NEHUSHTAN
"It is only right, Lyveden," said Colonel Winchester, "that you should
know that I am losing my mind."
The steady, measured tone of the speaker invested this bald statement
with a significance which paralyzed. Anthony stood as if rooted to the
floor.
"Yes," said the other, "it was bound to shake you up. But I want you
to realize it. Sit down for a minute and think what it means."
Anthony did as he was bid--dazedly. His employer turned his back and
stared into the fire.
The silence which ensued was painful. So much so, that Mr. Samuel
Plowman, Solicitor and Commissioner for Oaths, whose nerves were less
subordinate than those of the two ex-officers, was hard put to it not
to scream.
It must be confessed that in the last twenty-five minutes the poor
gentleman had encountered a whole pack of things, none of which had
been dreamt of in his philosophy. Little had he imagined, when he was
desired to attend professionally at Gramarye "precisely at half-past
ten on Sunday morning," what that attendance would bring forth.
Colonel Winchester had certainly a reputation for eccentricity. His
letter was undoubtedly--well, peculiar. Mr. Plowman had smiled upon
his finger-nails--a sapient, indulgent smile. He had dealt with
eccentricity before. Witness Miss Sinister of Mallwood, who had
summoned him in just such a way, but more peremptorily. Then he had
been desired to superintend the cremation of a favourite cat. That was
nine years ago. For the last eight years he had superintended
Mallwood. Mr. Plowman had smiled more than ever....
At twenty-six minutes past ten that February morning he had ascended
the broken steps of the old grey mansion, a little curious, perhaps,
but, as he would have told you, "ready for anything." There being no
bell, he had raised and let fall the great knocker, and then stood
still in the sunshine looking placidly about him. The desolation of
the park left him unmoved. Money, judiciously expended, could rectify
that. And the house seemed sound enough. They knew how to build in
the old days. Colonel Winchester was probably using only one wing for
the present. In time to come, possibly ... Mr. Plowman had
straightened his tie.
Then the door had opened.
Clad like a husbandman, his shirt open at the neck, his sleeves rolled
to his elbows, the biggest man Mr. Plowman had ever seen had stood
regarding him. The cold majesty of a lion had looked out of those
terrible eyes; neck, chest, and arms proclaimed the strength of a
Hercules; the pose was that of a demi-god at bay. The carelessly
brushed fair hair, the broad forehead, the unusual distance between
those steel-grey eyes, the fine colour of the cheeks, the fair,
close-cut beard, contributed to make the fellow unearthly handsome.
But there was something behind it all--a dominating irresistible force,
which rose up in a great wave, monstrous and menacing.
Mr. Plowman, who knew little of personality, felt as if he had been
suddenly disembowelled....
Thereafter he had been led stumbling through the semi-darkness of a
stark hall, by gaunt mouldering passages to the servants' quarters. A
fair-sized parlour, looking upon a courtyard, carpetless, curtainless,
and something suggestive of an "Orderly Room," had presently received
him.
There a deep bass voice had bade him be seated, and he had been told
quite dispassionately that he was present to assist the speaker to
prepare for insanity.
All things considered, it is to Mr. Plowman's credit that he was able
to appreciate and answer coherently quite a number of questions which
his client had put to him upon matters of law. The strain, however,
was severe, and he was unutterably relieved when he was directed to
move to a table, where paper and ink were waiting, and take down the
explicit instructions which the voice would dictate. He had obeyed
parrot-wise.
The dictation was hardly over when Lyveden had appeared at the window
and, at a nod from Winchester, walked to a side-door and entered the
room a moment later....
What immediately followed his entrance, gentlemen, we have already
seen. Your time being precious, I have but made use of the silence
which poor Mr. Plowman found so distressful.
The great figure before the fire turned slowly about and, folding its
mighty arms, leaned against the mantelpiece.
"When it will happen," said the deep voice, "I have no idea. Sometimes
it seems very near; at others, as if it may never come. Yet I know it
will. So I must be prepared.... Mr. Plowman is here to assist me in
this preparation.
"I've tried to tell him, Lyveden, about the estate. I've tried to
explain what it means to me. I feel that I've failed." Mr. Plowman
was physically unable to utter the deprecative ejaculation which he
knew should have been here inserted. His lips framed it, but it was
never expressed. "I have, however, explained that I am engaged upon
its restoration, and that you are my second-in-command. I have told
him that when I--when my call comes, I wish the work to go on. This is
where you come in. I have given him certain instructions, all of which
depend upon you." The speaker unfolded his arms and stood upright.
"_When I'm gone, are you willing to carry on?_"
Before Anthony could answer, the other had lifted his hand.
"Wait. Don't answer till you know where you are.
"You'll have a Power of Attorney and absolute control. The moment I'm
certified, you'll stand in my shoes. Some of my income must be set
aside--I shall have to be looked after, you know--the rest you will
administer as if you were me. You'll be the master of the other men.
Your word will be law. The future of Gramarye will be in your hands.
You can follow the line I've taken, or you can strike off on your own.
You'll have absolute power. I'm ready to give it you, if you're ready
to take it. But you must wash sentiment out. The question of my
helplessness mustn't weigh with you. You mustn't consider anything
except yourself. If Gramarye means enough to you----"
"It does," said Lyveden.
"Are you sure?"
"There's nothing else in my life."
"Ah!"
His keen grey eyes glowing with the light of a visionary, Winchester
stepped forward, and Lyveden got upon his feet. For a moment the two
men looked one another in the face. Then Winchester shivered suddenly,
put a hand to his head, and turned away....
The pathos of the gesture loosened Anthony's tongue.
"You know best, sir, and it isn't my place to try to dissuade you. Let
the business go through. Once for all, whatever happens to you, I'll
carry on. I'll do everything exactly as if you were there. You can
rest easy. But---- Oh, how can you think such a thing? I never in
all my life saw any one less likely to go under. You're not the type,
sir. It's--it's laughable." The words came tumbling out of an honest
heart. "I saw men go mad in France, but they were hardly your sort.
Perhaps you're too much alone. Will you let me live with you? Or, if
it's insomnia----"
"It isn't insomnia," said the giant. "It's insanity."
