AN OFFER AND A REFUSAL
Antony was working in his front garden. It was a Saturday afternoon, and
a blazingly hot one. Every now and then he paused to lean on his spade,
and look out to where the blue sea lay shining and glistening in the
sunlight.
It was amazingly blue, almost as blue as the sea depicted on the posters
of famous seaside resorts, posters in which a bare-legged child with a
bucket and spade, and the widest of wide smiles is invariably seen in the
foreground. Certainly the designers of these posters are not students of
child nature. If they were, they would know that a really absorbed and
happy child is almost portentously solemn. It hasn't the time to waste on
smiles; the building of sand castles and fortresses is infinitely too
engrossing an occupation. A smile will greet the anticipation; it is lost
in the stupendous joy of the fact. But as smiles are evidently considered
_de rigueur_ by the designers of posters, and as the mere anticipation
will not allow of the portrayal of the Rickett's blue sea, destined to
hit the eye of the beholder, smiles and sea have--rightly or wrongly--to
be combined.
Antony gazed at the sea, if not quite as blue as a poster sea, yet--as
already stated--amazingly blue. Josephus lay on a bit of hot earth
watching him, his nose between his forepaws, and quite exhausted after a
mad and wholly objectless ten minutes' race round the garden.
Antony turned from his contemplation of the sea, and once more grasped
his spade. Presently he turned up a small flat round object, which at
first sight he took to be a penny. He picked it up, and rubbed the dirt
off it. It proved to be merely a small lead disk, utterly useless and
valueless; he didn't even know what it could have been used for. He threw
it on the earth again, and went on with his digging. But it, or his
action of tossing it on to the earth, had started a train of thought. It
is extraordinary what trifles will serve to start a lengthy and connected
train of thought. Sometimes it is quite interesting, arriving at a
certain point, to trace one's imaginings backwards, and see from whence
they started.
The disk reminded Antony of the coppers he had tossed to the child at
Teneriffe. From it he quite unconsciously found himself reviewing all the
subsequent happenings. They linked on one to the other without a break.
He hardly knew he was reviewing them, though they so absorbed his mind
that he was totally unconscious of his surroundings, and even of the fact
that he was digging. His employment had become quite mechanical.
He was so engrossed that he did not hear a step in the road behind him.
Josephus heard it, however, and gave vent to a faint whine, raising his
head from between his paws. The sound roused Antony, and he turned.
His face went suddenly white beneath its bronze. The Duchessa di
Donatello was standing at the gate, looking over into the garden.
"Might I come in and rest a moment?" she asked. "The sun is so hot."
Antony could hardly believe his ears. Surely he could not have heard
aright? But there she was, standing at the gate, most evidently waiting
his permission to enter.
He left his spade sticking in the earth, and went to unfasten the gate.
Without speaking, he led the way up the little flagged path, and into the
parlour.
The Duchessa crossed to the oak settle and sat down. Slowly she began to
pull off her long crinkly doe-skin gloves. Antony watched her. He saw the
gleam of a diamond ring on her hand. It was a ring he had often noticed.
A picture of the Duchessa sitting at a little round table among orange
trees in green tubs flashed suddenly and very vividly into his mind.
"It is very hot," said the Duchessa looking up at him.
"Yes," said Antony mechanically.
"Am I interrupting your work?" asked the Duchessa.
Antony started.
"Oh, no," he replied. And he sat down by the table, leaning slightly
forward with his arms upon it.
"Do you mind my coming here?" she asked.
"I don't think so," said Antony reflectively.
A gleam of a smile flashed across the Duchessa's face. The reply was so
Antonian.
There was quite a long silence. Suddenly Antony roused himself.
"You'll let me get you some tea, Madam," he said.
Awaiting no reply, he went into the little scullery, where the fire by
which he had cooked his midday meal was still alight. The kettle filled
with water and placed on the stove, he stood by it, in a measure wishful,
yet oddly reluctant to return to the parlour. Reluctance won the day. He
remained by the kettle, gazing at it.
Left alone, the Duchessa looked round the parlour. It was exceedingly
primitive, yet, to her mind, curiously interesting. Of course in reality
it was not unlike dozens of other cottage parlours, but it held a
personality of its own for her. It was the room where Antony Gray lived.
She pictured him at his lonely meals, sitting at the table where he had
sat a moment or so agone; sitting on the settle where she was now
sitting, certainly smoking, and possibly reading. She found herself
wondering what he thought about. Did he ever think of the _Fort
Salisbury_, she wondered? Or had he blotted it from his mind, as she had
endeavoured--ineffectually--to do? And then, with that thought, with the
possibility that he had done so, her presence in the room seemed quite
suddenly an intrusion. What on earth would he think of her for coming?
And what on earth did she mean to say to him now she had come?
