if he had
left the land to Bernard it would have pleased me."
"Of course! Could you have urged nothing in his favor, Tony?"
"No," said Tony, and Violet noticed how his fingers tightened on the
reins. "Nothing whatever. I don't want to remember that night. What took
place then hurt me."
"Have you ever heard from Appleby?"
"Once. He was then in Texas."
"You answered him?"
"No," said Tony slowly, "I did not. The whole affair was too painful to
me. I thought it would be better if I heard no more of him."
Violet said nothing, but she turned and looked back at the flooded
meadows and dripping hillside that should have been Appleby's, and a
vague feeling of displeasure against Tony for his unbelief came upon
her. She knew that everybody would agree with his attitude, but she
could not compel herself to admit that it was warranted. When she turned
again she saw that he was looking at her curiously.
"Godfrey Palliser told me another thing that night I have not mentioned
yet," he said. "It was his wish that what he seems to have known would
happen should not keep us waiting. Now, I feel the responsibility thrust
upon me, and know that he was right when he foresaw that you would help
me to bear it as he had done. I want you, Violet--more than I can tell
you."
Tony's appeal was perfectly genuine. Godfrey Palliser could ask no more
questions, Appleby's silence could be depended upon, and the cautious
inquiries he had made through a London agency respecting Lucy Davidson
had elicited the fact that she had taken to the stage and then
apparently sailed for Australia. He had, he admitted, done wrong, but he
resolved that he would henceforward live honorably, and, if it were
permitted him, make Appleby some convenient reparation. Violet, who
noticed the wistfulness in his eyes, responded to the little thrill in
his voice, and but for what had passed a few minutes earlier might
perhaps have promised to disregard conventionalities and hasten the
wedding. As it was, however, she felt a curious constraint upon her, and
a hesitation she could not account for.
"No," she said quietly. "We must wait, Tony."
"Why?" said the man. "It was his wish that we should not."
His companion looked at him, and there was something he failed to attach
a meaning to in her eyes. "I can't tell you," she said slowly. "Still,
you must not urge me, Tony. I feel that no good can come of it if we
fail to show respect to him."
"But--" said the man; and Violet laid her hand upon his arm.
"Tony," she said, "be patient. I can't make what I feel quite plain, but
we must wait."
"Well," said Tony with a sigh, "I will try to do without you until your
mother thinks a fitting time has come."
"Then, if nothing very dreadful happens in the meanwhile, I will be
ready."
Tony flicked the horse until it endeavored to break into a gallop, and
then viciously tightened his grip on the reins.
"You put it curiously," he said. "What could happen?"
"I don't know," said the girl. "Perhaps what took place so unexpectedly
a few days ago has shaken me, for I feel vaguely apprehensive just now.
I know of no reason why this should be, but we are all a prey to fancies
now and then."
Tony looked down on her compassionately. "The last few days at Northrop
have been too much for you--and I was a selfish brute for not sending you
home," he said.
Violet made no answer, and there was silence between them while the dog-
cart splashed on down the muddy road.
It was some weeks later when one afternoon Violet Wayne, who had
undertaken the embroidery of an altar cloth, entered Northrop church. It
was little and old and shadowy, but the colored lights of the high west
window drove a track of brilliancy through its quiet duskiness. Nobody
knew the exact history of Northrop church, but it had evidently once
been larger than it was then, for the spacious chancel with its carved
stalls and rood screen bore no proportion to the contracted nave. Violet
entered it softly, with eyes still partly dazzled by the contrast with
the sunlit meadows she had crossed, and then stopped in faint
astonishment as she saw a girl of her own age standing in evident
admiration before an effigy on a tomb. It had been hewn in marble by an
unknown sculptor centuries ago, but there was a rude grandeur in his
conception, and the chivalric spirit of bygone ages seemed living in the
stone.
The girl who stood before it started visibly when Violet walked up the
aisle. She was slight and spare, with vivacious blue eyes and fluffy
brown hair.
"I am afraid I startled you," said Violet.
"Yes," said the stranger, "you did. I was too intent on the sculpture to
hear you coming. It's--just lovely. I wonder whether you could tell me
who he was, or what it means, if you live round here."