Mr. Plowman, who was picking up the pen which for the second time had
escaped the play of his trembling fingers, started violently and struck
his head against the table. The absurd action attracting annoyed
attention, he broke into a cold sweat.
"But you can't know that!" cried Anthony. "Only a doctor can----"
"What doctor would tell me the truth?"
"You needn't ask him. You can ask to be told the symptoms, and then
compare them with yours. If they tally----"
"You speak as a child," said Winchester. "Insanity's not like
chicken-pox. There's no book of the rules."
"I don't care. You can't possibly know. On a matter like this your
own opinion's worthless. It's the one thing no man can say of himself:
You can't judge your own judgment." Staring into the fire, Winchester
began to tap the floor with his toe. "I've said I'll carry on, and you
can put my name in, but I'm sorry I was so quick."
"Why?"
"Because I oughtn't to subscribe to this belief. It's all wrong. I'm
admitting a possibility which doesn't exist. I'm humouring a dangerous
whim. For over two months I've spent ten hours a day in your
company--I've sat at your feet--I've marvelled at your wisdom--I've
envied your instinct--I've been dazed by your amazing efficiency--and
now I'm to put on record----"
With a stifled roar, Winchester threw back his head and beat with his
fists upon his temples.
"You fool!" he raved. "Out of your own mouth.... The very wisdom you
marvel at has shown me what you can't see. That instinct you say you
envy has opened my eyes. I tell you I'm going mad. Time and again
I've seen the writing upon the wall. I walk with Insanity of nights.
Three months ago I chucked my revolver into the lake, or I shouldn't be
here to-day. You babble of madness; I tell you I know the jade. Why,
there are nights when the stars slip and the world lies on her side,
and only the woods of Gramarye keep me from falling off. I climb from
tree to tree, man. They're like the rungs of a ladder, with their tops
swaying in the wind over eternity and their roots stuck fast in a
gigantic wall--that's the earth ... on her side ... They're sticking
straight out like pegs. And sometimes I hear a roar coming, and the
trees are bent like reeds, and the wind screams to glory, and the whole
world turns turtle--swings right over and round. Think of it, man.
Twelve thousand miles in a second of time. And there are the stars on
my right, and I'm climbing the wrong way up.... But Gramarye holds me
fast. As long as I'm in the woods---- But the roads are the devil.
They make such a gap. You have to climb them to get to the other side.
The trees are child's play--they help you. But the roads ... I shall
meet it on one of those roads ... one day ... one day...."
The deep sonorous voice faded, and with a whimper Mr. Plowman slid on
to the floor.
It was Anthony who picked him up and carried the unconscious lawyer
into the open air. As he was helping him to his feet, Winchester
appeared with brandy.
"I was so engrossed," he said quietly, "that I never saw you go down.
Was the room too hot?"
Mr. Plowman gulped down some spirit before replying. Then--
"Yes," he said jerkily. "I--I think perhaps it was. I must apologize,
sir."
Winchester inclined his head.
"You have your instructions," he said. "And you have seen Major
Lyveden, and heard him consent to act. Prepare the necessary papers
immediately and send them to me for signature. If any question arises,
lay it before me by letter. If you must see me"--the unfortunate
attorney blenched--"write and say so. I need hardly add that, with
regard to what has passed between us, I expect your observation of the
strictest confidence."
"M-most certainly, sir."
"One thing more." An envelope passed. "There is a cheque on account.
If on reflection you wish to take counsel's opinion, and that is not
enough, write and say so." He put out his hand. "Good-bye. I'm much
obliged to you for coming. I hope you'll be none the worse."
With starting eyes Mr. Plowman touched the great palm. Then his client
turned, and, clapping a hat on his head, strode off into the wilderness.
As the sound of his footsteps died--
"There's a paper--in there--on the table," said Mr. Plowman. "And my
hat and coat--and bag..."
"I'll get them," said Anthony.
"It's--it's very good of you."
When he returned, the lawyer had fastened his collar and was nervously
bullying his tie into place.
"Have you a conveyance?" said Anthony.
"N-no, sir. I sent the fly away. I had thought I would walk back," he
added miserably.
Clearly the chance of encountering Winchester was not at all to his
taste.
"You'd better come with me," said Lyveden. "It's the quickest way to
Girdle. I live in the cottage close to the London road."
Mr. Plowman felt inclined to put his arms round Anthony's neck....
Three-quarters of an hour later the little attorney stepped, with a
sigh of relief, on to the King's highway. Going and pace had tried him
pretty hard, and he was simply streaming with sweat. He pushed back
his hat and blew out his cheeks comically. Then he set down his bag
and started to mop his face.
"By Jove!" he said, panting. "By Jove, I'm glad to be----" His eyes
resting upon Anthony, he broke off and fell a-staring. "Why," he
cried, "you haven't turned a hair!"
Anthony smiled.
"I take a lot of hard exercise," he explained.
"By Jove!" said Mr. Plowman, wide-eyed. "Well, I'm awfully obliged to
you."
"You've nothing to thank me for." Lyveden pointed to the cottage.
"That's where I live." He put out his hand. "Are you all right now?"
"Splendid, thanks. Can't think how I came to faint like that. Of
course..."
He took the outstretched hand meditatively.
"The room was unusually hot," said Anthony.
The other stared at him.
"Yes," he said slowly. "By Jove, yes...." With a sudden movement he
picked up his bag. "Good-bye."
The next moment he was plodding down the broad white road.
Anthony watched him till he could see him no more. Then he turned on
his heel and whistled to his dog.
As he did so, the purr of an engine rose out of the distance, and he
turned to see a large touring-car sailing towards him from the
direction of Town.
"Come on, Patch!" he cried quickly.
The approach of the car made him anxious. The terrier, he knew, had
crossed the road, and there was something about this particular reach
of metalling that tempted motorists to pass at the deuce of a pace.
The car sailed on.
It was fifty paces away, when Anthony heard Patch flouncing through the
undergrowth in response to his call. In another second the terrier
would take his customary flying leap from the bank on to the road--on
the same side as the car....
In a flash, Anthony was full in its path, spreading out signalling arms.
