THE COMFORT OF APPLES
Anthony was healthily tired. So much so, in fact, that he was sorely
tempted to retire to bed without more ado. On reflecting, however,
that at least twenty minutes must elapse before his faithful digestion
could also rest from its labours, he lighted a pipe slowly and
then--afraid to sit down, lest he should fall asleep--leaned his tired
back against a side of the enormous fireplace and folded his arms.
It is probable that the chamber which his eyes surveyed was more than
four hundred years old. That it was at once his hall, kitchen, and
parlour, is undeniable. One small stout wall contained the front door
and the window, a third part of which could be induced to open, but was
to-night fast shut. Another hoisted the breakneck staircase which led
to the room above. A third stood blank, while the fourth was just wide
enough to frame the tremendous fireplace, which, with its two
chimney-corners, made up a bay nearly one half the size of the little
room it served. The ceiling, itself none too high, was heavy with
punishing beams, so that a tall man must pick and choose his station if
he would stand upright; and the floor was of soft red brick, a little
sunken in places, but, on the whole, well and truly laid.
A cupboard under the stairs served as a larder and store-room; a flap
beneath the window made a firm table; in spite of their age, a Windsor
and a basket chair, when called upon, satisfactorily discharged the
duties for which they were contrived. A battered foot-bath did more.
In a word, it received platters and knives and forks which needed
cleansing, and in due season delivered them cleansed; of a Sunday
morning it became a terrier's tub; and upon one afternoon in the week a
vessel in which clothes were washed.
Since this was all the furniture, the place looked bare. As a
living-room it left much to be desired; but, since Major Anthony
Lyveden did not live in it, that did not trouble him. He used the
room, certainly--he was using it now; nightly he slept above it--but he
lived in the open air.
This was patent from the look of him.
Wind, rain, and sun set upon their favourites a mark which there is no
mistaking. Under the treatment of these three bluff specialists the
handsome face had in a short month become a picture. In all his life
the ex-officer had never looked so well.
It was when he had given his late master notice and had twenty-one
pounds in the world that Lyveden had seen the advertisement--
_A solitary existence, hard work, long hours, £3 a week, fuel, a
bachelor's unfurnished lodging, and an open-air life is offered to an
ex-officer: the job has been considered and abusively rejected by five
ex-other ranks on the score that it is "not good enough"; as an
ex-officer myself, I disagree with them; incidentally, I can pay no
more; sorry to have to add that applicants must be physically fit.
Write, Box 1078, c/o "The Times," E.C.4._
Immediately he had applied by telegram, paying for a reply....
Three days later he and Patch had emerged from the London train into
the keen night air of Chipping Norton.
There on the platform to meet him had stood his new employer--a
tremendous figure of a man, with the eyes of an explorer and the
physique of an Atlas, and, after a little delay, Lyveden had found
himself seated in a high dog-cart, which, in the wake of an impatient
roan, was bowling along over the cold white roads, listening to the
steady deep voice foretelling his fate.
"We're going to Girdle. I've taken a room at the inn there for you
to-night. Your cottage is two miles from there. I'll show you the way
and meet you there in the morning--at half-past eight, please. It's
water-tight--I had the thatch tended this year--and it's got its own
well--good water. It's in the park, by the side of the London road, so
you won't be too lonely. Now, your work. Woodman, road-maker, joiner,
keeper, forester, gardener--that's what I want." Anthony's brain
reeled. "That's what I am myself. Listen. I've inherited this
estate, which has been let go for over a hundred years. There isn't a
foot of fencing that isn't rotten, a road that you can walk on, a
bridge that is safe. The woods--it's all woodland--have gone to
blazes. I want to pull it round.... Fifty R.E.'s and a Labour
Battalion is what it wants, but that's a dream. I've tried the obvious
way. I asked for tenders for mending a twelve-foot bridge. The lowest
was seventy pounds. I did it myself, single-handed, in seven days....
I've saved my stamps since then. Well, I've got a small staff."
Anthony heaved a sigh of relief. "Two old carters, two carpenters,
three magnificent sailors--all deaf, poor chaps--and a little lame
engineer. But I haven't an understudy.... I hope you'll like it, and
stay. It's a man's life."
"I like the sound of it," said Lyveden. "What are you on now?"
"Road-making at the moment. The fence is the most important, but the
roads are so bad we can't get the timber through. It's all sawn
ready--we've got a toy saw-mill--but we can't carry it. You see..."
The speaker's enthusiasm had been infectious. Lyveden had found
himself violently interested in his new life before he had entered upon
it.
The next day he had accepted the tiny cabin as his future home, and had
had a fire roaring upon the hearth before nine o'clock. Colonel
Winchester, who had expected to lodge him at Girdle for the best part
of a week, had abetted his determination to take immediate possession
with a grateful heart, presenting his new tenant with some blankets and
an excellent camp-bed, and putting a waggon at his disposal for the
rest of the day. Seven o'clock that evening had found Anthony and his
dog fairly installed in their new quarters.
And now a month had gone by--to be exact, some thirty-four days, the
biggest ones, perhaps, in all Lyveden's life. In that short space of
time the man whose faith had frozen had become a zealot.
Five thousand acres of woodland and the fine frenzy of an Homeric
Quixote had wrought the miracle. Of course the soil was good, and had
been ruthlessly harrowed and ploughed into the very pink of condition
to receive such seed. For months Lyveden's enterprise had been
stifled: for months Necessity had kept his intellect chained to a
pantry-sink: such ambition as he had had was famished. To crown it
all, Love had lugged him into the very porch of Paradise, to slam the
gates in his face.... Mind and body alike were craving for some
immense distraction. In return for board and lodging for his terrier
and himself, the man would have picked oakum--furiously: but not in
Hampshire. That was the county of Paradise--Paradise Lost.
