As he walked along the embankment he reviewed the situation and conditions recently placed before him. At first sight they appeared almost amusing and absurd. The whole thing presented itself to the mind in the light of some huge joke; and yet, behind the joke, lay a curious sense of inexorableness. At first he did not in the least realize what caused this sense, he was merely oddly aware of its existence. He walked with his eyes on the river, watching a couple of slowly moving barges.

It was a still, sunny day. The trees on the embankment were in full leaf. Scarlet and yellow tulips bedecked the window-boxes in the houses on his right. An occasional group of somewhat grubby children, generally accompanied by an elder sister and a baby in a perambulator, now and again occupied a seat. A threadbare and melancholy-looking man flung pieces of bread to a horde of sea-gulls. Antony watched them screaming and whirling as they snatched at the food. They brought the Fort Salisbury to his mind. And then, in a sudden flash of illumination, he saw precisely wherein that sense of inexorableness lay. With the realization his heart stood still; and, with it, for the same brief second, his feet. The next instant he had quickened his steps, fighting out the new idea which had come to him.

It was not till he had reached his rooms, and partaken of a lunch of cold meat and salad, that he had reduced it to an entirely business-like statement. Then, in the depths of an armchair, and fortified by a pipe, he marshalled it in its somewhat crude form before his brain. Briefly, it reduced itself to the following:—

Should he refuse the conditions attached to the will, he remained in exactly the same position in which he had found himself some four or five weeks previously; namely, in the position of owner of a small farm on the African veldt, which farm brought him in an income of some two hundred a year. In that position the dream, which had dawned within his heart on the Fort Salisbury, would be impossible of fulfilment. His life and that of the Duchessa di Donatello must lie miles apart, separated both by lack of money and the ocean. If, on the other hand, he accepted the conditions, a year must elapse before he made that dream known to her; and—and here lay the meaning of that sense of inexorableness he had experienced—he could give her no explanation of the extraordinary situation in which he would find himself, a situation truly calculated to create any amount of misunderstanding. To all appearances the adventure on which he had started out had brought him to an impasse, a blind alley, from which there was no favourable issue of any kind.

"The whole thing is a deuced muddle," he announced gloomily, addressing himself to Josephus.

Josephus put his paws on Antony's knees, and licked the hand which was not holding the pipe.

"To refuse the conditions," went on Antony aloud, and still gloomily, and stroking Josephus's head, "is to bring matters to an absolute deadlock, one from which I can never by the remotest atom of chance extricate myself. To accept them—well, I don't see much better chance there. How on earth am I to explain the situation to her? How on earth will she understand the fact that I remain in England, and make no attempt to see her for a year? I can't even hint at the situation. Oh, it's preposterous! But to accept gives me the only possible faintest hope."

And then, suddenly, a memory sprang to life within his soul. He saw again a courtyard set with small round tables and orange trees in green tubs. He heard his own voice putting a question.

"What is the foundation of friendship?" it asked.

"Trust," came the reply, in the Duchessa's voice.

Yet, was her friendship strong enough to trust him in such a matter? Strong enough not to misunderstand his silence, his—his oddness in the whole business? And yet, was it not something like a confession of weakness of friendship on his own part, to question the endurance of hers? She had said they were friends. Perhaps the very test of the strength of his own friendship was to lie in his trust of the strength of hers. And, at all events, he could write her some kind of a letter, something that would tell her of his utter inability to see her, even though he might not give the smallest hint of what that inability was. At least he could let her perceive it was by no wish of his own that he stayed away.

Hope revived within his heart. On the one hand there would be temporary banishment, truly. But it would be infinitely preferable to life-long exile. A year, after all, was only a year. To him the moments might, nay would, drag on leaden feet; but to her it would be but as other years, and, ordinarily speaking, they speed by at an astonishing rate. He must look to that assurance for comfort. A little odd smile twisted his lips. What, after all, did a grey year signify to him, as long as its greyness did not touch her. And why should it? The fact of his absence could not possibly bring the same blank to her as it would to him. She might wonder a little, she might even question. But had not she herself spoken of trust?

With the memory of that one word for his encouragement, he took his resolution in both hands and made his decision.

* * * * *

Perhaps, if Antony had attempted to pen his letter to the Duchessa before making his decision, he might have hesitated regarding making it. It was, however, not till the evening before he left town to take up his new life, that he attempted to write to her. Then he discovered the extraordinary difficulty of putting into anything like coherent and convincing words the statement he had to make. He drafted at least a dozen attempts, each, to his mind, more unsatisfactory than the last. Finally he wrote as follows:

"Dear Duchessa:

"Since I said good-bye to you at Plymouth, my affairs have undergone unexpected and quite unforeseen changes. As matters stand at present, I shall be remaining in England for some time. I had hoped to see you when you returned from Scotland, but find, deeply to my regret, that I will be unable to do so, for a considerable time at all events. Need I tell you that this is a great disappointment to me? I had been looking forward to seeing you again, and now fate has taken matters out of my hands. When the time comes that I am able to see you, I will write and let you know; and perhaps, if by then you have not forgotten me, you will allow me to do so.