The tires were tearing at the macadam as Patch leaped into the road
and, missing his footing, stumbled on to his nose twenty-five paces
ahead.
Anthony ran up to the car, hat in hand.
"I'm awfully sorry," he said. "My dog was coming, and I couldn't stop
him. I'd called him before I saw you. I was afraid he'd be run over."
The fresh-faced youth at the wheel stared at him.
"That's all right, sir," he grinned. "How are you? You don't remember
me, Every. Met you at Saddle Tree Cross--huntin'. Valerie French
introduced us."
"Of course," said Anthony. "I remember you perfectly. Are you all
right?"
"Goin' strong, thanks." He turned to a girl at his side. "Joan, let
me introduce Major Lyveden--my sister." Anthony bowed. "We're goin'
down to Evesham to see some spaniel pups. Are you livin' down here,
sir?"
Anthony indicated his cabin with a smile.
"That's my house," he said. "I've turned forester, and I'm working on
this estate."
"But how priceless," said Joan. "If I were a man, that's just what
I'd----"
"Yes," said her brother. "I can see you gettin' up at dawn an' hewin'
down trees an' things with a bead-bag on your wrist an'----"
"I said 'if I was a man,'" protested Joan. "I said..."
The argument waxed, and Anthony began to laugh. So soon as he could
get a word in--
"I mustn't keep you," he said.
Peter Every glanced at his watch.
"Twenty-past twelve!" he cried. "George, no! I'll have to put her
along. I suppose you won't come on and lunch with us, sir? We'd love
it, and we can drop you here on the way back."
"Yes, do," urged Joan.
Anthony shook his head.
"You're very kind," he said, smiling, "but I've any amount to do. When
you live alone, and you've only one day a week..."
"I'm sorry," said Every. "Still, if you won't..."
He let in the clutch.
"Good-bye," said Anthony.
"Good-bye," cried the others.
The car slid forward.
A moment later, arrived at the top of the hill, it dropped over the
crest and sank out of sight.
* * * * *
It was twelve days later that Mr. Peter Every found his cake to be
dough.
Taking advantage of a general invitation, issued when he was six years
old, he had asked himself to Bell Hammer ostensibly to enjoy a day's
hunting, but in reality with the express intention of inviting Miss
Valerie French to become his lady-wife.
All things considered, it was rather hard that before he had been in
the house for an hour and a half he should himself have pulled his airy
castle incontinently about his ears.
This was the way of it.
It was that soft insidious hour which begins when it is time to dress
for dinner and ends in horrified exclamation and a rush for the bath.
Valerie, seated at the piano, was playing Massenet's _Elégie_, and
Every was lolling in a deep chair before the fire, studying a map of
the county and thinking upon the morrow's hunt. In such circumstances
it is not surprising that the printed appearance of Saddle Tree Cross
should have remembered Lyveden.
"By the way, Val," he said, raising his voice to override the music, "I
met a pal of yours the other day."
Valerie raised her eyebrows and continued to play.
"Did you?" she said, without turning. "Who was that?"
"Major Lyveden."
The _Elégie_ died a sudden discordant death, and Valerie started to her
feet.
"_Where?_"
The flame of the inquiry scorched Peter Every's ears.
Dropping the map and getting uncertainly upon his feet, he demanded
aggrievedly to be told what on earth was the matter....
On trying subsequently coherently to recall what had happened in the
next five minutes, he found his memory pardonably confused.
Valerie had taken him by the shoulders and shaken him like a rat: she
had hurled at his head an unending stream of questions--all about
Lyveden, and, when he had hesitated, had shaken him again; when he had
tried to protest, she had put her hand over his mouth; when she had
clearly exhausted his memory, she had announced that they would go up
to Town the next day, and that on Sunday morning, sun, rain, or snow,
he would motor her down to where Lyveden dwelt; then she had said she
was sorry she'd shaken him, smiled him a maddening smile, told him,
with a rare blush, that Anthony Lyveden was "the most wonderful man in
the world," kissed him between the eyes, and then darted out of the
room, calling for Lady Touchstone....
Sitting that night upon the edge of his bed, with his hands in his
pockets and a pipe in his mouth, staring moodily upon the carpet, Peter
had thought ruefully upon his shattered fortune.
"Blinkin' fine week-end," he muttered, "I don't think. I roll up for a
hunt an' a dart at the most priceless girl that ever was foaled, an' I
lose the one an' am roped in to help the other to another cove." He
laughed bitterly. "'Minds me of a drama-play. S'pose I'm cast for the
perishin' strong man wot 'ides 'is bleedin' 'eart." He flung out a
dramatic arm. "'Reenunciation, 'Erbert, 'ath its reeward.' (Loud and
prolonged cheers.) Well, well...." He rose to his feet and stretched
luxuriously. "It's all the same in a hundred years, and so long as
she's happy..." And with that little candle of truly handsome
philosophy Mr. Peter Every lighted himself to bed.
Upon the following Sunday, at a quarter before midday, he set Miss
French down upon the London road at the spot at which he and Joan had
met Lyveden a fortnight before.
"I'll wait till you've seen if he's in," he said, nodding towards the
cottage. "If he is, I'll come back in an hour. That do?"
Valerie smiled and nodded. She was just twittering. Then she flung
her veil back over her shoulder and stepped off the road on to the
wasted track....
It was a beautiful day--a handful of sweet-smelling hours filched by
Winter out of the wallet of Spring. The wet earth seemed drenched with
perfume; the winds kept holy-day; the sun, like a giant surprisedly
refreshed, beamed with benevolence.
Her knocking upon the door of the cottage evoking no answer, Miss
French decided to try the back.
The venture was fruitful.
There upon the red-brick pavement stood a small snow-white dog, whom
Major Anthony Lyveden, seated upon a soap-box, was towelling vigorously.
Between the fuss of the operation and the amicable wrangle which it
induced, neither of the parties heard the lady's approach. For a
moment she stood spellbound. Then she turned and waved her arm to
Every, sitting still in the car fifty odd paces away. Intelligently
the latter waved back....
As Valerie turned, there was a scrabble of paws. Followed a sharp
exclamation, and the next moment Patch was leaping frantically to lick
her face, while Anthony Lyveden, who had risen to his feet, was staring
at her and recoiling, towel in hand, as if he had perceived an
apparition.
