AT THE MANOR HOUSE
The Duchessa di Donatello was sitting at dinner. Silver and roses gleamed
on the white damask of the table-cloth. The French windows stood wide
open, letting in the soft air of the warm June evening. Through the
windows she could see the lawn surrounded by elms, limes, and walnut
trees. The sun was slanting low behind them, throwing long blue shadows
on the grass. A thrush sang in one of the elm trees, a brown songster
carolling his vespers from a topmost branch.
At the other end of the table sat a kindly-faced middle-aged woman, in a
grey dress and a lace fichu fastened with a large cameo brooch. She was
Miss Esther Tibbutt, the Duchessa's present companion, and one-time
governess. Now and then she looked across the table towards the Duchessa,
with a little hint of anxiety in her eyes, but her conversation was as
brisk and unflagging as usual.
"I hope you had a nice drive this afternoon, my dear. And did Clinker go
well?" Clinker was the Dartmoor pony.
The Duchessa roused herself. She was evidently preoccupied about
something, thought Miss Tibbutt.
"Oh, yes, very well. And he has quite got over objecting to the little
stream by Crossways."
Miss Tibbutt nodded approvingly.
"I thought he would in time. So you went right over the Crossways. Which
way did you come home?"
"Over Stagmoor," said the Duchessa briefly.
"Stagmoor," echoed Miss Tibbutt. "My dear, that _is_ such a lonely road.
I should have been quite anxious had I known. Supposing you had an
accident it might be hours before any one found you. I suppose you didn't
see a soul?"
"Oh, just one man," returned the Duchessa carelessly.
"A labourer I suppose," queried Miss Tibbutt.
"Yes, only a labourer," responded the Duchessa quietly.
Miss Tibbutt was silent. She had a vague feeling of uneasiness, and yet
she did not know why she had it. She was perfectly certain that something
was wrong; and, whatever that something was, it had occurred between the
time Pia had set off in the pony-cart with Clinker after lunch, and her
return, very late for tea, in the evening. Also, Pia had said she didn't
want any tea, but had gone straight to her room. And that was unlike
her,--certainly unlike her. It would have been far more natural for her
to have ordered a fresh supply, and insisted on Miss Tibbutt sharing it
with her, quite oblivious of the fact that she had already had all the
tea she wanted, and was going to eat again at a quarter to eight.
"I walked over to Byestry," said Miss Tibbutt presently. "Yes, I know it
was very hot, but I walked slowly, and took my largest sunshade. I wanted
to get some black silk to mend one of my dresses. I saw Father Dormer. He
was very glad to hear that you were back. I told him you had only arrived
on Thursday, and I had come on the Tuesday to get things ready for you.
My dear, he told me Mr. Danver is dead."
"Mr. Danver," exclaimed the Duchessa, her preoccupation for the moment
forgotten.
"Yes. I wonder none of the servants happened to mention it. But I suppose
they forgot we didn't know, and probably they have forgotten all about
the poor man by now. It's sad to think how soon one _is_ forgotten. It
appears he went to London in March with Doctor Hilary to consult a
specialist and died the day after his arrival in town. Perhaps the
journey was too much for him. I should think it might have been, but
Doctor Hilary would know best, or perhaps Mr. Danver insisted on going.
Anyhow the place is in the hands of caretakers now; the butler and his
wife are looking after it till the heir turns up, whoever he may be.
There's a rumour that he is an American, but no one seems to know for
certain. But they must be keeping the garden in good order. Golding is
staying on, and the other men, and they've just got another
under-gardener." She paused.
"Have they?" said the Duchessa carelessly, and a trifle coldly.
Nevertheless a little colour had flushed into her cheeks.
"I'm afraid you think I'm a terrible gossip," said Miss Tibbutt
apologetically. "I really don't mean to be. But in a little place, little
things interest one. I am afraid I did ask Father Dormer a good many
questions. I hope he didn't--" And she broke off anxiously.
"You dear old Tibby," smiled the Duchessa, "I'm sure he didn't. Nobody
thinks you're a gossip. Gossiping is talking about things people don't
want known, and generally things that are rather unkind, to say the least
of it. You're the soul of honour and charity, and Father Dormer knows
that as well as everyone else."
"Oh, my dear!" expostulated Miss Tibbutt. "But I'm glad you think he
didn't----"
The Duchessa got up from the table.
"Of course he didn't. Let us go into the garden, and have coffee out
there. The fresh air will blow away the cobwebs."
Miss Tibbutt followed the Duchessa through the French window and across
the wide gravel path, on to the lawn. The Duchessa led the way to a seat
beneath the lime trees. The bees were droning among the hanging flowers.
"Have you any cobwebs in your mind, my dear?" asked Miss Tibbutt as they
sat down.
"Why do you ask?" queried the Duchessa.
"Oh, my dear! I don't know. You said that about cobwebs, you see. And I
thought you seemed--well, just a little preoccupied at dinner."
There was a little silence.
"Tell me," said Miss Tibbutt.
"There's nothing to tell," said the Duchessa lightly. "A rather pretty
soap-bubble burst and turned into an unpleasant cobweb, that's all.
So--well, I've just been brushing my mind clear of both the cobweb and
the memory of the soap-bubble."
"You're certain it--the cobweb--isn't worrying you now?" asked Miss
Tibbutt.
"My dear Tibby, it has ceased to exist," laughed the Duchessa.
