Anthony Lyveden Part 53

Fervently Miss French prayed that it and the frantic brain might rest from their labours. She wanted desperately to think--to be mistress of her thoughts--but, so long as the voice prevailed, the impression that she was being addressed prevented her, first because it was so vivid, and then because of its importunity.

It was half an hour since Sir Willoughby Sperm's car had rolled down the curling avenue and slipped past the tall lodge-gates. If all went well, another fortnight would elapse before the great specialist saw the patient again.

The silence continuing, Valerie fell to wondering what the two weeks would bring forth. That the fever would presently abate, and the ex-officer be spared his life, seemed highly probable. In fact, Valerie steadily refused to consider that he might weaken and die.

What she was eternally asking was what would happen when the engine of the brain, at present running free, was once more engaged with the system it was used to control. Would the coupling break suddenly, and her man go an idiot for life? That she could not believe. Or would the old balance be restored, perfect as ever? There was doubt in the doctor's eyes. Was he, then, to wake stumbling upon that No Man's Land which lies between sense and idiocy? And, if so, how were his trembling steps to be guided aright? Carefully she started to weigh Sir Willoughby's words....

"What concerns me most is how to deal with his condition of mind when the fever has run its course. From what I've seen, and from what Heron has told me, I'm satisfied that it is vital that Gramarye should never again enter into his life. That park, or estate, or whatever it is, had taken such an unhealthy hold upon his imagination, that he was half-way to insanity. If Gramarye is permitted again to take the helm.... Well, the s.h.i.+p is half-way across--half-way across those narrow straits which divide reason from lunacy. We've got to take the helm and put it over just as hard as ever we can. You understand? In a word, if, for instance, Major Lyveden were to revisit Gramarye, I think the game would be up. That, of course, can't happen. But it is, in my opinion, of the highest importance, not only that no reference to the place should be made before him, but that we should do our utmost to direct his attention to other matters. We can't expunge the last four months from his memory--I wish we could. Half the asylums in England would be empty if we could do that. But we can avert our eyes from the record, and we can try to avert his."

'Try to avert his.' How? Anthony was not an infant, to be beguiled with a rattle when he cried for a blade. And if Gramarye was proposing 'again to take the helm,' who was to stop her? Had Miss French put that question to Sir Willoughby, he would have replied, "Yourself."

For that reason she had not asked him. Again and again he had insisted that, if the mischief was to be mended at all, it would be at her hand....

There were times when the thought terrified her, when the panic fear of the condemned sat in her eyes. For Valerie knew it was just. It was she who had brought a gallant gentleman to this pa.s.s--she who had smashed the exquisite wonder of melody their hearts had danced to--she who had hacked asunder the silken bridge of love and sent her lover into the arms of Gramarye.

Gramarye!

Her solitary visit to the park stood out of the girl's memory like a snow-covered peak, vivid and frozen. There was no mercy there. What was far worse, there was an unearthly appeal. Flesh and blood were one thing, but a wild mystery of woodland, the desolate grandeur of a ruined park, the majestic havoc of a proud estate--these were another matter. Looking upon her rival's face, she found it notable....

Valerie set her white teeth. That its beauty was a mask hiding some dreadful influence, made her heart faint within her....

Yet, if this fainted, it always revived. Valerie French was well-plucked. If it was ordained that she should fight with Black Magic, with Black Magic she would fight. It was her own fault.... It was typical of the girl that the fact that she had already paid very heavily never once occurred to her. She had called the tune without asking how much it would cost. That the piper's bill was so long was due to her recklessness. She did not dispute the account.

For the hundredth time she wondered what line Gramarye would take....

It seemed, mercifully, that the fell influence of the estate was not to have things all its own way. While the sick man in his delirium talked much of Gramarye, he spoke of Valerie too--frequently. For hours together, sometimes, he dwelt upon their love. As a rule, he debated with himself whether it was fair to her to let her see him again.

(Listening to these heart-searchings, Valerie's heart burned within her.) Then he would call his Sealyham and speak to him of the lady, asking if she were not wonderful and a sight for sore eyes. "When she calls you, Patch, aren't you proud of your name? And she took your head in her hands to-day. I saw her. Such sweet, pretty hands....

And you looked in her eyes, Patch, and then you licked her nose--very gently, like a good little dog...." Then, again, Anthony's life as a footman was often remembered. Mr. and Mrs. b.u.mble were gratefully discussed. The Alisons--George especially--figured constantly. Even his life in the Army was sometimes mentioned, and other older days, hard to identify.... Gramarye held a good hand--undoubtedly: but there were other cards in the pack.

The door opened noiselessly, and a fresh-faced nurse stole into the darkened room. Valerie and she exchanged whispers, and, after another glance at the silent figure upon the bed, the lady of Bell Hammer gave place to the professional and made her way slowly downstairs.

It was past three o'clock of a sullen March afternoon when Mr. Peter Every dismissed his parade.

The men turned away listlessly, hollow-eyed.