For the two, who had shared big moments, it was the most tremendous of
all. Upon a sudden impulse that black king Fate had flung his warder
up. Instantly the barriers of Time and Distance had been swept away,
and Love, Shame, Fear, and a whole host of Emotions had come swarming
pell-mell back into the lists--a surging, leaderless mob, thirsty to
flesh their swords, quarrelling amongst themselves....
Sit you there by the king, sirs, if you will watch the tourney. Climb
up into his pavilion; make his grim equerries give place. I will
answer for their black looks. And the king will laugh at their
discomfiture. His jester for the length of my tale, I can twist the
tyrant about my little finger.
See, then, the wrangling press take order of battle. Observe the
clamorous throng split into two rival companies, each of them captained
by Love, with Hope and Shame on one side, and Fear and Mistrust upon
the other. These six are the most notable; the rest you shall discover
for yourselves, when issue is joined. One other knight only I beg you
will remark--him in the cold grey harness, knee to knee with Mistrust,
whose device is a broken bough, sirs, whom there is none to counter
upon the opposite side.... That is no one of the Emotions, but
something less honest--a free-lance, gentlemen, that has ridden unasked
to the jousting and cares for neither cause, but, because he will grind
his own axe, ranged against Valerie. There is a fell influence behind
that vizor that will play a big part this February day.
When Valerie French looked upon her lost lover, she could have wept for
joy. The sight of him, indeed, rendered her inarticulate, and, before
she had found her voice, came Shyness to tie up her tongue. This is
important, because her sudden inability to speak upset everything.
For a month after she had known the man faithful and herself for a
fool. Miss French had constantly rehearsed this meeting. Then, when
she had almost lost hope that it would ever take place, the rehearsals
had lost their savour.... Forty hours ago they had been revived and
conducted feverishly by day and night. She had a score of entrances,
and humble opening lines to suit them all. Before Anthony could speak,
she would have disarmed him by kneeling in the dust. The most
submissive sentences her love could utter were to be laid at his
feet--calls which, if his love were yet alive, must wake some echoes.
Too honest, however, to make a play-actress, Valerie had reckoned
without stage-fright....
Lyveden was the first to recover.
"Why, Miss--Valerie," he said, "where have you sprung from?" He came
to her smiling and put out his hand. "I can see by your face that I'm
forgiven. I'm so glad. I hate to be at variance." Mechanically
Valerie laid her hand in his. "I've got such a wonderful job here," he
went on easily. "Are you just passing? Or have I time to tell you
about it?"
"I'd--I'd love to hear," stammered the girl.
Things were going all wrong. There had been nothing like this in any
of her scenes.
"I'm restoring an estate," said Anthony. "When you knew me, I was a
footman. Now I'm something between a forester, a landscape-gardener,
and a roadman. This"--he lifted an indicating arm--"this belongs to a
Colonel Winchester. It's been let go for over a hundred years, and he
and I and a few others are working to pull it round. It's just
fascinating."
Valerie nodded.
"I'm glad you're happy," she said, and wondered whether that was the
moment to speak her unspoken lines. Surely a better opening would
present itself. Now that they could not come first, it seemed so
awkward to thrust them in without any introduction. While she
hesitated, the chance passed.
"I'm sure you are. Would you care to see something of the park? I'd
like you to. It'll make it easier for you to understand what we're up
against and what an amazing attraction there is in the work." Together
they left the cottage and made for the track. "If we go down here for
a bit, you'll get an idea of the condition of things, and then I'll
show you some of the work we've done. Of course it goes slow. Five
thousand acres aren't reclaimed in a day. You see...."
The steady, even tone flowed with a surprising ease. Anthony could
hardly believe his ears. How on earth he was able to talk so naturally
he could not divine. He was, of course, putting up a tremendous fight.
The sudden appearance of Valerie had fairly staggered him. Then
instinctively he had pulled himself together, and, with his head still
singing from the blow, striven dazedly to ward her off. The great
thing, he felt, was to keep talking....
Ever since his dismissal he had fought unceasingly to thrust the lady
out of his mind: latterly his efforts had met with a halting success.
Now, not only was all this labour utterly lost, but he was faced with a
peril more terrifying than death. The prospect of being haled once
more unto Pisgah, the hell of viewing once again that exquisite land of
promise unfulfilled, loomed big with torment. He simply could not
suffer it all again. The path, no doubt, would be made more specious
than ever. Oh, indubitably. And the whips which were waiting at the
end of it would have become scorpions.... Anthony had braced himself
for an immense resistance.
The devil of it was, he loved the girl so desperately that resistance
pure and simple would be of no avail. He knew he could never hope to
parry the thrusts those beautiful eyes, that gentle voice, were there
to offer him. Once before he had tried, and failed signally. It was
plain that his only chance of safety lay in attack. He must press her
tirelessly. The great thing was to keep talking....
Thank God, there was a subject to hand. Gramarye made a wonderful
topic, inviting, inexhaustible. Her blessed woods and streams, her
poor blurred avenues, her crumbling roads, the piteous havoc of the
proud estate stood him in splendid stead. Anthony found himself not
only talking, but waxing enthusiastic. The queer conceit that Gramarye
had responded to his cry for help filled him with exultation. Out of
his grateful mouth her praise came bubbling....
Settling himself in his saddle with a slow smile, the Knight of the
Broken Bough laid on more lustily than before.
It was Patch who unwittingly put a spoke in the latter's wheel.
Miss French's reappearance had affected the dog powerfully. One
October day he had known her for Anthony's darling, and as such had
become her vassal. He had since seen no reason to withdraw his fealty.
As we have seen, at her coming he had leaped for joy. Occasion and
personage, however, deserved more honour than that. Ever since the
three had begun their ramble, he had been scouring the undergrowth for
an offering meet to be laid at the lady's shining feet. It was the way
of his heart.
