Anthony Lyveden Part 16

Alison appeared in a doorway, wearing the traditional habiliments of a smart maid-servant with a perfectly natural air.

When her sister-in-law, similarly attired, followed her into the yard, Anthony felt as if he had been pushed on to a stage in the middle of a musical comedy....

Not until his introduction was over, Mrs. Alison had shown him his room--a simple sweet-smelling apartment, all pale green and white and as fresh as a daisy--and they were all four seated in a cool parlour about a hearty tea, did the feeling of unreality begin to wear off.

"There'll be just us four," said the housemaid. "The cook's a villager, and doesn't sleep in. She and her daughter, the kitchenmaid, feed together in the kitchen. They're a very nice pair, and seem to think more of us than they do of the b.u.mbles. It's really as good as a play. We pay the girl a s.h.i.+lling a week on the top of her wages, and for that she lays our table and serves our meals. I expect George has told you about the b.u.mbles. They're really two of the best."

"By the way," said Anthony, "oughtn't I to be reporting for duty?"

"Plenty of time," said Mrs. Alison. "I'll ask when I clear away tea.

They'll want to see you, just to say they hope you'll be happy more than anything else. And now do ask some questions. I'm sure there must be hundreds of things you're simply pining to know."

Anthony laughed.

"To be absolutely frank," he replied, "I'm still a little bit dizzy.

I've been on my beam ends so long that to suddenly fall on my feet, like this, is disconcerting. I've sort of lost my balance."

"Of course you have," said Alison, lighting a pipe. "Bound to. I feel rather overwrought myself. Let's go and cry in the garage."

"Don't take any notice of the fool," said his wife. "By the way, there's one thing I ought to tell you, and that is that Christian names are the order of the day. Off duty it's natural; on parade, since we three glory in the same surname, it's unavoidable. I'm known as Betty, my sister-in-law's Anne, and that with the pipe is George."

"And I," said Lyveden, "am Anthony--at your service. This with the hungry look"--he picked up the Sealyham--"is Patch. As the latter is convalescent, all his days lately have been red-letter, and celebrated by the addition to his rations of a small dish of tea. Whether such a scandalous practice is to be followed this afternoon must rest with his hostess."

"I think," said Betty, "as he's a _bonafide_ traveller..."

Jose, the soft-eyed spaniel, profited by the Sealyham's privilege. It was impossible that she should not receive equal consideration.

"You must forgive my staring," said George Alison, gazing upon Anthony, "but you just fascinate me. To think that you're not going to suck wind when drinking, or clean your nails with a fork, is too wonderful.

Your predecessor's habits at table were purely Johnsonian."

Betty shuddered at the allusion.

"If he'd been decent," said Anne, "I could have borne it. But he was just odious. The idea that we'd come down in the world fairly intoxicated him."

"It's true," said George. "And when Val wrote and----"

A vicious kick upon his ankle silenced him abruptly.

"I beg your pardon," said Anthony, who had been busy with Patch.

"I was saying that--er--if you value your dog, and he's only just over distemper, I shouldn't let him run loose just yet. Jose's a terrible huntress, and she's sure to lead him astray. Stays out all night sometimes."

"Right oh!" said Anthony cheerfully.

It was manifest that Patch was going to have the time of his life.

When Betty returned from ushering their new footman into the presence of Mr. and Mrs. b.u.mble, she reviled her husband as he deserved.

"I forgot," he pleaded.

"Forgot!"--indignantly. "Well, if you forget and mention her name again, I'll--I'll p.r.i.c.k your tires."

"Any way," said George, "my withdrawal was little short of brilliant.

You'll admit that? Incidentally, her _protege's_ an improvement on little Halbert, isn't he? I think we ought to have an appropriate supper to-night in his honour. What about killing the padded calf?"

Betty kissed him behind the left ear.

Long before Anthony had received his livery from the tailor at Brooch, he had settled down to his nice new life with heartfelt grat.i.tude. The old zest of living had returned to him to stay. It was no longer necessary to make the best of things. From labouring in the trough of oppression he had been swept into waters more smooth than any he had dreamed of riding--a veritable lagoon of security and content.

At first, so long had he been mishandled by Fortune, that, like a cur that has been accustomed to ill-treatment, he viewed her present bounty with suspicion. Had she poured for him the wine of comfort to dash the cup from his lips ere it was empty? That would be just like the jade.

