XVII

The afternoon was fair and mild, a pensive charm upon it of misty

sunshine and light fugitive shadows--one of those tender, silvery

afternoons very characteristic of an English spring. It was as though

nature, repentant of the violence of the past night, would disarm

resentment by softness of mood, pretty invitations, and all manner of

insinuating caresses. Thrushes piped among the high branches, and on the

house-roofs starlings whistled and chattered, their crops filled with

succulent comfort of worms and slugs. Upon the wide lawns two pairs of

grey wag-tails scampered, with interludes of love-making and rapid

upward flutterings after young gnats and flies--born out of due time and

paying speedy and final penalty of too precocious an advent. The year

had fairly turned its back on winter at last, and a promise of genial

days, warm, lingering twilights, and tranquil nights was in the air.

Yet the late storm had not departed altogether without witness. For

Laurence, pacing the broad walk from the last steps of the Italian

garden to the confines of the lime-grove, could hear the hushing of

birch-brooms and the ring of an axe. One of the tall cypresses had

fallen right across the central alley, and gardeners were still busy

chopping it up, carting away blocks of red wood and barrow-loads of

scented branches, and obliterating the traces of its downfall.

Laurence paced the walk in a state of dreamy abstraction. The influences

of the hour and the place were soothing to him. Their last interview and

the final scene in his uncle's bed-chamber had affected him deeply.

To-day had been full of detail. He had spent great part of the morning

at the little, grey, Norman church, in company with Armstrong, Mr. Beal,

and the estate mason, superintending the opening of the Rivers's vault,

and such alteration of the position of the coffins it contained as to

render possible the addition of another to their number. Upon the

coffin-plates he read the names of many members of his family--of Dudley

Rivers and others; and that of his own father, Denbigh Rivers, who had

died on foreign service in Malta, when he--Laurence--was a child, and

whose body had been sent home, not without cost and difficulty, to lie

among his kindred in this quiet place. Of Agnes Rivers's coffin--though

he closely examined all such as were still intact--he discovered no

trace.

"There won't be room for me or mine down there, Armstrong," he said to

the agent, as the two stood in the sunny churchyard, flicking the

clinging cobwebs of the vault from off their clothes. "Not that I'm

particularly sorry for that. Look here, you see the vacant space there

by the chancel wall? Just try if you can arrange to have it staked out

and reserved, without encroaching on the rights or hurting the feelings

of any of the parishioners. I rather fancy lying there--unless I'm lucky

enough to die at sea, and be dropped over the ship's side into the

clear, blue water, with a shot at my feet."

"Every man to his humour, no doubt, Mr. Rivers," the other answered, in

his slow sing-song. "Though I could find it in my heart to wish you a

less uneasy resting-place than the swaying deeps of the ocean. Yet I

suppose it was just there, and in the manner you have indicated, that

your namesake and great-uncle, Laurence Rivers, found burial after the

glorious battle of Trafalgar."

Laurence had stopped beating the clinging cobwebs from his sleeve, and

turned to the speaker with a look of quick intelligence.

"Why, of course it was," he said, presently adding--"Upon my word, I

wonder--will history repeat itself in that particular also!"

Subsequently, there had been letters to write, telegrams to despatch,

the disorganised household gently, but firmly, to lay hold on. And now

he paced the broad walk in an interval of leisure, listening till the

grinding of carriage-wheels upon the gravel of the chestnut avenue

should advise him that Mr. Wormald, his uncle's lawyer--whom he had

summoned from town--had arrived at Stoke Rivers Road, and completed the

transit from that station. And as he thus paced, while the silvery

sunshine and shadow gently followed one another across the face of the

fair, woodland landscape, a little of the pride of possession awoke in

the young man. He had hardly had time to think of that before; nor did

it seem quite fitting or seemly to do so when the breath had but so

lately left the body lying in that stately room upstairs. Yet it was

indisputable, this was precisely the event which, consciously or

unconsciously, he had waited for ever since his boyhood. The prospect of

one day succeeding to this property had handicapped him; he felt that.

It had placed him in a position, socially, slightly beyond his means. It

had taken from him the incentive and inclination to carve out an

independent career. So far it had been the reverse of an advantage, from

the more serious standpoint. But now all that was changed. He had a very

definite "name and local habitation." He was absolutely his own

master--no longer heir-apparent, but recognised owner and ruler of a by

no means contemptible territory. This was as the step from boyhood to

manhood--from the last of a public school to the freedom and personal

responsibility of youth no longer subject to tutelage. Laurence smiled

to himself. It occurred to him he had really got to grow up at last.

Well--he had been a precious long time about it! And then, somehow, it

occurred to him that this change in his fortunes altered and modified

his relation to Virginia. He had lived in Virginia's country, and among

her friends, almost exclusively, since his marriage. He had, he was

aware, ranked somewhat as Virginia's husband. Now the state of affairs

was reversed. He was in a position to claim full masculine

prerogatives--those of an old country, of a ripe and finished

civilisation, well understood. In future Virginia--she was very

charming, very, he'd no quarrel with her of course--only, in future,

Virginia would have to rank as his wife.