As we have seen, the bare idea of the employment had found favour in
Lyveden's eyes, and, before they had been together for half an hour,
the personality of Winchester had taken him by the arm. When, two days
later, master and man strode through the splendid havoc of the woods,
where the dead lay where they had fallen, and the quick were wrestling
for life, where the bastard was bullying the true-born, and kings were
mobbed by an unruly rabble--dogs with their paws upon the table, eating
the children's bread--where avenues and glades were choked with
thickets, where clearings had become brakes, and vistas and prospects
were screened by aged upstarts that knew no law; when they followed the
broken roads, where fallen banks sprawled on the fairway, and the
laborious rain had worn ruts into straggling ditches, where culverts
had given way and the dammed streams had spread the track with wasting
pools, where sometimes time-honoured weeds blotted the very memory of
the trail into oblivion; when they stood before an old grey mansion,
with what had once been lawns about it and the ruin of a great cedar
hard by its side, its many windows surveying with a grave stare the
wreck and riot of the court it kept--then for the first time Anthony
Lyveden heard the sound of the trumpets.
The physical attraction, no doubt, of the work to be done was crooking
a beckoning finger. To pass his time among these glorious woods, to
have a healthy occupation which would never be gone, to enjoy and
provide for his dog a peaceful possession of the necessities of life,
was an alluring prospect.
Yet this was not the call the trumpets had wound. That distant silvery
flourish was not of the flesh. It was the same fanfare that has sent
men to lessen the mysteries of the unknown world, travel the trackless
earth, sail on uncharted seas, trudge on eternal snows, to sweat and
shiver under strange heavens, grapple with Nature upon the Dame's own
ground and try a fall with the Amazon--with none to see fair play--for
the tale of her secrets.
Anthony's imagination pricked up its flattened ears....
Gazing upon the crookedness about him, he saw it straightened: looking
upon the rough places, he saw them made plain. He saw the desolation
banished, the wilderness made glad. He saw the woods ordered, the
broken roads mended, the bridges rebuilt, streams back in their beds,
vistas unshuttered, avenues cleared.... He saw himself striving, one
of a little company sworn to redeem the stolen property. Man had won
it by the sweat of his brow--his seal was on it yet--that great
receiver Nature must give it up. It was not the repair of an estate
that they would compass; it was the restoration of the kingdom of man.
Marking the light in his employee's eyes, Colonel Winchester could have
flung up his cap. Opening his heart, he spoke with a rough eloquence
of the great days the place had seen, of lords and ladies who had slept
at the house, of coaches that had rumbled over that broken bridge, of a
troop ambushed at the bend of the avenue, of a duel fought upon that
sometime sward....
"The world 'd think me mad. In the clubs I used to belong to they'd
remember that I was always a bit of a crank. To the Press I should be
a curio worth three lines and a photograph of the 'Brigadier Breaks
Stones' order. But there's a zest to the job you won't find in Pall
Mall. There's an encouragement to go ahead that you seldom strike in
this world. There's a gratitude the old place'll hand you that no
reporter could ever understand...."
It was true.
As the short days went tearing by, the spirit of the place entered into
Anthony's soul. He laboured thirstily, yet not so much laboured as
laid his labour as a thank-offering at his goddess's feet. He counted
himself happy, plumed himself on his selection for the office, thanked
God nightly. But that he needed the pay, he would not have touched it.
As it was, a third of it went into his tool-bag. The appalling
magnitude of the task never worried him--nor, for the matter of that,
his fellow-workers. Master and men went toiling from dawn to dusk
under a spell, busy, tireless as gnomes, faithful as knights to their
trust. Their zeal was quick with the devotion to a cause that went out
with coat-armour. Rough weather might chill one iron, but another was
plucked from the fire ere the first was cold. There never was seen
such energy. Place and purpose together held them in thrall. Had
encouragement been needed, the death of every day showed some material
gain. Foot by foot the kingdom was being restored.
Whether the goddess of the estate had charmed Patch also, it is not for
me to say. He was certainly a happy fellow. Life had apparently
developed into one long, glorious ramble, which nothing but nightfall
could curtail. To his delight, too, Anthony and the other men showed
an unexpected and eventful interest in stones and boughs and ditches
and drains, and sometimes they even dragged trees along the ground for
him to bark at. It is to be hoped that he also expressed his gratitude
of nights......
If he has not done so this night, it is too late now, for he is
stretched upon the warm bricks in a slumber which will allow of no
orisons this side of to-morrow.
Let us take his tip, gentlemen. The night is young, I know, but
Anthony has been abroad since cock-crow. Besides, I have led you a
pretty dance. You have, in fact, tramped for miles--'tis two and an
odd furlong to the old grey house alone--and the going is ill, as you
know, and the night, if young, is evil. A whole gale is coming, and
the woods are beside themselves. The thrash of a million branches, the
hoarse booming of the wind, lend to the tiny chamber an air of comfort
such as no carpets nor arras could induce. The rain, too, is hastening
to add its insolence to the stew. That stutter upon the pane is its
advance-guard....
Did you hear that dull crash, gentlemen? Or are your ears not
practised enough to pluck it out of the welter of rugged harmony? It
was an elm, sirs, an old fellow, full of years, gone to his long home.
For the last time the squirrels have swung from his boughs: for the
last time the rooks have sailed and cawed about his proud old head.
To-morrow there will be another empty stall in that majestic quire
which it has taken Time six hundred years to fill....
The distant crash brought Lyveden out of a sleep-ridden reverie. For a
second he listened intently, as if he hoped that he had been mistaken,
and that the sound he had heard had been but a trick of the wind. Then
he gave a short sigh and knocked out his pipe.
