A slow but sure affection was coming into being between the old Crump
agent and the new. As a rule, this particular sympathy is far to seek,
for the young man is nervous of the elder’s criticism, the old man
impatient of the younger’s methods, while both are held apart by the
jealous love that always clings to land; but Roger Lyndesay had retired
too long to be irritated by trifles, and moreover the mismanagement of
a decidedly indifferent successor had broken him very completely to
patience. Callander was to be hailed with delight after Slinker’s other
selection, whose sole recommendation had been a genius for extracting
rents, and who had finished an altogether doubtful career in the river,
when fishing. The new man, quiet and unassuming, slow to push himself
among strangers, found life a little solitary in his house across the
park, and by degrees he came to spend many an hour at Kilne, though he
had a habit of slipping in unobtrusively, and he never seemed to say
very much. It was old Roger who talked, and Callander who listened and
learned--many things.
Deb was happier since his coming, for he had brought a new interest
into her father’s day, and she would sit sewing by the fire, listening
to the pair of them as they traced dates, conned agreements and settled
valuations. Roger had many a tale to tell, too; of floods on the marsh,
of the Great Cattle Plague, of the dobbies that haunt the lanes, of
Royal Shows, shoots and rent-dinners. Callander would try to cap
them sometimes with tales of his own, but his Shropshire experiences
had no atmosphere in the heart of Westmorland, and he was content to
steep himself in the glamour of the new life with which he felt so
mysteriously satisfied.
He said less even to Deb than to her father. It is difficult to keep
up a society conversation along with a discussion upon swedes and the
merits of ground limestone, or the vexed question of Small Holdings.
Yet, though he scarcely seemed conscious of her presence, he had a
disconcerting habit of turning round on her with a question in cases
of difficulty, and she was always too taken aback to conceal what
knowledge she possessed. She might wear a mask with Christian, more or
less successfully, but Callander’s curt directness got behind it every
time.
One afternoon, he persuaded them to drive with him to a farm on the
marsh, and it did her good to be welcomed in the old way, and to spend
an hour chatting with the farmer’s wife while the men went round the
buildings. It was a quiet day in February, and the sands were a dim
brown beneath the mountains’ dim blue. Only the new-turned earth struck
a rich, deep note against the faint tones surrounding. They drove home
in silence, drawing in the magic that circles a certain northern marsh.
But at the gate of Kilne their peace was rudely broken, for the Crump
victoria came up, carrying Mrs. Lyndesay, pale and stiffly erect, and
as the old agent stepped from the dog-cart and stood aside, hat in
hand, she passed him without the slightest sign of recognition.
It was like a blow in the face to the proud old man. Still bareheaded,
he stood gazing after the retreating carriage as in a dream, and when
Deb laid her fingers on his arm he pushed them off with a shaking hand.
“And that’s what I’ve earned from Crump!” he cried at last, hoarse and
trembling. “I was William Lyndesay’s right hand for twenty years, and
now his widow cuts me at my door! It’s time I was under Crump sod when
Crump no longer knows me!”
Then he turned to his daughter in a sudden blind access of
helplessness, the tears running down his face.
“She _did_ know me, didn’t she, Deb? She couldn’t mistake Roger
Lyndesay at the very gate of Kilne? She must have known me,--she
couldn’t have taken me for somebody else?”
“It’s getting dark so fast, dad,” Deb said quietly, but cut to the
heart and bitterly blaming herself for his pain, for was not this
moment of humiliation the direct result of that in which she had
engaged herself to Stanley, not a hundred yards from where they stood?
“It’s so easy to look at people without seeing them, if you happen
to be thinking of something else. And there isn’t any reason why she
should cut you. She knows what she owes you too well for that. Don’t be
upset. It was only an accident, dad, I’m sure!”
But it was not an accident, and she knew it, and Roger knew it, too.
He took her arm, and let her lead him into the house, walking like an
old, old man who had had a heavy fall; and after a moment’s hesitation
Callander whistled up the Kilne man to his horse, and followed them in.
He stood just inside the parlour door in the dusk, watching Deb as she
leaned comfortingly over the distressed old figure in the arm-chair,
and listening to that note in her voice which was never struck for any
one but her father.
“It isn’t true that you’re forgotten at Crump! Why, it’s only a few
days since Christian spent the whole evening with you! He sent you the
new photograph of the house on your birthday,--don’t you remember?--and
the old servants gave you the walking-stick of Crump oak with the
inscription. Don’t fret, dear. There isn’t any need,--really there
isn’t!”
But all Roger could say was--“Crump passed me by! Crump passed me by!”
beating his old hands against the chair, and catching his breath like a
struck child. Deb looked round despairingly, and saw Callander, big and
burly, outlined against the shadowy wall. He was scribbling something
on a folded note. Then he stepped forward.
“There’s a special meet at Crump to-morrow,” he said casually, “to
finish the season; the first since the hard weather. Mr. Lyndesay’s
hunting himself. He sent you this notice by me, sir, and hoped you’d
come along. It should be a fine day, I fancy, by the sun.”
He laid the twisted paper on the table, and the old man’s eyes fixed
pathetically upon it.
“Read it, Deb!” he told her, quieting a little, his face clearing,
and after one quick look at Callander, she took it up and opened it.
It was merely the ordinary notice that Christian was in the habit of
sending to keen followers of the hunt, together with an invitation to
lunch, but there was a Lyndesay signature at the foot of it, and that
was enough for old Roger. He sat with the paper in his hand, his fine
dignity gradually reasserting itself, while Callander went on talking
in his usual unemotional manner.
“Hounds are in fine condition, this season, and they’ve done pretty
well, too, so old Brathay tells me. He was fit to tear his hair during
the hard spell, and if it freezes at midnight he’ll be nearly out of
his mind!”