There was very little accent in her speech, but it was quick and Violet
knew that most Englishwomen would not have expressed themselves so
frankly to a stranger. Still, it was evident that the girl had artistic
tastes, for the effigy had often stirred her own appreciation. It
portrayed a mailed knight, not recumbent, but kneeling on one knee, with
hands clenched on the hilt of a sword. A dinted helm lay beside him, and
though it and his mail had suffered from iconoclastic zeal or time, the
face was perfect, and almost living in its intensity of expression. It
was not, however, devotional, but grim and resolute, and it had seemed
to Violet that there was a great purpose in those sightless eyes.
"I am afraid I can't," she said. "He is supposed to have been one of the
Pallisers, but it is not certain that he is even buried here, and nobody
knows what he did. The sculpture may be purely allegorical. Still, the
face is very suggestive."
The blue-eyed girl looked at it fixedly. "Yes," she said. "One would
call it Fidelity. We have nothing of the kind in our country, and that
is partly why it appeals to me. Yet I once met a man who looked just
like that."
"In America!" and Violet Wayne was vexed with herself next moment
because she smiled.
The stranger straightened herself a trifle, but there was rather
appreciation than anger in her eyes.
"Well," she said, "I am proud of my country, but he was an Englishman,
and it was in Cuba--in the rebellion."
She turned and looked curiously at her companion, in a fashion that
almost suggested that she recognized the finely moulded figure, grave
gray eyes, and gleaming hair, while Violet made a slight deprecatory
gesture.
"I can show you another memorial which is almost as beautiful," she
said. "In this case, however, what it stands for is at least authentic.
A famous artist designed it."
The girl turned and gazed backwards along the shafts of light that
pierced the dusky nave until her eyes caught the gleam of the gilded
Gloria high up the dimness, above the west window. Then they rested with
awed admiration on the face of a great winged angel stooping with
outstretched hand. She drew in her breath with a little sigh of
appreciation which warmed Violet's heart to her, and then glancing down
from the flaming picture read: "To the glory of God, and in memory of
Walthew Palliser, killed in the execution of his duty in West Africa."
"Yes," she said, "it's beautiful. But they should be together. The great
compassionate angel over the effigy. It makes you feel the words, 'Well
done!'"
Violet smiled gravely, "I think I understand, and one could fancy that
they were spoken. The man to whom they raised that window went, unarmed,
sick of fever, and knowing the risk he ran, to make peace with a
rebellious tribe, because it was evident that it would provoke
hostilities if he took troops with him. He found a stockade on the way,
and, though his bearers tried to hinder him, went forward alone to
parley. He was shot almost to pieces with ragged cast iron."
"He was splendid," said the stranger. "And his name was Walthew--it is a
curious one. I must thank you for telling me the story."
She would apparently have said more, but that a girl in light dress and
big white hat came in through a little door behind the organ, and
laughed as she approached them.
"So you have been making friends with Nettie, Violet! I was going to
bring her over one of these days," she said. "Netting Harding of
Glenwood on the Hudson--Violet Wayne! Nettie is staying with me, and as
she is enthusiastic over antiquities I was bringing her here when Mrs.
Vicar buttonholed me. They are short of funds for the Darsley sewing
guild again. Will you come over to-morrow afternoon? Tea on the lawn."
Violet promised and took her departure, while when the other two went
out into the sunshine again Nettie Harding's companion glanced at her.
"How did Violet Wayne strike you,--which I think is how you would put
it?" she said.
Nettie appeared reflective. "I think I should like her. The curious
thing is that a friend of mine pictured her to me almost exactly, though
he did not tell me who she was. Still, at first I fancied she meant me
to feel my inferiority."
"That is a thing Violet Wayne would never do," said her companion. "I
don't know where she got that repose of hers--but it's part of her, and
she doesn't put it on. Who was the man who spoke about her?"
"He didn't speak of her--he only told me about somebody who must have
been like her," said Nettie Harding, who considered it advisable not to
answer the question. "The Pallisers are evidently big people here. Is
Walthew a usual name in the family? Miss Wayne seemed to know a good
deal about them."
The other girl laughed. "I believe there were several Walthews, and
Violet is, perhaps, proud of the connection," she said. "They are an old
family, and she is going to marry one of them."