* * * * *
"And you've had no answer?" said the Judge, snapping a wafer betwixt
his fingers and thumb.
His guest shook his head. Then he hastened to enlighten the
wine-waiter, who had been about to refill his glass with port and had
construed the gesture as a declension of the nectar.
"Never a line," he said shortly. "Of course the letter may never have
reached him. But, if it did, he may not have thought it worth while
... I mean, I wrote very guardedly."
"Naturally," said the Judge, "naturally. Still, I should have
thought..."
The two men sat facing each other across a small mahogany table from
which the cloth had been drawn. The surface thus exposed gave back
such light as fell upon it enriched and mellowed. In this it was
typical of the room, which turned the common air into an odour of
luxury.
Servants, perfectly trained, faultlessly groomed, stepped noiselessly
to and fro, handing dishes, replenishing glasses, anticipating desires.
A tremendous fire glowed in its massive cage; a crimson carpet and
curtains of almost barbaric gravity contributed to the admirable
temperature and deadened unruly noise. A brace of shaded candles to
each small table made up nine several nebulae, whose common radiance
provoked an atmosphere of sober mystery, dim and convenient. Light so
subdued subdued in turn the tones of the company of hosts and visitors.
Conversation became an exchange of confidences; laughter was soft and
low; the murmurous blend of talk flowed unremarked, yet comforted the
ear. The flash of silver, the sparkle of glass, the snow of napery,
gladdened the eye. No single circumstance of expediency was
unobserved, no detail of propriety was overlooked. Pomp lay in a
litter which he had borrowed of Ease.
"Shall I write again?" said the solicitor.
Mr. Justice Molehill stared at his port. After a moment--
"No," he said slowly. "Not at present, at any rate. I don't want to
push the matter, because I've got so very little to go on. In moving
at all, I'm laying myself open to the very deuce of a snub."
"I shall get the snub," said his guest. "But that's what I'm paid for.
Besides, I'm fairly hardened."
That he evinced not the slightest curiosity regarding his mysterious
instructions argued a distinction between the individual and the
adviser, firmly drawn and religiously observed. For a Justice of the
King's Bench suddenly to be consumed by a desire to know the names of
the uncles of somebody else's footman smacked of collaboration by
Gilbert and Chardenal. Once, however, the solicitor knew his client,
he asked no questions. Reticence and confidence were in his eyes
equally venerable. Usually he had his reward. He had it now.
"In the spring," said his companion, "of 1914 I went to Sicily. On my
way back I stopped for one night at Rome. The day I left, while I was
resting after luncheon, the manager of the hotel brought a priest to my
room--a Catholic priest of some position, I fancy--an Englishman. I
can't remember his name. He spoke very civilly, and begged my instant
attention.
"An old Englishman, it seemed, lay dying upon the first floor. He was
all alone--no relations--no servant. He could speak no Italian.
Realizing that he was dying, he was frantic to make a will. His
frenzied attempts to convey this desire to the attendant doctor had
resulted in the latter dashing into the street and stopping and
returning with the first priest he encountered. This happened to be my
friend. Upon beholding him, the patient, who had hoped for a lawyer,
had turned his face to the wall. Then, to his relief, he found that,
though a priest, yet he was English, and begged him to fetch an
attorney. The priest hurried to the manager, and the manager brought
him to me....
"You know how much I know about wills. All the same, argument was not
to be thought of. To the laity, solicitor, lawyer, barrister, and
attorney are synonymous terms. Moreover, they are all will-wrights. A
judge is a sort of shop-steward....
"Well, I drew one. To tell you the truth, I don't think it was so bad.
I attended the poor man. I took his instructions. And there and then
in the sickroom I drew the will upon a sheet of notepaper. He signed
it in my presence and that of the priest. The latter then took charge
of it, with a view to getting it stamped next morning at the British
Consulate. We both had some hazy idea that that was desirable.
"I left Rome the same night.
"Gradually--we've all had a lot to think about in the last seven
years--I forgot the whole incident. Then, some two months ago, when I
was at Brooch, a fellow gives evidence before me in a burglary case. A
footman called Anthony Lyveden. For a long time I couldn't imagine
where I'd heard the names before. Then something--I'll tell you what
in the smoking-room--brought it all back. Anthony Lyveden was the
nephew of the man whose will I made, and he was named as the sole
legatee.
"In a way it's no affair of mine, and yet I feel concerned. I'll tell
you why. That footman was a gentleman born. Moreover, he was down on
his luck. He didn't look like a fellow who'd run through money, and I
think the old testator was pretty rich. He gave that impression. And
for a will made in such circumstances to go astray it would be easy
enough--obviously. The devil of it is, except for the name of Lyveden,
I can remember nothing else."
The solicitor sipped his port. Then--
"A search at Somerset House," he said slowly, "should give us the
maiden surname of Anthony Lyveden's mother. If she had a brother...."
Sir Giles Molehill raised his eyes and sighed.
"And it never occurred to me," he said. "It's high time I went to the
Court of Appeal."
Two days later his lordship received a letter informing him that a
search at Somerset House had revealed the fact that a son named Anthony
had been born upon the fourteenth of January, 1891, to a Mrs. Katharine
Lyveden, formerly _Roach_.
As he read it, the Judge exclaimed audibly.
The note which he wrote there and then shall speak for itself.