And, thereupon, involuntarily his eyes sought the bay-window of the

yellow drawing-room. At the foot of the semicircular stone steps, on to

which that window opened, the gardeners still moved to and fro--slow,

brown-clad figures--collecting and wheeling away the _debris_ of the

fallen cypress. Laurence refused to formulate further the thoughts that

arose in his mind. Only one thing was clear to him--clear as the songs

and whistlings of the birds, clear as the tinkle and plash of the

fountains, the spray of which glittered so brightly silver in the

silvery light--Virginia could not come to Stoke Rivers just yet. It was

better--better in every way--that her coming should be postponed for a

while--till the period of mourning for his uncle was over--till he,

Laurence, had mastered all the business, and organised the existent

masculine household upon a new basis--till he had thoroughly acquainted

himself not only with the working of this, but of the Scotch

estate--till he and Virginia were free to keep open house--till--till--

At that moment, perhaps fortunately, the dogcart emerged from the

shelter of the great chestnut-trees, and swung round the carriage sweep

to the front door. Laurence crossed the lawns and the angle of the

Italian garden quickly.--What a pity that cypress had fallen! It broke

the line, destroying the symmetry of the garden; and it was almost the

tallest and finest grown of the lot.

In the hall Mr. Wormald discoursed affably with the men-servants, while

the latter divested him of more than one overcoat. He was a small,

withered man, his back bowed and his hands sadly crippled by rheumatic

gout, by much handling of pens, and leaning over lengthy legal

documents; yet his movements were noticeably alert. His clean-shaven,

busy, little face was enlightened by nimble, red-brown, squirrel-like

eyes.

"Thank ye, Renshaw," he said. "Gently--ah, yes, you remember! These

damp, spring days get into my joints, I promise you. Ah! there you are,

Watkins. Yes, sad affair this, and sudden. Great shock to you all, no

doubt. Quite so--but I observe that so frequently is the case. A

lingering illness, the termination of which grows to seem more and more

remote, and then the end with unlooked-for rapidity. Yes, very sad."

Disengaging himself from the sleeves of his second coat, he perceived

Laurence's arrival, and his squirrel-like eyes scampered, so to speak,

over the young man from head to foot. Like the agent, he appeared to

receive an agreeable impression, for he gave a subdued squeak evidently

indicative of satisfaction.

"Ah! Mr. Rivers," he exclaimed, "you will not remember me. It is many

years since we met. You were a little shaver in an Eton-jacket and round

collar. And your poor uncle passed away quite suddenly at last?--Not a

matter for regret, I venture to think. Few men would have been more

fretted by a consciousness of failing powers. Remarkable intellect"--Mr.

Wormald keckled softly, as he passed with the young man into the

library--"quite beyond me, out of my humble range altogether, you know,

Mr. Rivers. I admired his conversation; yet I cannot venture to pretend

I attached any intelligible meaning to one-half of what your uncle said.

But our business relations were very simple. He disliked business too

much to wish to prolong the discussion of it. You will find all legal

arrangements very direct. The death duties will be heavy; but, otherwise

there are no deductions, I believe, save one or two small legacies to

the servants.--Dinner, yes, Mr. Rivers, the earlier the better for me. I

should be glad to put in a long evening with Armstrong; then we will

have everything ready for you in the morning. I have an appointment with

a client at five to-morrow afternoon, so I will ask you to let me go up

by the two o'clock. I shall not need to encroach on your time to-night."

Therefore it happened, that, comparatively early Laurence found himself

free to go down the red-carpeted corridor, pull back the heavy,

leather-lined curtain, and enter the room of strange and delectable

meetings once again. What fortune, good or bad, awaited him, he could

not even surmise. He had learned one thing at least, that, in this

connection, nothing was certain save the unforeseen. Nevertheless, he

was sensible of slight surprise on finding the room shrouded in vague

gloom. By some oversight the electric light had not been turned on. But

the March evenings were long, and he had come to the trysting-place

before the accustomed hour. The day was not wholly dead yet, and

twilight lingered in the neighbourhood of the bay-window. After his

first movement of surprise, Laurence found a restful charm in the soft

obscurity surrounding him. Once again the room had resumed its effect of

friendliness; and if his fairy-lady was not there as yet, no more were

malign and opposing powers. The place was kindly and peaceful. It, like

the weather, had settled back into a mild and engaging mood.

The young man felt his way across to the window, and sat down in one of

the gilt-framed, brocade-covered armchairs on the right of the bay.

There he waited, looking out now at the garden, growing mysterious and

shadowy in the deepening dusk; now at the tall, satin-wood escritoire,

the highly polished surfaces of which, reflecting the expiring light,

glistened so that the shape of it remained visible after surrounding

objects had faded from sight.

How long he waited Laurence did not know, nor did he greatly care. He

had been very actively employed for the better part of the last

six-and-thirty hours, and both as to mind and body he was in an

unusually quiescent state. His energies were in pleasant suspension. The

dimly seen room swam before his eyes. He made no effort of resistance. A

mist clouded his vision, clouded all his faculties, and he slept.