Only the little lame engineer said anything at all, and that was an inaudible communication to the three great sailors, whose hearing was gone. Gloomily the latter watched his fingers stumble over their rude translation of Every's last words....

"So there you are. Colonel Winchester's gone. Major Lyveden's too ill to ever come back. Without the authority of one of these two, not another penny can be spent on this estate. Obviously the work's got to stop. I know you don't want wages, but you've got to live.... And I've come, as Major Lyveden's friend, to tell you this before the Law steps in--as it will--and does it more bluntly.

"I know it's rough on you, and I'm devilish sorry, but it's got to be faced.... And, as I say, I'm commissioned to offer you all your pa.s.sage to Canada and fifty pounds apiece to tide you over there till you can get going.

"You chaps think it over.

"I'm staying at _The Rose_ at Girdle, and those who want to accept, report to me there to-morrow morning at ten o'clock. Then I'll tell you the details and fix everything up. Right."

Leaning against the trunk of a fallen beech, Every watched his little audience wade through the weathered fringe of bracken and turn on to the rough brown road that dipped and curled into the heart of Gramarye.

The droop of their shoulders, the heaviness of their steps, the silence in which they went, trumpeted misery. Anything, however, was better than the dull sightless stares with which the news that their work was over had been received. Every, who was no coward, had been prepared for suspicion, defiance, violence. Instead, his service of the warrant had been accepted without a word. He had no shred of authority, but not the slightest attempt had been made to call his bluff. It had been, in fact, a painful walk-over. The seven labourers seemed to expect a death-blow. When it fell, they met it with the apathy of despair. Every felt as though he were sentencing a bunch of forest ponies to the pits, and the dumb hopelessness of their demeanour plucked at his young heart-strings....

For two or three minutes after the little group had pa.s.sed out of sight the young man stood motionless. Presently his eyes wandered from the trail up a rude bank, all starred with primroses, through the dim breathless magic of a pinewood on to a peering screen of new-born leaves, pale-faced and trembling. After a moment's rest, they turned southward to where the lean brown road went paving a deep corridor, straight, silent, its black walls towering. Distance and gloom lent these a grim symmetry, suggestive of duress; above, a grey ribbon of sky issued a stony comfort, such as prisoners use.... With a s.h.i.+ver, Every turned away his head. To the north the ground fell sharply, and the cut of the road vouchsafed a glimpse of what it led to--woods, woods, woods, swelling, rising, tumbling, bolstering one another up, shouldering one another aside, some with their limbs still bare, others laced with the pale pinafore of spring, all of them dense and orderless, composite regiments of timber, where squire and skip-jack stood back to back, and the whelps of both thrust and quarrelled for a place in the bulging ranks.

Every became suddenly conscious of a silence more tense and death-like than he had ever dreamed of....

Then a wind breathed--miles away ... to the north. He could hear the breath coming, a mere whimper among the tree-tops. The whimper became a whine.... Reaching the pinewood, the note slid into a moan, that rose slowly to a thin wail as the breath fled up the corridor with the towering walls. The wail fell to a sigh....

With straining ears, the man waited for this to fade....

"Mopping up?" said a quiet voice.

Every started violently and turned right about.

Ten paces distant, within the shadow of the beechwood, was a big upstanding grey, with ears p.r.i.c.ked, vigilant. Square in the saddle sat a girl, in a habit of dark blue cloth. So dim was the light that Every could not distinguish her features, but he marked how the eyes burned out of a pale face and noted the glint of copper beneath the hard felt hat.

"Mopping up?" she repeated quietly, but this time there was a silkiness in the tone that put the man on his guard.

"That's one way of puttin' it," he said lightly. "I'm sort of windin'

up the Company."

"The Garden of Eden Limited," flashed the girl. "History repeats itself." For a moment she hesitated. Then--"Where's Adam?" she said carelessly.

"Done a bunk," said Every, with no idea of what she meant. "Are you a creditor?"

Miss Strongi'th'arm regarded him.

"Either," she said coldly, "you are a liar or else a fool."

Every stared at her speechless.... After a moment the girl shrugged her shoulders. Then a riding-boot flashed, and the grey sprang forward.

As she pulled up beside him--

"By what authority do you dismiss these men?"

Every looked up steadily into the angry eyes. Then he took off his hat.

"Forgive me," he said quietly, "but by what authority do you ask?"

For a second he thought she would strike him. The cold fury of the pale peaked face, the haughty set of the lips, the blaze of the great brown eyes, heralded violence....

Every never moved.

With a sudden movement Andre turned her head to stare into the distance. At length--

"I've lost all I had in this estate--this venture ... and a lot that--that wasn't mine," she said slowly. "Is that good enough?"

Before the weariness of her tone, Every's resentment went down with a rush.

"I'm most awfully sorry," he said gently. "I'd no idea of this. I don't think any one has. Of course, if I'd known for a moment that you were--er--interested, I shouldn't have dreamed of moving in the matter without your consent." He hesitated. Then-- "But surely you can recover something. I mean, the place can be sold, and I'm sure the solicitors would see to it that you----"

Andre gave a dry laugh.