Not until Miss French and Lyveden were standing beside a tottering
bridge, and the latter was pointing the traces of a vista which once
had gladdened all eyes with its sweetness, but was now itself blind,
did the little squire happen upon a treasure worthy in his sight to be
bestowed. At this juncture, however, a particularly unsavoury smell
attracted his straining nostrils.... A moment later what was, despite
the ravages of decomposition, still recognizable as the corpse of a
large black bird was deposited with every circumstance of cheerful
devotion immediately at Valerie's feet.
To ignore such a gift was impossible. Its nature and condition saw to
that. To accept it was equally out of the question. But tacitly to
reject such a love-token needed a harder heart than Valerie's or, for
the matter of that, than Anthony's, either.
Miss French gave a queer little cry of mingled distaste and
appreciation, and Anthony hesitated, lost the thread of his discourse,
and stopped.
"How very sweet of you, Patch! No, I mustn't touch it because I'm not
allowed dead birds. But I do thank you." She patted the panting head.
"Look. Here's a stone I'll throw for you--down into the brook. I'm
sure it'll be good for you to wash your mouth." She flung the pebble,
and the dog went flying. Valerie turned to Lyveden with a glowing
face. "Don't think I'm fishing for another dead bird, but I wish I
could feel you'd forgiven me as truly as Patch. Oh, Anthony, I just
can't tell you how deadly ashamed I feel, how----"
"My dear girl, you mustn't talk like this. I knew there was some
misunderstanding--I didn't know what--and I----"
"I thought you cared for Anne Alison."
"Oh, Valerie...." The wistful reproach of his tone, the sad-faced
ghost of a protesting smile hovering about his lips, brought tears to
Valerie's eyes. "Well, well.... I'm so glad I'm cleared in your eyes.
I'd 've hated you to go through life thinking that I--was like
that...." Suddenly he caught at her arm and pointed to the ramshackle
bridge. "There's another instance of the rot we're out to stop.
Another winter, and that bridge 'd be in the stream, damming it at the
deepest and narrowest point. Result, the water's diverted and spreads
all over the road, trying to find another way into its channel. No
road can stand that, of course. Gradually----"
"Tell me more of yourself," said Valerie.
Anthony let go her arm and put a hand to his head.
"Myself?" he said slowly. "Well, this is my life. I live in the
cottage, you know--very simply. It was a wonderful stroke of
luck--getting the job. I saw it in the Agony Column."
"Before or after you'd given notice?"
"After. I tell you, I was thankful. And now--I little dreamed what a
wonderful billet it was. Living in these beautiful woods, with nothing
to----"
"Why did you give notice?" said Valerie.
"Oh, I don't know. I think I was unsettled. After all, a footman's
job----"
"Was it because of me?"
There was a long silence. Then--
"Yes," said Anthony. "But that's ancient history," he added quickly.
"It wasn't your fault if I chose to take that line. Besides"--he flung
out demonstrative arms--"see what you've brought me, Valerie. When I
think that less than three months ago I was carrying coals and washing
up glasses and waiting at table----"
"And in love with me," said Valerie.
Lyveden's outstretched arms fell to his side.
The worst had happened. Valerie was under his guard....
A pitiful hunted look came into the steady grey eyes. Slowly the brown
right hand stole up to his forehead.
"I never ought to have been," he said dully. "I ought to have had more
sense. It was always--out of the question ... utterly. I think
perhaps if I'd had a job to put my back into, I'd 've----"
He hesitated, at a loss for an expression which would not be ungallant.
Instantly Valerie lunged.
"You'd 've what?"
"Behaved better," he said desperately, turning back the way they had
come.
Head back, eyes closed, lips parted, Valerie stood like a statue.
"Behaved ... better?" she whispered. "Behaved ... better?" She
shivered, and, when the blue eyes opened, there was the flash of tears
springing. "When you talk like that," she said quietly, "you make me
feel like death. I deserve it, I know. I deserve anything. But, if
you knew how it hurt, I think you'd spare me." Staring into the
distance, Anthony dug his nails into his palms. "I came here to-day to
pray your forgiveness. Since I--found I was wrong, I've been more
utterly wretched than I thought a woman could be. I didn't know there
was such agony in this world. Aunt Harriet'll bear me out, and so will
the Alisons. I told them the truth. And when, after all these weeks,
I found where you were, I just thanked God.... You and I know what we
were to each other. Try and put yourself in my place. Supposing you'd
turned me down--because you were rotten...." Anthony winced. "Yes,
rotten. There's no other word. And then you'd found out your mistake.
How would you feel?"
"I'm sure you had cause," blurted Lyveden. "It was a mistake, of
course. But you couldn't know that. And I--I've nothing to forgive,
dear. I've never thought ill of you--never once. I can't pretend I
wasn't shaken, but I always knew there was some mix-up."
"You were--shaken?" said Valerie.
Anthony nodded.
"You see," he explained, "I was terribly----"
"Have you got over it?" said Valerie.
With the point at his throat, Anthony did the only possible thing, and
threw down his arms.
"No," he said steadily, "I haven't, and I don't think I ever shall."
There was a long, long silence, which the suck and gurgle of water
fretting a crazy sluice-gate had to themselves. Then--
"What d'you mean?" breathed Valerie.
"I think," said Lyveden, "that I shall love you as long as I live."
Valerie just sighed very happily.
"I think," she said, standing a-tiptoe, "I'm the luckiest woman of all
the ages."
Then she slid an arm through Anthony's, and they started back....
Anthony's brain was whirling. He did not know what to think. What was
worse, he did not know what to do. Did she think he had called back
Time? That he had asked her to marry him? Had he? Were his words
tantamount to that? Was he prepared to marry her--this wonderful,
glorious creature stepping so joyously beside him--this peerless queen,
who had wronged him, yet in his eyes could do no wrong? As once
before, that touch upon his arm sent the blood singing through his
veins. His pulses leaped and danced. An old strange joy came
welling.... It was as if a fountain within him had begun to play--an
old forgotten fountain, long dry--and the sun was turning its delicate
spray to a flourish of sprinkled silver. Against his better judgment
he turned and looked at her. My lady felt his gaze, and turned to meet
it with a swift smile. All the beauty of youth, all the tenderness of
love, all the shyness of maidenhood hung in that glowing countenance.
As once before, twin stars had come to light the gentle gravity of
those dark blue eyes. The mouth he had kissed in anger was a red
flower....