“It will not freeze,” the old agent put in, with weather-wise
certainty. “The wind’s too low, and there is too much water in the
land. It was kind of Christian to send me word. I have business
to-morrow morning, or I might at least have attended the meet; but
Deborah will go, of course, in any case.”
Deb started violently.
“I’m afraid it isn’t possible--I shall be busy----” she began, in
protest, taken aback utterly, but he stopped her with a courteous
gesture.
“One of us must go,” he said decidedly. “We cannot both refuse, and as
I shall not be at liberty, it will have to be you, my dear. You have no
appointment on your own account, I suppose?”
Deb shook her head, at a loss for excuse, realising that her engagement
and its consequences had faded from his mind, leaving nothing clear and
certain but Christian’s courtesy.
“Then that settles it!” he said, rising and laying the paper on the
table. “You will be able to give me an account of the day’s sport. The
meet is at ten, I believe.” And, drawing himself slowly to his great
height, he walked shakily but with restored serenity from the room.
When he had gone, Deborah picked up the note once more, and turned it
over. Christian had never sent them a hunt-notice, and she knew well
enough what delicacy of feeling had prompted the omission. She did not
need the scribbled “R. Lyndesay, Esq.” in Callander’s hand to tell her
that the note was Callander’s and not theirs.
“I doubt I’ve only made things worse!” he said apologetically, joining
her by the fire. “But it satisfied him for the time being, and that
was the chief thing, wasn’t it? He’ll have forgotten all about it by
to-morrow, and you needn’t go.”
“I’ll have to go,” Deb said wearily, dropping the note into the fire.
(There must be no risk over that “R. Lyndesay.”) “He might forget
anything else in the world, but not a thing like that. It doesn’t
matter. You were very kind and quick, and it comforted him. Anything
was better than seeing him cry!” He caught the gleam of tears in her
own eyes as she leaned against the mantelpiece in the firelight. “You
couldn’t possibly know what you were letting me in for, and after all,
it only serves me right.” She laughed shortly, drawn out of her reserve
by the intimacy of the dusk. “I’ve made a nice mess of things for
him,--poor old dad! This will happen again, of course; and you won’t be
there another time to label Christian’s notes!”
He was silent, wondering how far it was safe to follow her lead. By
now, most of the local gossip had come round to him--(he was that
silent type of man with whom people are apt to let their tongues run
loose)--and he knew what was said of the girl who had engaged herself
to Slinkin’ Lyndesay, merely to be mistress of Crump. Instinctively he
felt that there was something in the background, some powerful motive
in the strong, self-contained nature that never gave a hint or made
appeal for pity. He had had a gentle mother, and clinging, backboneless
sisters, now married, and the stubborn, still strength of this young
creature standing alone roused in him a sudden impulse of chivalrous
admiration. He would back her if he could, but it behoved him to walk
warily, for she would be helped by nobody, and she would reveal nothing.
“Then you will go?” he repeated at last, returning to the point on
which he had fallen silent, sure of that ground at least.
“Oh, yes, I shall go!” she threw at him recklessly. “It’s a special
meet, so half the neighbourhood will be there, and they will have such
a painful time, poor things, pretending not to know me! Will Mrs.
Lyndesay have me turned off the drive, do you think? At least I can
take refuge in the middle of the pack! _They_’ll be glad enough to
welcome me, and old Brathay will see me through.”
Her voice was terribly bitter, and Callander stirred uncomfortably,
thankful for the deepening twilight.
“But you will go with me, won’t you?” he asked, rather awkwardly.
“I shall be there, of course, and I had hoped for the pleasure of
escorting you. I had meant to ask you, in any case. We could wait for
hounds at the top lodge,” he added innocently, and was taken aback when
she faced round on him like a young tigress.
“If I go, I go alone!” she told him, passionately. “Straight across
the park and into the thick of the crowd! You mean well, I know, but
do you think I’ll crawl to Crump steps at the back of a stranger?
The invitation was yours, remember,--not mine; so I must go unasked,
since my father wishes it. I can take my place with the rag, tag and
bobtail. At least I have a standing invitation from the dead!” She
dropped her head on her arms. “If only Stanley were here!” she added
bitterly. “You’d none of you dare to be ‘kind’ to me, _then_,--you
wretched Samaritans!”
“And what about Mrs. Stanley?” poor Callander asked, in his
matter-of-fact way, and Deb’s sense of humour stirred, and she laughed.
“How beautifully sane you are! I’ve made a fool of myself, I suppose,
but I’m glad it’s to you and nobody else. You won’t give me away. I’m
going alone, as I said, but you can come and unhook me if you see me
sticking in a hedge.
“Though it would be wiser if you didn’t,” she added, with a fresh touch
of bitterness. “I’m meat enough for the gossip-cats as it is. You
should see them crowd to their doors and put out their ear-trumpets
when Christian stops me in the street! But Father will want to know
every yard of the run when we get back, so perhaps you had better keep
near me, and then I can tell you things.”
“You know Crump like a book!” he said, smiling, and cursed himself, for
she was back into her shell at once.
“Oh, indeed I don’t!” she replied curtly. “I’ve just picked up things
through listening to Father, that’s all. They’re in the air--there’s no
getting away from them, as you can see for yourself. It’s like having a
chemist for a father, and learning all about pills. And it’s equally
boring!” she added defiantly.
“That isn’t Roger Lyndesay’s child speaking!” he answered bluntly,
preparing to take his leave. “Crump names are music on your
tongue,--one’s only got to hark. Some day you’ll show me your real
self. I can guess at it already, but some day I’ll see it whole!”
“And some day I’ll know why you would have married Stanley!” he added
to himself, as he went away.