It was a very reassuring little laugh. Miss Tibbutt knew it to be quite
absurd that, in spite of it, she still could not entirely dispel that
vague sense of uneasiness. It spoilt the keen pleasure she ordinarily
took in the garden, especially in the evening and most particularly in
the month of June. She had a real sentiment about the month of June. From
the first day to the last she held the hours tenderly, lingeringly, loath
to let them slip between her fingers. There were only three more days
left, and now there was this tiny uneasiness, which prevented her mind
from entirely concentrating on the happiness of these remaining hours.
And then she gave herself a little mental shake. It was, after all, a
selfish consideration on her part. If there were cause for uneasiness,
she ought to be thinking of Pia rather than herself, and if there were no
cause--and Pia had just declared there was not--she was being thoroughly
absurd. She gave herself a second mental shake, and looked towards the
house, whence a young footman was just emerging with a tray on which were
two coffee cups and a sugar basin. He put the tray down on a small rustic
table near them, and went back the way he had come, his step making no
sound on the soft grass.
"I wonder what it feels like to be a servant, and have to do everything
to time," she said suddenly. "It must be trying to have to be invariably
punctual."
Now, as a matter of fact, Miss Tibbutt was exceedingly punctual, but then
it was by no means absolutely incumbent upon her to be so; she could
quite well have absented herself entirely from a meal if she desired.
That, of course, made all the difference.
"You are punctual," said the Duchessa laughing.
"I know. But it wouldn't in the least matter if I were not. You could go
on without me. You couldn't very well go on if Dale had forgotten to lay
the table, or if Morris had felt disinclined to cook the food."
"No," agreed the Duchessa. And then, after a moment, she said, "Anyhow
there are some things we have to do to time--Mass on Sundays and days of
obligation, for instance."
Miss Tibbutt nodded. "Oh, of course. But that's generally only once a
week. Besides that's different. It's a big voice that tells one to do
that--the voice of the Church. The other is a little human voice giving
the orders. I know, in a sense, one ought to hear the big voice behind it
all; but sometimes one would forget to listen for it. At least, I know I
should. And then I should simply hate the routine, and doing
things--little ordinary everyday things--to time. I'd just love to say,
if I were cook, that there shouldn't be any meals to-day, or that they
should be an hour later, or an hour earlier, to suit my fancy."
The Duchessa laughed again.
"My dear Tibby, it's quite obvious that your vocation is not to the
religious life. Fancy you in a convent! I can imagine you suggesting to
the Reverend Mother that a change in the time of saying divine office
would be desirable, or at all events that it should be varied on
alternate days; and I can see you going off for long and rampageous days
in the country, just for a change."
Miss Tibbutt shook her head.
"Oh, no!" she said gravely. "I should hear the big voice there."
"You'd hear it speak through quite a number of human voices, anyhow,"
returned the Duchessa.
There was a silence. She wondered what odd coincidence had led Tibby to
such a subject. If it were not a coincidence, it must be a kind of
thought transference. Almost unconsciously she had been seeing a tall,
thin, brown-faced man marching off in the early morning hours to his work
in a garden. She had seen him busy with hoe and spade, till the bell over
the stables at the Hall announced the dinner hour. She had seen him again
take up his implements at the summons of the same bell, working through
the sunshine or the rain, as the case might be, till its final evening
dismissal. Above all, she had seen him taking his orders from Golding, a
well-meaning man truly, and an exceedingly capable gardener, but--well,
she pictured Antony as she had seen him in evening dress on the _Fort
Salisbury_, as she had seen him throwing coppers to the brown-faced girl
outside the Cathedral at Teneriffe, as she had seen him sitting in the
little courtyard with the orange trees in green tubs, and the idea of his
receiving and taking orders from Golding seemed to her quite
extraordinarily incongruous.
Yet until Miss Tibbutt had introduced the subject, she had been more or
less unaware of these mental pictures.
"Besides," she remarked suddenly, and quite obviously in continuation of
her last remark, "it entirely depends on what you have been brought up
to, I mean, of course as regards the question of being a servant. The
question of a religious is entirely different."
"Oh, entirely," agreed Miss Tibbutt promptly. "You can always get another
place as a servant if you happen to dislike the one you are in."
"Yes," said the Duchessa, slowly and thoughtfully.
A sudden little anxious pang had all at once stabbed her somewhere near
the region of the heart. Would that be the effect of that afternoon's
meeting? Most assuredly she hoped it would not be, and equally assuredly
she had no idea she was hoping it; verily, her feeling towards Antony was
one of mingled anger, indignation, and mortified pride.
Once more there was a silence,--a silence in which Miss Tibbutt sat
stirring her coffee, and looking towards the reflection of the sunset sky
seen through the branches of the trees opposite. Suddenly she spoke,
dismayed apology in her voice.
"Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry, I quite forgot. A letter came for you this
afternoon. I put it down on the little round table in the drawing-room
window, meaning to give it to you when you came in. But you went straight
to your room, and so I forgot it. I will get it at once."
"Nonsense," said the Duchessa lightly, "I will get it. I don't suppose
for an instant that it is important."
She got up and went across the lawn. In a minute or two she returned, an
open letter in her hand.
"It's from Trix," she announced as she sat down again, "She wants to know
if she can come down here at the beginning of August."
Miss Tibbutt literally beamed.
"How delightful!" she exclaimed. "Trix has never stayed with you here.
You will like having her."
"Dear Trix," said the Duchessa.
"I do so enjoy Trix," remarked Miss Tibbutt fervently.
"So do most people," smiled the Duchessa.