The impulse which had led her down the lane, which had caused her to
pause at the gate and speak to him, all at once seemed to her perfectly
idiotic, and, worse still, intrusive and impertinent. What possible
excuse was she going to give for it, in the face of her behaviour to him
that afternoon on the moorland? Merely to have asked for shelter on
account of the heat, appeared to her now as the flimsiest of excuses, and
would appear to him as an excuse simply to pry upon him, to see his mode
of living. He had not returned to the parlour. Doubtless his absence was
a silent rebuke to her. She had thrust the necessity of hospitality upon
him, but he intended to show her plainly that it was entirely of
necessity he had offered it.
Her cheeks burned at the thought. She looked quickly round. Anyhow there
was still time for flight. She picked up her gloves from where she had
laid them on the settle, and got to her feet.
"The water won't be long in boiling, Madam," said Antony's voice.
He had come back quietly into the room. For a moment he glanced in half
surprise to see the Duchessa standing by the settle. Then he crossed to
the dresser, and began taking down a cup, a saucer, and a plate.
The Duchessa sat down again, drawing her hand nervously along her
gloves.
She looked at him getting down the things and setting them on the table.
She watched his neat, deft movements. Antony took no notice of her; she
might have been part of the settle itself for all the attention he paid
her. His preparations made, he returned momentarily to the scullery to
fill the teapot. Coming back with it he placed it on the table.
"Everything is ready, Madam," he said. Dale himself could not have been
more distantly respectful.
The Duchessa looked at the one cup, the one saucer, and the one plate.
"Aren't you going to have some tea, too?" she asked.
"Servants do not sit down with their superiors," said Antony.
The colour rose hotly in the Duchessa's face.
"Why do you say that?" she demanded.
Antony lifted his shoulders, the merest suspicion of a shrug.
"I merely state a fact," he replied.
"I wish you to," she said quickly.
"Is that a command?" asked Antony.
"If you like to take it so," she replied.
Antony turned to the dresser. He took down another cup and plate and put
them on the table. Then he stood by it, waiting for her to be seated.
"Sugar?" asked the Duchessa. She was making a brave endeavour to steady
the trembling of her voice.
"If you please, Madam," said Antony gravely.
The meal proceeded in dead silence.
"Mr. Gray," said the Duchessa suddenly.
"My name," said Antony respectfully, "is Michael Field."
The Duchessa gave a little shaky laugh.
"Well, Michael Field," she said. "I was not very kind that day I met you
on the moorland."
Antony kept his eyes fixed on his plate.
"There was no reason that you should be kind," he replied quietly.
"There was," flashed the Duchessa.
"I think not," replied Antony, calmly. "Ladies in your position are under
no obligation to be kind to servants, except to those of their own
household. Even then, it is more or less of a condescension on their
part."
"You were not always a servant," said the Duchessa.
There was the fraction of a pause.
"I did not happen to be actually in a situation when I was on the _Fort
Salisbury_, if that is what you mean, Madam," returned Antony.
"I mean more than that," retorted the Duchessa. "I mean that by your
up-bringing you are not a servant."
Antony laughed shortly.
"I happen to have had a better education than falls to the lot of most
men who have been in the positions I have been in, and who are in
positions like my present one. But most assuredly I am a servant."
"What positions have you been in?" demanded the Duchessa.
A very faint smile showed itself on Antony's face.
"I have been a sort of miner's boy," he replied slowly. "I have been a
farm hand, mainly used for cleaning out pigsties, and that kind of work.
I have been servant in a gambling saloon; odd man on a cattle boat. I
have worked on a farm again. And now I am an under-gardener. Very
assuredly I have been, and am, a servant."
The Duchessa's brows wrinkled. "Yet you speak like a gentleman, and--and
you wore dress clothes as if you were used to them."
Again a faint smile showed itself on Antony's face.
"I told you I happen to have had a decent education in my youth. Also, I
would suggest, that even butlers and waiters wear dress clothes as if
they were used to them."
Once more there was a silence. A rather long silence this time. It was
broken by the Duchessa's voice.
"Some months ago," she said, "I offered my friendship to Antony Gray; I
now offer that same friendship to Michael Field."
Antony gave a little laugh. There was an odd gleam in his eyes.
"Michael Field regrets that he must decline the honour."
The Duchessa's face went dead white.
Antony got to his feet.
"Please don't misunderstand me," he said. "I fully appreciate the honour
you have done me, but--" he shrugged his shoulders--"it is quite
impossible to accept it. It--you must see that for yourself--would be a
rather ridiculous situation. The Duchessa di Donatello and a friendship
with an under-gardener! I don't fancy either of us would care to be made
a mock of, even by the extremely small world in which we happen to live."
He stopped.
The Duchessa rose too. Her eyes were steely.
"Thank you for reminding me," she said. "In a moment of absurd
impulsiveness I had overlooked that fact. Also, thank you for--for your
hospitality."
She moved to the door without looking at him. Antony was before her, and
had it open. He followed her down the path and unfastened the wicket
gate. She passed through it without turning her head, and walked rather
deliberately down the lane.
Antony went back into the cottage. For a moment he stood looking at the
table, his throat contracted. Then slowly, and with oddly unseeing eyes,
he began clearing away the debris of the meal.