He scanned the sky anxiously for a sign of the coming storm, and, finding it cloudless, saw in this calm some new miracle of treachery, and feared the worst. He was afraid, selfishly, for Mr. b.u.mble's health. The man was pink and well nourished. Anthony thought of apoplexy, and, had a medical book been available, would have sought a description of that malady's favourite prey. Mrs. b.u.mble was also well covered. Anthony hoped that her heart was sound. On these two lives hung all his happiness. He reflected that motoring was not unattended by peril, and the idea stayed with him for half a day. Had he not been ashamed, he would have laid the facts before George and besought him to drive carefully....

As the days, however, went placidly by and brought no evil, the smoking flax of his faith began to kindle, and his suspicions to wilt. His mind shook off its sickness and began to mend rapidly. Very soon it was as sound as a bell.

His temporary lapse from grace, above related, was so innocuous that it need not be counted to his discredit. His was the case of the pugilist who slipped on a piece of peel and felt unable to rise: had the place been a ring, instead of a pavement, he would have been up and dancing within ten seconds. So with Anthony--had Fortune frowned, he would have laughed in her face. It was her smile that made him cower. And, so long as she smiled, what mattered it if he cowered? Had Homer never nodded, gentlemen, till it was past his bed-time, neither you nor I would ever have heard of it.

If Betty had indeed affirmed that the housework to be done at The Shrubbery was nothing, she was guilty of hyperbole. All the same, the house was an easy one, and such labour as its upkeep entailed melted, beneath the perfectly organized attention of herself, Anne, and Lyveden, as snow beneath the midday sun. The three had more legitimate leisure than any three servants in England, and no residence in Europe was better kept. Mr. and Mrs. b.u.mble, of course, were in clover. It followed that Anthony Lyveden had much time to himself. Naturally companionable, he spent most of this with his colleagues; nevertheless, there were days when he liked to change his clothes, call Patch, and walk off into the forest with only the little dog for company. It was then that he could think of my lady....

He always a.s.sociated her with the open air. Never once did he picture her cribbed in a room. For him she was a creature of the country-side, sun-kissed, folded in the arms of the wind, with the pure red wine of Nature singing through her delicate veins.... Thinking of veins, he recalled the faint exquisite blue of those which lay pencilled upon the back of her cold little hand. He remembered the line of them perfectly.

The vein, then, gave him the hand; the hand, the arm; the arm, the shoulder. He reconstructed her piecemeal with a rare faithfulness, till by the time he was on the moorland overlooking the smiling valley, where the railroad went s.h.i.+ning away into the old world, there stood his lady beside him, complete, glorious, the freshening breeze behind her moulding her soft raiment to the shape of her beautiful limbs, her eyes s.h.i.+ning, her lips parted, one little hand touching her dark hair--just Valerie.

So for a brief second she stood by his side. Once she swayed towards him before the mirror of Imagination s.h.i.+vered, but only once. Mostly it flew to flinders almost before she was come.

Anthony hungered for a sight of the girl desperately. Had this been offered him upon the understanding that he appeared to her in livery, he would still have jumped at the chance. From this may be gauged the degree of his hunger. He was, in fact, starving.

Consequently, when one ripe September morning--all dew and mellow suns.h.i.+ne and the lowing of cows--Betty tapped a letter with a significant forefinger and announced that it contained an invitation to a quiet little dance, Anthony, amid the general enthusiasm, displayed no more interest than politeness demanded and no curiosity at all.

Betty addressed herself to him.

"It's from Lady Touchstone. I was at school with her niece. They live at Bell Hammer, a beautiful place about five miles from here. You're included, of course. I saw her last week, so she knows all about you.

It's because of her niece's birthday. Only about eight couples, she says, and no strangers."

"Except me," said Anthony.

"You won't feel strange long," said George. "Berry and Co. are sure to be there, for one thing, and they'll wrap their arms about you in about two minutes. They live at White Ladies. Some of them came to tea here the day you went over to Brooch."

"I don't think I'd better go," said Anthony. "It's very kind of Lady Touchstone, but I'm not much of a dancer, and----"

His protest was overruled uproariously.

"And he can't say he hasn't any clothes," said George, "because I've seen them."

This was true. Out of the spoliation of his wardrobe Lyveden had clung to a dress-suit, much as the orphan who lugs her carpet to the p.a.w.nshop clings pitifully to an old miniature, remembering happier days.

Anthony coloured at the allusion, and Betty came flying to his a.s.sistance.