"I would like to thank you for your kindness and comradeship to me during the voyage. Those days will ever remain as a golden memory to me.

"Having in mind your words when we lunched together in the garden of that little hotel at Teneriffe, I dare to inscribe myself,

"Always your friend, "Antony Gray."

It was not the letter he longed to write, yet he dared not write more explicitly. Honour forbade the smallest hint at the strange position in which he found himself; diffidence held him back from writing the words his heart was crying to her. Bald and flat as he felt the letter to be, he could do no better. It must go as it stood. He headed it with the address of his present rooms, giving his landlady instructions to forward all letters to the post office at Byestry.

One letter, bearing a Scottish postmark, alone came for him after his departure. It remained for close on two months on the table of the dingy little hall. Then, fearing lest Antony's receipt of it should betray her own carelessness, Mrs. Dobbin consigned it unopened to the kitchen fire.



CHAPTER X

AN ENGLISH COTTAGE

Kingsleigh is the station for Byestry, which is eight miles from it. It is a small town, not much larger than a mere village, lying, as its name designates, on the shores of the estuary, which runs from the sea up to Kingsleigh. Chorley Old Hall stands on high wooded land, about a mile from the coast, having a view across the estuary, and out to the sea itself.

It was a grey day, with a fine mist of a rain descending, when Antony, with Josephus at his heels, stepped on to Kingsleigh platform. In the road beyond the station, a number of carts and carriages, and a couple of closed buses, were collected. The drivers of the said vehicles stood by the gate through which the passengers must pass, ready to accost those by whom they had been already ordered, or pounce upon likely fares.

"Be yue Michael Field?" demanded a short wiry man, as Antony, carrying an old portmanteau, and followed by Josephus, emerged through the gate.

For a moment Antony stared, amazed. Then he remembered.

"I am," he replied.

"That's gued," responded the man cheerfully. "'It the first nail, so to speak. T'Doctor sent I wi' t'trap. Coom along. Got any more baggage?"

Antony replied in the negative. Three minutes later he was seated in the trap, Josephus at his feet. He turned up the collar of his mackintosh, and pulled down his tweed cap over his eyes.

"Bit moist-like," said the man cheerfully, whipping up his horse.

Antony assented. He was feeling an amazing sense of amusement. The adventurous side of the affair had sprung again to the fore, after a week of business-like detail,—writing letters of instruction to Riffle to carry on with the farm till further notice, an office he was fully qualified to fulfil; making certain arrangements with Lloyd's bank regarding monies to be sent out to him; buying garments suitable for the part he himself was about to play; and having one or two further interviews with Messrs. Parsons and Glieve, in which the absolute necessity of his playing up to his role in every way was further impressed upon him.

The one difficulty that had presented itself to his mind, was his speech. He spent several half hours conversing with himself in broadest Devonshire, but finally decided that, it being the speech of the natives, he might sooner or later betray himself by some inadvertent lapse. Next he attempted a Colonial accent. James Glieve, however, being consulted on the subject, it was firmly negatived as likely to prove unpopular. In the end he fell back on a strong Irish accent. It came to him readily enough, the nurse of his childhood having hailed from the Emerald Isle. Possibly his actual phraseology would not prove all it might be, but the Devonians were not likely to be much the wiser. Anyhow Antony admired his own prowess in the tongue quite immensely.

"Sure, 'tis the foine country ye have here," quoth he presently, as, mounting a hill, they came out upon a road crossing an expanse of moorland. Gorse bushes bloomed golden against a background of grey sky and atmosphere, seen through a fine veil of rain.

"'Tis gued enuff," said the man laconically. And Antony perceived that the beauties of nature held no particular interest for him.

He looked out at the wide expanses around him. Mist covered the farther distances, but through it, afar off, he fancied he could descry the grey line of the sea. To the right the moorland gave place to a distant stone wall, beyond which was a wheat field; to the left it stretched away into the mist, through which he saw the dim shapes of trees.

The man jerked his head to the left.

"'Tis over yonder is t'old Hall. Yue'm to be under-gardener there I heerd t'Doctor say. What they'll want wi' keeping up t'gardens now I doant knoaw, and t'old Squire gone. Carried off mighty suddint 'e was. Us said as t'journey tue Lunnon ud be the death o' he. Never outside t'doors these fifteen year and more, and then one fine day Doctor takes he oop to Lunnon to see one o' they chaps un calls a speshulist. Why t'speshulist didn't come to he us can't tell. Carried on a stretcher he was from t'carriage to t'train, for all the world like a covered corpse. Next thing Doctor coom home alone, and us hears as t'old Squire be dead. I doant rightly knoaw as who 'twas was the first to tell we, for Doctor, 'e doant like talking o' the business. But there 'tis, and t'Lord only knows who'll have t'old place now, seeing as 'ow 'e never 'ad no wife to bear un a son. Us heerd as 'twould be a chap from foreign parts. 'Twas Jane Ellen from Doctor's as put that around, but us thinks her got the notion in a way her shouldn't, for her's backed out o' the sayin' o't now. Says her never said nowt o' the kind. But her did. 'Twas Jim Morris's wife her told. S'pose Mr. Curtis'll run t'show till t'heir turns oop. 'Twont make much difference to we. He's run it the last ten year and more, and run it hard, I tell 'ee that. Doant yue go for to get the wrong side o' Spencer Curtis, I warns 'ee. George Standing afore 'e worn't much to boast on, but Spencer Curtis be a fair flint."