The memory of that kiss came back to him with a rush. He had forgotten
it, somehow. He was forgiven, of course. Still, it was only right to
speak of it--she had confessed her trespasses so very handsomely.
Standing still, he took hold of her hand.
"Valerie, I quite forgot. The kiss I gave you that day was the kiss of
a bully. I've never----"
A small cool hand covered his lips.
"Hush, lad. You mustn't say it. I know you were angry, or you'd never
have done it. But that was my fault. You know it was. And"--she
hesitated, and a blush came stealing to paint the wild rose red--"it's
the only kiss you've ever given me, and--since then--I've been very
glad of it."
For a moment Anthony stood trembling. Then he put his arm about
Valerie and held her close. There was the whisper of a tremulous sigh
in his ears, the warm fragrance of quick-coming breath beat upon his
nostrils, the radiance of love-lit beauty flooded his eyes. Slowly he
bent his head....
A wandering breeze swept out of the distance, brushed past the leafless
woods, set the curtain of silence swaying, and--was gone.
Anthony started violently and threw up his head, listening....
Imagination lent him her ears.
The faintest silvery ripple, the liquid echo of a cool clear call went
floating out of audience....
In an instant the man was transfigured.
"The trumpets!" he cried hoarsely. "The trumpets! Didn't you hear
them?" The light in his eyes was fanatic. Instinctively Valerie
shrank away. Regardless, he let her go. "I forgot. Gramarye--I'm
pledged to her. It's too late, Valerie. Oh, why did you come?" He
buried his face in his hands. "You'll never understand," he muttered.
"I know you never will. It's no good--no good...." Suddenly he stood
upright and took off his hat. Then he smiled very tenderly and shook
his head. "It's too late, Valerie--my sweet--my darling.... Too
late...."
He turned and strode down the track towards the tottering bridge.
For a moment Patch stood looking from him to the girl, uncertain and
puzzled. Then he went scampering in Anthony's wake.
* * * * *
"As soon as you've finished, Lyveden, we'll have that fir down. It's
the only way. With that list on her, she may go any day. And, when
she does, as like as not she'll push half the bank into the road."
Anthony, who was munching bread and meat, nodded agreement. His
employer got up and strolled in the direction from which the crunch of
wheels upon a rough road argued the approach of a supply of posts and
rails.
The fence about the estate was going up.
It was indeed high time. What was left of the old paling was in evil
case. Worm and rot had corrupted with a free hand. There was hardly a
chain, all told, that merited repair. So Gramarye was to have a new
girdle. For the last week Winchester and his little band had been
working at nothing else. A spell of fine weather favouring them, the
work flew. Master and men worked feverishly, but for once in a way,
without relish. The industry of the gnome was still there, but it had
become nervous.
The reason for this must be made clear.
Always, till now, the little company had laboured in secret. The
thick, dark, lonely woods of Gramarye had sheltered all they did. No
strange, unsympathetic eyes had ever peered at their zeal, curious and
hostile. This was as well. They had--all ten of them--a freemasonry
which the World would not understand. They were observing rites which
it was not seemly that the World should watch. Hitherto they had
toiled in a harbour at which the World did not touch. Knowing naught
else, they had come to take their privacy for granted. Now suddenly
this precious postulate had been withdrawn. Since wellnigh the whole
of the estate was edged by road, the erection of the fence at once cost
them seclusion and showed them how dear they valued it.
All day long the World and his Wife passed by, kindly, mocking, or
silent--but always curious. The little fellowship became resentfully
self-conscious.... Old wounds reopened; forgotten infirmities lifted
up their heads. The three great sailors remembered that they were
deaf. The little engineer noticed his trailing leg. The lean,
grey-headed joiner thought of the wife who had left him: his fellow
recalled the cries of a dying child. Anthony minded Miss French. Only
the two old carters were spared the ordeal, their labour keeping them
busy under the cover of the woods. Winchester himself felt the unusual
exposure most of all. But that the fence was to give them the
fee-simple of privacy, he would have abandoned the enterprise. It was
not that he was ashamed, but, as an atelier, he had no use for a
house-top. "Working in a shop-window," he styled it. If he detested
publicity, his resentment of idle curiosity was painfully apparent.
Once or twice, indeed, he had broken out and, in a voice of thunder,
bade loiterers begone. Happily they had always obeyed....
Anthony finished his lunch, gave a few pieces to Patch, quenched his
thirst with a draught of well-water out of an old beer-bottle, and got
upon his feet. Winchester had not reappeared, so he strolled across to
the fir-tree which had been marked for destruction. As usual, his
employer was perfectly right. It would be idle to carry the paling
along this piece of bank and leave the tree standing to menace fence
and foundation. The sooner it was out of the way, the better.
He crossed to where the sailors were crowded about the engineer, who
was drawing a rough diagram upon the sawn face of timber to illustrate
some argument. Hard by, upon a log, the joiners were smoking and
conversing in a low tone.
"Where are the axes, Blake? The Colonel and I are going to fell that
fir."
The grey-headed joiner rose and stepped to a rough litter covered by a
tarpaulin. The latter, being turned back, displayed a travelling
armoury of tools. As he lifted two axes out of their slots, Winchester
came thrusting out of the undergrowth.
"Ready, Lyveden?" he queried. "Right."
Anthony flung off his coat, made Patch fast to a convenient bush--you
could not be too careful when trees were falling--and took an axe out
of the carpenter's hand. The sailors had disappeared in the direction
of the waggon. A moment later the two ex-officers were felling the
tree.
It was Winchester's whim to use an axe where he could. He delighted in
the pastime, and his tremendous physique enabled him to make such play
with the tool as could few men who were not experts. Under his
guidance, Anthony had proved an apt pupil, and the two, working
together, could send a soft-wood tree toppling in no time. So engaged;
they made a wonderful picture. Had any passed by at this moment, they
might have been pardoned for staring.
At his fourth stroke Anthony misjudged the angle, and his axe stuck.
As he leaned forward to lever it out of the wood, there was the whirr
of steel falling, and he flung himself back with a cry. The other had
struck without waiting for him to get clear.
