HOW ANTONY HAPPENED TO BE THERE.
Antony Blake--or Frank Antony Blake, to give him the benefit of his full
tally--was the only son and heir-apparent of Squire Blake of Manby Hall,
a fine old mansion away down in Devonshire; thousands of acres of
land--no one seemed to know how many--rolling fields of meadow-lands
divided by hedgerows and waving grain, woods and wolds, lakes and
streams, and an upland of heath and fern that lost itself far away on
the nor'-western horizon.
The mansion itself, situated on a green eminence in the midst of the
well-treed old park, was one of the stately homes of England; and though
antique enough to be almost grim--as if holding in its dark interior the
secrets of a gloomy or mayhap tragic past--it was cheerful enough in
summer or winter; and from its big lodge-gates, all along its gravelled
avenues, the wheel-marks bore evidence that Manby Hall was by no means
deserted nor the squire very much of a recluse.
The gardens of this mansion were large enough to lose one's self in,
silent save for the song of birds, with broad green walks, with bush and
tree and flower, and fountains playing in the centre of ponds only and
solely for the sake of the waterfowl or the gold and silver fish that
hid themselves from the sunshine beneath the green, shimmering leaves of
lordly floating lilies, orange and white.
A rural paradise was Manby Hall. Acres of glass too, a regiment of
semi-silent gardeners, and a mileage of strong old walls around that
were gay in springtime and summer with creeping, climbing, trailing
flowers of every shape and shade.
If there was a single grim room in all this abode it was the library,
where from tawny, leather-bound shelves the mighty tomes of authors long
dead and gone frowned down on one, as one entered through the heavily
draped doorways.
Whisper it! But Antony was really irreverent enough to say one day to a
friend of his that this solemn and classic library was a jolly good
billiard-room spoiled.
Anyhow, it was in this room that Frank Antony found himself one morning.
He had been summoned hither by his father.
The squire was verging on fifty, healthy and hard in face, handsome
rather, with hair fast ripening into gray.
'Ha, Frank, my boy! come forward. You may be seated.'
'Rather stand, dad. Guess it's nothing too pleasant.'
'Well, I sent for you, Frank'----
'And I'm here, dad.'
'Let me see now. You're eighteen, aren't you?'
'I suppose so, sir; but--you ought to know,' replied Antony archly.
'I? What on earth have I to do with it? At least, I am too busy a man to
remember the ages of all my children. Your mother, now, might; but then
your mother is a woman--a woman, Frank.'
'I could have guessed as much, dad. But as for "all" your children,
father, why, there are only Aggie and I. That comprises the whole lot of
us; not very tiresome to count, I reckon.'
'There! don't be quizzical, boy. I sent for you--er--I sent for you
to--to'----
'Yes, father, sent for me to--to'----
'I wish you to choose a career, you young dog. Don't stand there and
to--to at me, else I'll--I don't know what I mightn't do. But stand
down, sir--I mean, sit down--and you won't look so precious like a
poacher.'
Antony obeyed.
'You see, lad, I have your interest at my heart. It is all very well
being an athlete. You're a handsome young fellow too--just like me when
I was a young fellow. Might marry into any county family. But cricket
and football and rowing stroke aren't everything, Frank, and it is high
time you were looking ahead--choosing your career. Well, well,'
continued the squire impatiently, 'have you nothing to say?'
'Oh yes,' cried Frank Antony, beaming now. 'I put that filly at a fence
to-day, father, and'----
'Hang the filly! I want you to choose a career; do you hear?'
'Yes, father.'
'Well, I'm here to help you all I can. Let us see! You're well educated;
too much so for the Church, perhaps.'
'Not good enough anyhow, dad, to wear a hassock. Whew! I mean a
cassock.'
'Well, there are the civil and the diplomatic services.'
Antony shook an impatient head.
'And you're too old for the army. But--now listen, Frank. I expect your
eyes to gleam, lad, when I mention the term: a parliamentary career!
Think of it, lad; think of it. Just think of the long vista of splendid
possibilities that these two words can conjure up before a young man
with the blood of a Blake in his veins.'
Frank Antony did not seem at all impressed; not even a little bit.
'I'm afraid, father, I'm a lazy rascal,' he said, almost pitying the
enthusiasm which he himself could not appreciate. 'I'm not so clever as
my dear old dad, and I fear the House would bore me. Never could make a
speech either, so'----
'Speech!' roared the squire, 'why, you'll never be asked to. They
wouldn't let you. They'd cough you down, groan you down, laugh you down.
Besides, clever men don't make speeches nowadays--only the fools.'
Young Antony suppressed a yawn.
'Very good, my boy, very good!'--his dad was shaking hands with
him--'and I honour you for your choice. And I'm of precisely the same
opinion. There's nothing like a seat in the House.'
'Rather have one on the hillside though, daddy, all among the grouse.'
His father didn't hear him.
'And now, Frank, I'm not an ordinary father, you know; and, before
entering the House, I don't see in the least why you shouldn't have your
fling for a year or two. I maintain that all young fellows should have
their fling. A hundred years or so agone I had my fling. Look at me now.
Am I any the worse? Well, I've just put a bit in the bank for you, lad,
so go and do your best.'
Frank was laughing merrily.
He put his hand in what he called his rabbit-pocket and handed out a
book: _The Gamekeeper at Home_. 'That is my lay, dad,' he said. 'I only
want to potter around and fish and shoot, or hunt in season. Don't like
London. Hate Paris. Not at home in so-called society. I'll just have my
fling in my own humdrum fashion, daddy, thank you all the same. I'll
have my fling, depend upon it.'
The young man was smiling to himself at some recollection.
'What is it, Frank?'
'Only this, dad. The black keeper--Tim, you know--weighs two hundred and
twenty pounds. The other day he was stronger than I. I threw him last
eve--Cumberland. This morning I lifted him with my left and landed him
on the west side of the picket-fence. How's that for a fling, daddy?'
'Go on, you young rogue. Listen, I hear Aggie calling you!'
'Oh, but you listen to me, father. I really don't see enough life down
here.'
'Well, there's London, my lad. London for life!'
'No, no! For the next few months, with your permission, I'm going to
live a life as free as a swallow's. I'm going on the road in my own
house-upon-wheels. I'll see and mingle with all sorts of society, high
and low, rich and poor. I'll be happy in spirit, healthy in body, and by
the time I come back my mind will be quite a storehouse of knowledge
that will better fit me for Parliament than all the lore in this great
library, father.'
'You're going to take up with gipsies, Frank?'
'Be a sort of gip myself, daddy.'
'Bother me, boy, if there isn't something really good in the idea. But
how are you going to set about it? Build a caravan for yourself?'
'Not build one, father. Nat Biffins Lee--a scion of the old, old gipsy
Lee, you know--owns a real white elephant'----
'Bless my soul! is the lad going mad? You don't mean seriously to travel
the country with a real white elephant, eh?'
'You don't understand, daddy. This Nat Lee has a splendid
house-upon-wheels which belonged to the Duchess of X---- She went
abroad, and Lee has bought it. But as it needs three powerful horses to
rattle it along, it is quite a white elephant to Nat. So I'm going up
north to Loggiemouth in Nairnshire, and if I like it I'll buy it. Is it
all right?'
'Right as rain in March, boy. Go when you like.'
'Coming, Aggie; coming.'
* * * * *
Deprived of its detail, this is pretty much the story that Antony Blake
told Lotty Lee that autumn night as they sat together eating chocolates
on the big white stone on Whinny Moor.
And that is how Antony happened to be there.