_DEAR BLITHE,_
_Roach was the surname of the testator. Please go on. When you can
submit a Christian name to my memory, please do so. I am not sure that
it will respond, but we can try._
_Yours sincerely,
GILES MOLEHILL._
* * * * *
When Anthony Lyveden had been for a week at Gramarye, he had
reluctantly posted a letter containing his new address. This he had
done because he had promised to do it. As the letter had fallen into
the box, he had prayed fervently, but without the faintest hope, that
it might never be delivered. A galley-slave who has broken ship and
won sanctuary does not advertise his whereabouts with a light heart.
He may be beyond pursuit, yet--he and the galley are both of this
world; things temporal only keep them apart, and if the master came
pricking, with a whip in his belt.... You must remember that Anthony
had been used very ill. At first, bound to the oar of Love, he had
pulled vigorously and found the sea silken, his chains baubles. Then a
storm had arisen. In his hands the docile oar had become a raging
termagant, and, when he would have been rid of it, the baubles had
opposed his will. He had been dragged and battered unspeakably. Over
all, the lash had been laid upon his bare shoulders; and that with a
nicety of judgment which should have been foreign to so white a wrist
and to eyes that could look so tender. Now that he had escaped out of
hell, it was not surprising that he was loth to discover his refuge.
Still, a promise must be respected....
For that matter, supplications do not always go empty away. The answer
to Anthony's came in the shape of a fire which attacked the last coach
but one upon a London train and partially destroyed two mailbags before
its flames were subdued. It follows that, though he did not know it,
such friends as the ex-officer had knew no more where he was than did
the man in the moon.
It is here convenient, believe me, to go imagining.
We have looked into Anthony's mind at the hour when he posted his
letter. Had he posted it this nineteenth day of January, instead of
six weeks ago, and we, as before, peered into his brain-pan, we should
have found his supplication that the missive might go astray even more
urgent. We should have noted that, while he was just as fearful to be
reminded of the galley and the tall dark ganger with the red, red mouth
and the merciless thong, he also viewed with alarm the possibility of
any distraction from his work. The galley-slave was become a votary.
Let us be quite clear about it.
Anthony had come to Gramarye to try to forget. In this he was steadily
unsuccessful. At the end of a month he had not advanced one inch. His
love for Valerie was as breathless, haunting, wistful as it had ever
been. The whole of the kingdom of his heart was hers alone, and, so
far as he could see, like to remain hers only for the rest of his life.
Since, therefore, he could not dispatch Memory, he sought to immure
her. Since Valerie's sovereignty was so fast stablished that it could
not be moved, he sought to rule his heart out of his system. Had it
been possible, he would, like Aesop's Beaver, have ripped the member
from him and gone heartless ever after. The Fabulous Age being dead,
Anthony made the best shift he could, and strove to bury kingdom and
queen together so deep within him that their existence should not
trouble his life. If he could not put out the light, he would hide it
under a bushel. It occurred to him that his mind, appropriately
occupied, should make an excellent bushel--appropriately occupied....
He resolved that Gramarye should have his mind. Of this he would make
a kingdom, mightier and more material than that of his heart. The
trouble was, his mind, though more tractable, liked Valerie's
occupation, found it desirable, and clung to its present tenant for all
it was worth. By no means dismayed, Anthony, as before, had recourse
to ejection by crowding out.... Two things, however, made this attempt
more formidable. First, he did not have to be for ever scouring the
highways and hedges for a new tenantry; Gramarye was always at hand.
Secondly, though Anthony did not know it, _there was no need for
Gramarye to be compelled to come in_. He was pressing an invitation
upon one who had invited herself. The hooded personality of the place
had stolen up to the door: already its pale fingers were lifting the
latch.... Before he had been in the Cotswolds for seven weeks, she had
thrust and been thrust into the doorway.
It was the thin end of the wedge.
Each passing day fell upon the wedge like the stroke of a hammer.
Sometimes they drove it: oftener the wedge stayed still where it was.
But it never slipped back. When it was stubbornest, and the days
seemed to lose their weight, when Valerie's hold seemed indefeasible,
when the woods were quick with memory, when Anthony heard an old faint
sigh in the wind, and the laughter of a brook fluted the note of a soft
familiar voice, then more than once that strange, cool, silvery call
had stolen out of the distance, to melt upon the air as soon as uttered
and leave its echoes at play upon the edge of earshot.... Before the
echoes had died, the wedge would have moved.
For a master at once so tireless and so devotedly served, Colonel
Winchester handled his team with a prudence which must have chafed his
infatuation to the bone. Of every week, five and a half days did they
labour and not an hour more. No matter how loudly a chore called for
completion, no matter how blackly wind and weather were threatening the
half-done work, upon Wednesday afternoon and Sunday not an axe was
lifted, not a cord hitched, not a nail driven. It was a wise rule and
fruitful. The Sabbath rest leavened the labour of the week. As for
the midweek breathing space, the men were not monks; however zealous
their studies of the lilies of the field, the provision of meat and
raiment must have some crumbs of consideration...
It was, indeed, these two commodities which had taken Lyveden to Girdle
this January day. The milkman, the baker, the grocer, had all to be
interviewed and paid. A kindly farmer's wife, who baked fresh meat for
him and sent it thrice a week to his cottage in the shape of a cold
pasty, had to be visited and made to accept payment for a slab of sweet
fresh butter he had not asked for. A little linen had to be picked
up....
By half-past three Anthony's errands were run. He had dealt with them
quickly, for there was work waiting at the cottage; a load of fuel had
to be stacked, and Patch had been bogged that morning and was,
consequently, fit neither to be seen nor smelt. Besides, there was a
book about forestry which Winchester had lent him.... Anthony bent his
steps homeward eagerly enough.