As an error of judgment, the thing was inexplicable. A child of six
would have known better. And an axe was no pop-gun.
For a moment he stared at Winchester like a man in a dream.
His employer blinked back....
Then his eyes narrowed.
"_You're_ getting curious, are you?" he said thickly.
In spite of himself, Anthony started.
Loosely nursing his implement, the other took a step to one side.
There was not much in the movement, but it placed him between Lyveden
and the road.
Anthony kept his eyes riveted upon the powerful hands playing with the
haft of the axe....
Twenty paces away a saw was going. Raised above the din could be heard
the engineer's voice calling for the return of his pencil. A distant
clatter of timber told that the waggon was being unloaded.
Anthony moistened his lips.
For another pair of eyes he would have given anything. Any moment now
he would have to jump--one way or the other. It did not matter which.
The going was equally bad. But if he met an obstruction--caught his
foot in a root--fell among briers at the outset, he knew he was doomed.
The impulse to glance to one side was terrible. Yet he dared not take
his eyes from those terrible itching fingers. If only one of the
men----
The noise of the saw stopped, and a piece of wood fell with a thud.
Blake's voice was heard asking the whereabouts of his rule. The answer
was inaudible, but the next moment somebody started to move in the
direction of the fir. As they passed Patch, they chirruped.
In an instant the axe leapt to Winchester's shoulder, and Anthony
jumped....
A moment later Blake parted the bushes, to see his employer wrench free
an axe which had bitten into the ground, and hurl himself after
Lyveden, who was on his feet again and running steadily about six paces
ahead.
For a second the fellow stared stupidly. Then he let out a yell and
started in pursuit.
The two ex-officers were evenly matched. If Anthony was the lighter
and younger, Winchester had run for Oxford. Moreover, the latter knew
the woods like the back of his hand. Anthony, who did not, ran
blindly. This was not a moment to pick and choose. All the time he
was desperately afraid of mire....
Briers tore at his legs, saplings whipped him across the face, a bough
stabbed at his eyes and, as he turned, scored his brow savagely; a
rabbit-hole trapped his foot and sent him flying, but he caught at a
friendly trunk and swung round to find his balance and a new line
before him. So quick was the turn, that the giant behind him lost the
yard he had gained. Down through a grey beechwood, over a teeming
brook, into a sodden drift of leaves, up through a welter of bracken,
on to the silence of pine-needles, over the top of the ridge into the
cursed undergrowth again, panting, straining, sobbing for breath, his
temples bursting, his hands and arms bleeding, unutterable agony in his
side, Lyveden tore like a madman. The pace was too awful to last.
Always the terror behind clung to his heels.
They were flying downhill now, and the giant's weight was telling. On
the opposite side of the valley was another pinewood. If he could only
reach that, between the good going and the up-gradient Anthony felt
that there was a bare chance. The thing behind, however, was coming up.
The slope grew steeper ... precipitous ... With a shock, Lyveden
realized that the giant must be almost above him, that he had only to
drop.... With a frightful effort he swerved. A tangle of matted thorn
bushes opposed him. Frantically he smashed his way through, kicking
desperately at the suckers, plunging to find a footing--a
holding--anything. For a moment he trod the air. Then he fell
heavily, head first, into a ditch....
Only the sight of the road before him and the firm brown carpet beyond
could have got him upon his feet. Dazed and winded, he staggered
across into the pinewood and started to struggle up the slope....
A sudden thought came to him, and he glanced over his shoulder. The
next moment he was leaning against a tree-trunk, gazing down into the
road.
Winchester was flat upon his face, spread-eagled, scrabbling with his
nails upon the roadway and cursing horribly. He seemed to be
endeavouring to haul himself across. Had the road been a wall, you
would have said he was trying to scale it....
He had made no progress by the time the others arrived, and was easily
secured. Then ropes were sent for, and two of his magnificent sailors
lashed his arms to his sides.
* * * * *
The end of a conversation held this same evening in the hall of Bell
Hammer may be recorded.
"He's not himself, Aunt Harriet. There's something wrong. Nobody
could have been more gentle--or handsome. He was just wonderful. And
then..." Valerie broke off and shrugged her shoulders helplessly.
"His work and the place itself--Gramarye, he calls it--seem to have got
into his blood. You never saw such enthusiasm. It was unnatural."
"Anthony Lyveden," said Lady Touchstone, "is not the man to go mad."
"I know. But he ought to see somebody--a doctor. There was the
queerest light in his eyes.... And he spoke strangely, as if he heard
things. Who's the great man for--for brain trouble?"
"Sperm," said Lady Touchstone placidly. "But you're racking my brains
for nothing. Anthony Lyveden's not----"
"I know he isn't!" cried Valerie. "That's what makes me certain
there's something wrong. He's doing something, or taking something, or
being given something, that's affecting his mind. It's not internal;
it's some outside influence. If he didn't care, it'd be different.
But he does. He said so. But he didn't seem to have room for me and
the estate at the same time. It had to be one or the other. It was
like a bad dream--past dispute, but illogical."
"I should write to John Forest," said her aunt. "Ask him to come and
stay. He's a wise man. I don't feel equal to telling you what to do.
I don't know what to tell you. If you'd come back and said that he
wouldn't see you, I was going to Chorley Wood----"
"Chipping Norton," corrected Valerie.
"Well, Chipping Norton--myself. I was going to kneel down in the mud
and refuse to get up. I was going to wear that blue face-cloth that we
both hate. I'd got it all worked out. But, from what you tell me,
there's apparently nothing for me to kneel for."
"Nothing whatever," said her niece. "He's given me everything,
and--I've come empty away," she added miserably.
Lady Touchstone rose and stooped to kiss the girl tenderly.
"Take my advice," she said, "and write to John Forest to-night. And
now don't fret. You're a thousand times better off than you were four
days ago. For one thing, you know where he is. What's more, he's
content to let bygones be bygones. My darling, you've much to be
thankful for. And now go and take a hot bath, and try and get a nap
before dinner. Poor child, you must be dead tired."
With a sudden movement Valerie threw her arms about her aunt's neck.
"I don't know why you're so good to me," she said.