When he awoke it was high noon. He lay on the stone bench beneath the

lime-trees, the innumerable leaves of which rustled and danced in the

warm, summer wind. He awoke laughing from a wholly delicious dream--a

young man's dream of very lovely love, which after long denial and delay

had found perfect fulfilment. He felt very light and content. Life was

sweet, this smiling, summer world infinitely hopeful and sympathetic.

Then he stretched himself, smoothed the revers of his flowered, silk

waistcoat, and straightened his lawn cravat, which had been somewhat

displaced during the pleasant relaxation of slumber. He rubbed a trifle

of dust, too, from the knee of his plumb-coloured breeches with his

handkerchief. Then he stood up still laughing, yet with a growing hunger

in his heart, since he began to realise that those delights were his, as

yet, only within the gates of sleep and of dreams. He stretched again, a

sigh mingling with his laughter; and then discovered that through the

shifting, dappled sunlight and shadow Agnes Rivers approached him with

her pretty, flitting, bird-like grace. To-day she wore a pale,

lemon-yellow, India-muslin dress, spotted with cinnamon-coloured sprigs,

and a white and cinnamon coloured waist ribbon embroidered in blown

roses and tiny buds. A black, velvet work-bag, with long yellow and

black strings to it, hung upon her arm; while her charming head and neck

showed up in high relief against the open blue-grey sunshade she

carried tilted over her right shoulder. Laurence went forward to meet

her, all aglow from his recent sleep and from the fond imaginations of

that delicious dream. Half playfully, half in sharp desire of mastery,

he took away her sunshade and work-bag, and threw them down upon the

turf. Then grasping both her hands in his, he kissed and kissed them,

holding them high and bending his head so that his eyes were on a level

with hers. And there must have been something in his eyes fearful,

though enchanting, to her perfect maidenliness, for she flushed and

tried to withdraw her hands, moving back a step from him with an air of

questioning and innocent dignity.

"Laurence, Laurence," she said chidingly, "what does this mean? What has

taken you?"

"Only happiness," he answered, "of which, having seen the dear vision, I

very badly need the still dearer reality."

"Ah!" she said, "and yet you will go away--how soon we do not know--to

this most unhappy war, and leave me desolate."

"Yes, and it is best so, sweetheart," he replied; serious, though still

smiling--she was so pure, so trustful, and so very fair. Her gentle

beauty racked him--"Best so," he repeated--"best pass the time

honourably, fighting for king and country, until your twenty-first

birthday is past, and Dudley can no longer forbid our marriage, and I

can claim you, make and keep you mine forever and a day--"

And thereupon he stopped abruptly, for his elder brother had come upon

them unperceived--Dudley, thin and tall, clothed in sad-coloured,

brown-grey coat and vest, the locks of his long, pale hair stirred by

the summer wind, in his hand a bundle of papers--Dudley, whose high,

narrow head, refined features, and deep-set, fanatical eyes reminded

Laurence strangely of his uncle, Montagu Rivers, lying upstairs in the

carven, ebony bed, with the crystal _memento mori_ and the silver bell

of the elegantly poised Mercury handle on the table beside him.--But how

was that? How could it be? He confused two generations. Dudley Rivers's

coffin he had seen, in the vault of the little, Norman church, only this

morning. The dust lay thick on it. For more than half a century it had

reposed there undisturbed; whereas his uncle, Montagu Rivers, died but

last night!

Yet even while he thus reasoned, the scene suffered change. All around

him was the roar of cannon; and beneath him the screaming of two ships,

grinding into one another, side to side, upon the lift and fall of the

Atlantic, where the sea grows short towards Gibraltar and the Straits.

They screamed, those ships, as fighting stallions scream--a fierce and

terrible sound. And all their decks were slippery with blood, through

which half-naked men ran red-footed, or falling, wallowed, while the

yell of battle went up hoarse from many hundred throats. The white

sails, torn and streaming, were dyed wild, lurid colours by the flash of

musketry and up-rolling volumes of smoke from the heavy guns. It was as

hell let loose. Yet discipline prevailed, as did a desperate and

persistent purpose, through all the tumult and slaughter. Laurence

himself felt cool, light-hearted even, as he shouted orders and rallied

his men in no mild language. His courage was high and his life strong

in him. He laughed, notwithstanding the murderous noise, the sickening

and brutal sights. But, to his fury, just in the turn of the engagement,

when victory seemed assured at last, he felt a shattering blow at the

top of his chest, and the blood welled up from his pierced lungs, and

all the world about him grew black. He staggered back against the

splintered bulwarks, putting his left hand upon the thin packet of

letters buttoned inside his uniform against his heart, and called

aloud--"Agnes, Agnes."

And out of the blackness a sweet voice, speaking as from some far

distance, answered, crying--"Laurence, Laurence"--in accents of

tremulous but very exquisite joy. Then within his palm he felt once more

that just perceptible pulsation, as of the fluttering wings of a captive

butterfly; while, in the ghostly twilight still glimmering in through

the great bay-window, he beheld the slender form and rose-red, silken

dress of his sweet fairy-lady, there, close at his side.