As he left the village, a horsewoman overtook him, shot him a sharp
glance, and passed ahead. Her habit was mired, and it was evident that
she had had a fall hunting. That Anthony did not remark this was
because he was regarding her horse. There was nothing unusual about
the animal, but of the two beings it alone touched his attention. If
Valerie was like to be buried, at least she had killed all other women
stone dead.
It was consequently in some annoyance that, upon rounding the second
bend of the infamous Gallowstree Hill, he saw the lady before him with
her mount across the road, placidly regarding a hunting-crop which lay
upon the highway. As he came up--
"Would you be so good?" said the girl.
"With pleasure."
Anthony picked up the crop and offered it. As he did so, the horse
became restive, and there was quite a substantial bickering before his
mistress could accept the whip. Anthony, if he thought about it at
all, attributed the scene to caprice. In this he was right, yet wrong.
Caprice was the indirect reason. The direct cause was the heel of a
little hunting-boot adroitly applied to a somewhat sensitive flank.
There is no doubt at all that Anthony had a lot to learn.
Out of the broil stepped Conversation lightly enough.
"You must forgive us both," said the lady, turning her mount towards
Gramarye. "We've had a bad day. Quite early on we took the deuce of a
toss, and I lost him. A labourer caught him, and then let him go
again. By the time I'd got him, the hounds were miles away. I'd never
've believed it was possible to go so fast or so far as I did and never
hear of them. After two solid hours I gave it up."
Anthony was walking by her side, listening gravely.
"What a shame!" he said. Then: "I hope you weren't hurt."
"Shoulder's a bit stiff. I fell on the point. But a hot bath'll put
that right. D'you live here?"
"About a mile on. At Gramarye."
The girl stared at him.
"Gramarye?"
"Not at the house," said Anthony. "I live in the cottage at the
south-west end of the park."
"Oh, I know. D'you work there, then?"
Anthony nodded.
"That's my job."
"So you're Major Lyveden?" said the girl.
Anthony looked up.
"How did you know?" he said.
A pair of large brown eyes regarded him steadily. Then the red lips
parted, and André Strongi'th'arm flung back her handsome head and
laughed merrily.
"Did you think," she said, panting, "did you really think that you
could come to dwell in the parish of Girdle, and the fact escape the
notice of the other parishioners?" She hesitated, and a suggestion of
mockery crept into her voice. "Or are you too wrapped up in the estate
to think about anything else?"
"I believe I am," said Anthony.
"I beg your pardon," said Miss Strongi'th'arm with an elaborate
courtesy. "Thank you very much for enduring me for three minutes. If
I'd----"
Her hunter broke into a trot.
"No, no," cried Anthony, running beside her. "Please walk again." She
pulled the horse up. "I didn't mean to be rude. I meant----"
"I should leave it alone," said André. "You'll only make it worse.
You're much too honest. Besides, I love the country, and I--I think,"
she added dreamily, "I can understand."
"Can you?"
The eagerness in Anthony's voice was arrestingly pathetic, and André
started at the effect of her idle words.
"I--I think so. I've given water to a thirsty plant.... I suppose the
gratitude of a landscape..."
"That's it," said Lyveden excitedly. "You've got it in one. The place
is so pathetically grateful for every stock and stone you set straight,
that you just can't hold your hand. And all the time the work's so
fascinating that you don't deserve any thanks. You seem to get deeper
in debt every day. You're credited with every cheque you draw. If I
stopped, it'd haunt me."
"It is plain," said André, "that, when you die, 'Gramarye' will be
graven upon your heart. All the same, are you sure you were meant for
this? Aren't there things in life besides the straightening of stocks
and stones?"
"The War's over," said Lyveden.
"I know. But there was a world before 1914. I think your occupation's
wonderful, but isn't it a little unnatural--unfair to yourself and
others--to give it the whole of your life? As estates go, I fancy the
possibilities of Eden were even more amazing than those of Gramarye--I
daresay you won't admit that, but then you're biassed--and yet the
introduction of Eve was considered advisable."
"With the result that ..."
Miss Strongi'th'arm laughed.
"With the result that you and I are alive this glorious day, with our
destinies in our pockets and the great round world at our feet. I
wonder whether I ought to go into a nunnery."
"I've tried kicking the world," said Anthony, "and I'm still lame from
it. And Fate picked my pocket months and months ago."
"So Faint Heart turned into the first monastery he came to," said
André, leaning forward and caressing her hunter's neck. "What d'you
think of that, Joshua?"
As if by way of comment, the horse snorted, and Anthony found himself
joining in Miss Strongi'th'arm's mirth.
"There's hope for you yet," gurgled that lady. "Your sense of humour
is still kicking. And that under the mud appears to be a scrap of a
dog. When you take your final vows, will you give him to me?"
"In my monastery," said Lyveden, "monks are allowed to keep dogs.
There is also no rule against laughter."
"Isn't there, now?" flashed André. "I wonder why? There's no rule
against idleness either, is there?" She laughed bitterly. "Rules are
made to cope with inclinations. Where there's no inclination----" She
broke off suddenly and checked her horse. Setting her hand upon
Lyveden's shoulder, she looked into his eyes. "You laughed just now,
didn't you? When did you last laugh before that?"
Anthony stared back. The girl's intuition was uncanny. Now that he
came to think of it, Winchester and his little band never laughed over
their work--never. There was--she was perfectly right--there was no
inclination. Eagerness, presumably, left no room for Merriment. Or
else the matter was too high, too thoughtful. Not that they laboured
sadly--far from it. Indeed, their daily round was one long festival.
But Laughter was not at the board. Neither forbidden, nor bidden to
the feast, she just stayed away. Yet Mirth was no hang-back....
Anthony found himself marvelling.
"Who are you?" he said suddenly,
For a second the brown eyes danced; then their lids hid them. With
flushed cheeks the girl sat up on her horse.