Then she kissed her swiftly and, getting upon her feet, passed up the
broad stairs.
For a moment Lady Touchstone stood looking after her niece. Then she
put a hand to her head and sank into a chair. She was profoundly
worried. If any girl other than Valerie had come to her with such an
account, she would have been less troubled. But Valerie was so very
clear-headed. True, her love had got away with her, and she had had
the very deuce of a fall. But she was up again now, and nothing like
that would ever happen again. Her judgment was back in its seat as
firm as ever. And when she said that something was wrong with Anthony,
that he seemed to hear things, that there was "the queerest light in
his eyes," Lady Touchstone knew that it was perfectly true. What was
worse, she was entirely satisfied that these things meant brain
trouble. For three months after his wife had died, Valerie's own
father had been under surveillance for precisely similar symptoms. She
remembered them fearfully. And this Major Lyveden was so reminiscent
of poor Oliver. His voice, his manner, the very way his hair grew
about his temples, reminded her strangely of her dead brother. It was
not surprising that she attributed Anthony's condition to a somewhat
similar cause. What troubled her most was her conscience. She had set
her heart upon the match, and she was now uncertain whether it was not
her clear duty to try to call it off.
After a little she rose and crossed to a table. Taking a sheet of
notepaper, she began to write.
_DEAR WILLOUGHBY,_
_I think it probable that within a few days your secretary will make an
appointment for you to see a Miss Valerie French. This is my niece.
She does not know we are friends. When she tells you her tale, you
need make no allowance for hysteria. Believe every word she says. She
will not exaggerate. And please remember this. It is most desirable
that she should marry the man about whom she will consult you. But it
is still more desirable that she should not marry a madman._
_Yours always sincerely,
HARRIET TOUCHSTONE._
Then she selected an envelope and addressed it to
_Sir Willoughby Sperm, Bart.,
55 Upper Brook Street,
Mayfair._
* * * * *
After a nightmare three days, work at Gramarye was again in full swing.
Anthony's succession to Winchester had been accepted without a murmur.
If the men displayed any feeling, it was that of relief. When he had
told them that nothing whatever would be changed, shown them his Power
of Attorney, explained that he was a steward sworn to continue the work
till--till his employer should have recovered, they had stared upon the
ground like schoolboys and stammeringly requested an assurance that
things would go just the same. Reassured, they had nodded approval and
exchanged gratulatory glances. Then they had gone about their business.
Anthony's task was less simple. Apart from his compliance with the
Law--a painful and embarrassing ordeal, which Mr. Plowman fussily
stage-managed, dressing every detail with such importance that the
layman's wonder melted gradually to a profound contempt--there was much
to be learned. That all was in beautiful order saved the situation.
And a letter, addressed to him in Winchester's bold handwriting, proved
a master-key to the mysteries of income and outgoings.
_... There's three hundred on deposit at the Bank. That's to cover the
immediate expense of putting me away. Now look at Sheet 7. That's
last year's balance-sheet. That'll show you I was well within my
income. All the same, expenses will have to be cut--to provide for me.
The wages must stand, and so must the "Horses and Stalling" (Book 2).
Don't part with the roan. There'll be times when you'll have to go to
Town, as I did, for odd accessories. "Tools and Materials" (Book 3)
will have to suffer, but we're well set up now, so you ought to pull
through...._
There was an invitation, too, to live at the mansion, which Anthony did
not accept. Twice a week he would visit the office and work there
faithfully, but he could not bring himself to live in the house.
Apart from the manner in which the blow had been dealt him, he felt the
loss of his employer most bitterly. He found the tragedy even more
piteous than terrible. That so rude an axe should have been laid so
untimely to the root of so glorious a tree filled him with sorrow.
That the tree should have heard the step of the woodman on his way to
the felling, haunted his memory.
So far, however, as Lyveden's health of mind was concerned, itself
grievously inopportune, the catastrophe could not have happened at a
more opportune moment. Trading upon the heels of his encounter with
Valerie, it made a terrific counter-irritant to the violent
inflammation which that meeting had set up. Yet if the back of the
sickness was broken, disorder and corrective, alike so drastic, were
bound seriously to lower the patient's tone. His splendid physical
condition supported its brother Mind and saw him well of his faintness,
but the two red days left their mark. Looking back upon them later,
Anthony found them made of the stuff of which dreams are woven--bitter,
monstrous dreams, wherein the impossible must be performed lest a worse
thing befall and a malignant eye peers beneath stones which even Misery
herself would leave unturned. How he had parted with Valerie he was
uncertain. He could not remember her going. Of her coming he knew
nothing at all. She had appeared and, he supposed, disappeared. Of
Winchester's attack upon him, and the subsequent chase, his memory was
clearer. How he had escaped, however, at the foot of the brier-clad
slope, he could not conceive. He could have sworn that for the last
thirty paces the man was not three feet behind....
He was thankful to get back to work, and plainly immensely relieved to
find that, during his absence, the others had made such progress with
the paling that the scene of his employer's seizure had been left well
behind.
A week had elapsed since that cloud-burst, and, as before, Lyveden was
finishing his lunch, when he noticed that Stokes, the second carpenter,
had not returned. The fellow had gone to his quarters, to fetch some
implement, nearly an hour before. When another half-hour had gone by,
Anthony, in some impatience, dispatched Blake for the tool. Twenty
minutes later the latter returned, chisel in hand, but with no news of
his mate. When it was five o'clock and there was still no sign of
Stokes, Anthony struck work and ordered an organized search. It seemed
rather hopeless, but, on the whole, the best thing to do. The man was
missing. If possible, more zealous than any, it was unthinkable that
he was playing truant. He could not have been spirited away. Anthony
supposed gloomily that he had met with a mishap. There was, indeed, no
other solution.
It was getting quite dark when they found him down in a little dell
upon a patch of greensward. Considering that he was a joiner, and not
a sexton, he had made remarkable progress with a very creditable grave,
which, he explained, was to receive the dead with which the woods were
distributed. He added that it was a disgrace to leave so many corpses
lying about, and pointed out that he had removed his boots for fear of
treading upon them.
When they sought to humour him, he became suspicious and violent, and
there was quite a struggle before he was overpowered.