"Who am I? I'm a daughter of Eve, Major Lyveden. Eve, who cost Adam
his Gramarye. So you be careful. Bar your door of nights. Frame
rules against laughter and idleness--just to be on the safe side. And
next time a girl drops her crop----"
"I hope," said Anthony gravely, "I hope I shall be behind her to pick
it up and have the honour of her company to turn a mile into a furlong."
"O-o-oh, blasphemy!" cried André, pretending to stop her ears.
"Whatever would Gramarye say? Come on, Joshua."
The next moment she was cantering up the broad white way....
As she rounded a bend, she flung up an arm and waved her crop cheerily.
Anthony waved back.
* * * * *
Miss Valerie French sat in her library at Bell Hammer, with her elbows
propped on the writing-table and her head in her hands. She had been
free of the great room ever since she could remember. Long before her
father's death she had been accustomed to sit curled in its great
chairs, to lie upon the huge tiger-skin before the hearth, or gravely
to face her father across that very table and draw houses and flights
of steps and stiff-legged men and women with flat feet upon his
notepaper, while Mr. French dealt with his correspondence. Always,
when the picture was completed, it would be passed to him for his
approval and acceptance; and he would smile and thank her and audibly
identify the objects portrayed; and, if he were not too busy, they
would remind him of a tale, the better to follow which she must leave
her chair and climb on to his knee....
Then he had died--ten years after her birth, nine years after her
mother's death. There were who said he had died of a broken heart--a
heart broken nine years before. It may have been true. Valerie loved
the room more than ever....
When she was come of age, she made it her boudoir. Flowers and silks
and silver lit up its stateliness. Beneath the influence of a grand
piano and the soft-toned cretonnes upon the leather chairs, the
solemnity of the chamber melted into peace. The walls of literature,
once so severe, became a kindly background, wearing a wise, grave smile.
Such comfort, however, as the room extended was to-day lost upon
Valerie. Beyond the fact that it was neither noisome nor full of
uproar, Miss French derived no consolation from an atmosphere to which
she had confidently carried her troubles for at least twenty years.
The truth is, she was sick at heart. There was no health in her. She
had been given a talent and had cast it into the sea. She had stumbled
upon a jewel, more lustrous than any she had dreamed this earth could
render, and of her folly she had flung it into the draught. She had
suspected him who was above suspicion, treated her king like a cur,
unwarrantably whipped from her doors the very finest gentleman in all
the world. What was a thousand times worse, he had completely
vanished. Had she known where he was, she would have gone straight to
him and, kneeling upon her knees, begged his forgiveness. Her pride
was already in tatters, her vanity in rags: could she have found him,
she would have stripped the two mother-naked. In a word, she would
have done anything which it is in the power of a mortal to do to win
back that wonder of happiness which they had together built up. It
must be remembered that Valerie was no fool. She realized wholly that
without Anthony Lyveden Life meant nothing at all. She had very grave
doubts whether it would, without him, ever mean anything again. And
so, to recover her loss, she was quite prepared to pay to the uttermost
farthing. The trouble, was, the wares were no longer for sale; at any
rate, they were not exposed to her eyes. The reflection that, after a
little, they might be offered elsewhere and somebody else secure them,
sent Valerie almost out of her mind. And it might happen any
day--easily. The wares were so very attractive.... Moreover, if their
recovery was to beggar her, by a hideous paradox, failure to repurchase
the wares meant ruin absolute....
When Valerie French had discovered that her jealousy of her lover was
utterly baseless, she had had the sense to make no bones about it, but
to strike her colours at once. That Anthony was not there to witness
her capitulation did not affect her decision. If she was to have their
intelligent assistance, the sooner others saw it and appreciated her
plight, so much the better for her. Only her aunt and the Alisons
could possibly help at all; to those four she spoke plainly, telling
the cold facts and feeling the warmth of well-doing in tearing her
pride to tatters. Then she rent her vanity and begged their services
to find and, if necessary, plead for her with the ex-officer. The
Alisons had promised readily, but there was no confidence in their
eyes. Lady Touchstone, however, had sent her niece's hopes soaring.
She had reason, it seemed, to expect a letter. Major Lyveden had
promised to let her have his address. And, he being a man of his word,
it was bound to come--bound to come....
For more than a month Valerie hung upon every incoming post. Then she
knew that the letter had gone astray.
For the hundredth time Miss French read through the three letters which
lay before her upon the table, written in the firm, clear hand of
Anthony Lyveden. Except she drew upon the store of Memory, she had
nothing else at all that spoke of him. Hence the common envelopes
became three reliquaries, the cheap thin notepaper relics above all
price, piteously hallowed by the translation of the scribe.
The letters affording no comfort, Valerie rose and moved to a great
window which looked on to the terrace and thence into the park.
Instantly the memory of one sweet September night rose up before her--a
night when he and she had paced those flags together, while music had
floated out of the gallery, and the stars had leaped in the heavens,
and the darkness had quivered at the breath of the cool night air; when
he had wrapped his love in a fairy tale and she had listened with a
hammering heart ... when he at last had put her hand to his lips, and
she had given back the homage before he could draw away....
The terrace was worse than the letters, and Valerie turned to the
books. Idly she moved along the wall, reading the names upon the calf
bindings and not knowing whether she read them or no. A sudden desire
to look at the topmost shelves made her cross to the great step-ladder
and climb to its balustered pulpit. Before she was half-way there the
desire had faded, but she went listlessly on. Come to the top, she
turned to let her eye wander over the nearest shelf. Old, little-read
volumes only met her gaze--Hoole's works, Jessey, John Sadler,
Manley.... Of the ten small volumes containing Miss Manley's
outpourings, the seventh was out of place, and Valerie stretched out a
hand to straighten it. As she did so, she saw the title--_The Lost
Lover_. For a moment she stared at it. Then she turned and,
descending one step of the ladder, sat down on the edge of the pulpit
and buried her face in her hands.
We will leave her there with her beauty, her shapely head bowed, her
exquisite figure hunched with despair, her cold, white, pointed fingers
pressed tight upon those glorious temples, her little palms hiding the
misery of that striking face, her knees convulsively closed, that
shining foot tucked beneath the other in the contortion of grief. We
will leave her there on the ladder, learning that sorry lesson which
Great Love only will set its favourites when they have gone a-whoring
after false gods in whom is no faith.
* * * * *
At half-past six upon the following Monday evening Lyveden returned to
his cottage with Patch at his heels. In spite of the hard frost, the
work had gone well. A bridge had been finished which should laugh to
scorn the elements for a long century; a sore-needed staff had been set
beneath the arm-pit of a patriarch oak; a truant stream had been tucked
into its rightful bed. It had been a good day.
Arrived at his door, Anthony turned and looked upward. The cold white
brilliance of the stars stared winking back; the frozen silence of the
firmament hung like a magic cloak upon the shoulders of darkness; the
pool of Night lay in a breathless trance, ice-cold and fathomless.
Anthony opened the door and passed in.
Within three minutes the lamp and lantern were lighted and a fire was
crackling upon the hearth; within ten, fuel had been fetched and water
drawn from the well; within twenty, the few odd jobs on whose
performance the comfort of regularity depended, had been disposed of;
and by seven o'clock the Sealyham had had his dinner, and his master,
washed and groomed, was free to sit down to a substantial meal.
At the first glance, the latter's dress was highly reminiscent of the
warfare so lately dead. The shade and stuff of the stout breeches, the
heavy ankle boots, the grey shirt-cuff emerging from the sleeve of the
coarse cardigan, were old familiar friends. The fact that Lyveden had
laid aside his collar heightened the comparison. Only his gaiters
struck a discordant note. These were of good box-cloth and buttoned
from knee to ankle. Tight-fitting about the calf, but not shaped to
the leg, they fell well over the tops of the heavy boots, resting,
indeed, upon the insteps. They suited Anthony, for whom they might
have been made, admirably. They were, moreover, a wholly redeeming
feature, and turned his garb from that of a thousand corporals into the
homely attire of a gentleman farmer. So soon as you saw them, you
forgot the War. The style of them was most effective. It beat the
spear into a pruning hook. With this to leaven them, the rough
habiliments were most becoming. In a word, they supplied the very
setting which manhood should have; and since Anthony, sitting there at
his meat, was the personification of virility, they served, as all true
settings should, by self-effacement to magnify their treasure. The
ex-officer might have stepped out of Virgil's _Eclogues_.
He had finished his meal, cleared away the remains, set the table for
breakfast, and was in the act of filling his pipe, when the Sealyham
growled. Anthony, whose ears were becoming sharper every day, listened
intently. The next moment came a sharp tapping upon the door. In an
instant Patch was across the room, barking furiously....
Laying down his pipe and tobacco, Anthony followed the terrier and,
picking him up in his arms, threw open the door.
"So you didn't bar it, after all," said a mocking voice. "Well, my
conscience is clear. I warned you. And since you are at home and the
door is open, will you extend your hospitality to a benighted Eve?"
Anthony stepped to one side.
"I'm all alone," he said hesitatingly.
"So am I," said André, entering. "Oh, what a lovely fire! I'm just
perished," she added, crossing to spread her hands to the blaze. "It's
not a night to be motoring."
Anthony shut the door and put the terrier down. The latter ran to the
lady and sniffed the hem of her garments. After a careful scrutiny he
turned away....
"It's not a night," said Anthony, "to be walking the countryside in
evening dress. Have you had a breakdown?"
"Not that I know of," replied Miss Strongi'th'arm. "Don't be so
modest. I happened to be passing and I happened to see your light, so
I thought I'd come and see how Adam was getting on. Is it against the
rules?"
"I'm all alone," said Lyveden steadily.
"Is that an order to quit?"
"I'm only thinking of you," said Anthony. "I know I've dropped out of
things lately, and the world goes pretty fast, but I'd hate people to
talk about you." He felt himself flushing, and went on jerkily: "I
mean, I don't honestly know what's done nowadays and what isn't. If
you're quite easy ... you see, I'm older than you," he added
desperately.
There was a little silence. Then--
"Don't stop," said André, with a mischievous smile. "I've never been
lectured by a monk before. Besides, I collect points of view."
"Is mine extraordinary?"
"An exceptionally rare specimen. I shall always treasure it." She
produced a cigarette case. "May I smoke a cigarette? Or is that also
against the rules?"
Without a word Anthony struck a match....
"Thanks," said the lady. She unbuttoned her coat. "It's nice and warm
in here," she added comfortably. "Oh, please don't look so
reproachful! I just can't bear it. I'm not doing anything wrong, and
it makes me feel awful. Of course, if you don't want me..."
"You know it isn't that," he protested. "I only thought possibly--I
mean..." He broke off helplessly and touched the back of a chair.
"Wouldn't you like to sit down?"
"Shall you sit down if I do?" Anthony shook his head. "Then I shan't
either. I'd much rather stand." And, with that, my lady set her back
against the side of the fireplace and crossed her shapely ankles.
It must be confessed that she made an arresting picture. Mean as the
light was, it woke the luminous beauty of her auburn hair; a sprinkling
of freckles gave to her exquisite complexion a jolly look; the bright
brown eyes and the merry mouth were those of a Bacchante. Above her
plain black frock her throat and chest showed dazzling white; below,
the black silk stockings shone with a lustre which was not that of silk
alone; over all, the voluminous mink coat framed her from head to toe
with a rich luxury.
"And how," said André, "is Gramarye? Have you finished the bridge?"
Anthony stared at her.
"How did you know?" he said.
Miss Strongi'th'arm shrugged her fair shoulders.
"What does it matter?" she said. "Let's talk about something else--if
you can. Have you thought over what I said? No. I can see you
haven't. Well, well.... Have you laughed since we met?"
"I--I don't think I have."
"Ah.... Why not?"
"There's been nothing to laugh at. The work's big--serious."
"Wasn't the War serious?"
Anthony crossed to the hearth and kicked a log into flame.
"I suppose so," he said reluctantly.
"Yet you laughed every day."
"Yes, but----"
"But what?"
"The War was different. You can't compare the two. Then you laughed
because it was better than crying. Now there's no reason for it.
There's no time on your hands. The work's too urgent--too solemn.
It's like restoring a cathedral. You don't feel you want to laugh."
He swung round and faced her. "There's a religion in the atmosphere;
Gramarye's a sort of temple; when you're in the woods, instinctively
you lower your voice; there's something sacred about the place;
there's----"
Miss Strongi'th'arm dropped her cigarette and caught her _vis-à-vis_ by
the shoulders.
"Don't!" she cried. "Don't! It's all wrong! The place isn't sacred.
It's absurd. You're infatuated. Gramarye's getting into your blood.
Soon you won't be able to think of anything else. And gradually it'll
eat up your life--your splendid, glorious life. I know what I'm
talking about. D'you hear? I say I _know_! I've seen one man go
under, and now you're going--_you!_" The flame died out of her voice
leaving it tender and passionate. "And you're too wonderful a thing,
lad; you're too perfect a specimen; you're too strong and gentle ...
too honest.... Ah"--her hands slipped from his shoulders and her eyes
dropped--"you needn't look so reproachful. I know I'm a rotter. I
dropped my crop on purpose the other day, because I wanted to talk to
you; and I lied to my mother and said I was dining out to-night, and
then came here, because..." Anthony put out an appealing hand. The
girl laughed bitterly. "All right. I won't say it." She started
feverishly to fasten her coat. "It's about time I was going, isn't it?
About time...."
In silence Anthony passed with her to the door.
There was simply nothing to say.
Together they walked to her car, a well-found coupé standing dark and
silent upon the wasted track, facing the London road. André opened its
door, thrust in a groping hand.... For a moment her fingers hunted.
Then two shafts of light leaped from the head-lamps. A second later
the near side-lamp showed Anthony how pale was her face....
The lights in the car went up, and André picked up her gloves.
Standing with her back to Lyveden, she pulled them on fiercely, but her
hands were shaking, and the fastening of the straps was a difficult
business.
Patch, who had come with them and was facing the opposite way, put his
head on one side and stared up the line of the track. Then he trotted
off into the darkness....
The straps fastened, André turned about.
Anthony put out his hand.
"Good-bye," he said gently.
For a moment the girl looked at him. Then she gave a little sob, and,
putting her arms about his neck, drew down his head and kissed him
frantically. A moment later she was leaning wearily against the car,
with the sleeve of her right arm across her eyes. As she let it fall,
Winchester stepped out of the darkness with Patch at his heels.
"André?" he said. And then again, "André?" Anthony swung on his heel
and faced the speaker. The latter stared at him with smouldering eyes.
"Lyveden?" he said hoarsely.
There was an electric silence.
Then Anthony turned to Miss Strongi'th'arm.
"I most humbly apologize," he said. "My feelings got the better of me.
I pray that you will try to forgive me." He turned to Winchester.
"This lady needed some water for her radiator, and came to my door----"
"You blackguard!" said Winchester. "You----"
"It's a lie!" flamed André.
The cold steel of her tone fairly whistled. Instinctively both men
started.
"It's a lie, Richard. He's the cleanest, straightest man that ever
breathed. He'd no idea who I was. He hasn't now. He never knew my
name till you said it. I forced myself upon him the other day. I
forced myself upon him to-night. And he's--he's just turned me
down.... He said what he did just now to try and shield me. But he's
blameless. It was I who--made the running. And I'm glad you saw it.
_Glad!_" She tore off her left glove. "Because it's your own fault.
It's eighteen months since I promised to be your wife. Eighteen solid
months. And I'm tired--sick of waiting--fed up. First it was Russia:
then the North of France: then--Gramarye. _Gramarye!_" She flung back
her head and laughed wildly. Then she snatched a ring from her finger
and hurled it on to the ground. "There's the ring you gave me. God
knows why I didn't give it you back yesterday--months ago. I'd reason
enough. I suppose I still hoped.... But now you've killed it. I
don't even care what happens to you. You've messed up my life, you've
messed up your own, and, what's a million times worse, you're doing
your level best to mess up his."
Upon the last words her voice broke piteously, and André covered her
eyes. So she stood for a moment, white-faced, her lips trembling....
Then she whipped into the car and slammed the door. A moment later the
engine was running. She let in the clutch, and the car moved
forward....
As she turned on to the London road, she changed into second speed ...
into third ... top....
The two men stood as she had left them, motionless, the little white
dog eyeing them curiously.
The steady purr of the engine grew fainter and fainter.
When it had quite died, Anthony turned and touched the other upon the
shoulder.
"There's always Gramarye," he said.
For a moment the giant peered at him. Then he straightened his bowed
shoulders and threw up his head.
"Yes," he shouted, "yes. There's always Gramarye!"