"Will he be the agent?" demanded Antony, as the man paused.

"'Tis what 'e's called. 'Tis master he is. T'old Squire oughtn't never to have got a chap like 'e to do 'is jobs. 'Tis cast iron 'e is. And 'twasn't never no use going to Squire for to stand between him and we. 'E'd never set eyes on nobody, 'e wouldn't. If I'd my way I'd give every gentry what owns property a taste o' livin' on it same's we. 'E'd know a bit more aboot the fair runnin' o' it then."

Antony started. An idea, quick-born, presented itself before him. Was it possible, was it conceivable, that this very thought had been in the old Squire's mind when he drew up those extraordinary conditions? Antony nearly laughed aloud. Verily it was an absurdity, though one that Nicholas Danver most assuredly could not have guessed. Yet that he—Antony—should require a further year's enlightenment as to the shifts to which the poor were put to make both ends meet, as to the iron hand of agents and over-seers! Truly it was laughable!

He'd had experience enough and to spare,—he smiled grimly to himself,—experience such as an English farm-labourer earning a pound a week, even with a wife and children to keep, and all odds against him, could never in the remotest degree aided by the wildest flights of imagination, conceive. In England water at least is always obtainable. Antony had visions of the jealous husbanding of a few drops of hot moisture in a sunbaked leather bottle. In England the law at least protects you from bodily ill-treatment at the hands of agent or overseer. Antony had visions—But he dismissed them. There was a chapter or two in his life which it was not good to recall.

They were descending now, driving between the high banks and hedges of a true Devonshire lane. Primroses starred the banks, though in less profusion than they had been a fortnight earlier; bluebells and pink campion grew among them, and the feathery blossom of the cow-parsley. Turning to the left at the foot of the lane, the hedge on the right was lower. Over it, and across an expanse of sloping fields dotted here and there with snow-white hawthorn bushes, Antony saw the roofs of houses and cottages, and, beyond them, the sea. It lay grey and tranquil under an equally grey sky. A solitary fishing smack, red-sailed, made a note of colour in the neutral atmosphere of sea and sky. To the right was a gorse-crowned cliff; to the left, and across the estuary, a headland ran far out into the water.

"Byestry," said the man, nodding in the direction of the roofs. "Us doant go down into t'place. Yue'm to have Widow Jenkins's cottage, her as died back tue Christmas. 'Tis a quarter o'mile or so from t'town, and 'twill be that mooch nearer t'old Hall. Yue see yon chimbleys by they three elms yonder? 'Tis Doctor's house. Yue'm tue go there this evenin' aboot seven o'clock 'e bid me tell 'ee. Where was yue working tue last?"

The question came abruptly. For one brief second Antony was non-plussed. Then he recovered himself.

"'Tis London I've just come from," he replied airily enough. "I've been doing a bit on my own account lately."

"Hmm," replied the man. "I reckon if I'd been workin' my own jobs, I'd not take an under post in a hurry. But yue knoaws your own business best. T'last chap as was underest gardener oop tue t'Hall got took on by folks living over Exeter way. He boarded wi' t'blacksmith and his wife. Maybe yue'm a married man?"

"I am not," said Antony smiling.

"Not got a maid at all?" queried the other.

Antony shook his head.

The man opened his eyes. "Lord love 'ee, what do un want wi' a cottage, then! Yue'd best be takin' oop wi' a wife. There's a sight of vitty maids tue Byestry, and 'tis lonesome like comin' home to an empty hearth and no supper. There's Rose Darell, her's a gued maid, and has a bit o' money; or Jenny Horswell, her's a bit o' a squint, but is a fair vitty maid tue t'cleanin'; or Vicky Mathers, her's as pretty as a picter, but her's not the money nor the house ways o' Rose or Jenny," he ended with thoughtful consideration.

Antony laughed, despite the fact that inwardly he was not a trifle dismayed. He had no mind to have the belles of Byestry thus paraded for his choice. Work, he had accepted with the conditions, but a wife was a very different matter.

"Sure, I'm not a marryin' man at all, I am not," he responded, a hypocritical sigh succeeding to the laugh.

"Crossed?" queried the man. "Ah, well, doan't 'ee go for to get down on your luck for one maid. There's as gued blackberries hangin' on t'bushes as ever was plucked from them. And yue'm tue young a chap tue be thinkin' o' yuerself as a sallybat, and so I tells 'ee."

Antony smothered a spasm of laughter.

"It's not women folk I'm wanting in my life," responded he, still with hypocritical gloom.

"Tis kittle cattle they be, and that's sartain, sure," replied the other, shaking his head. "But 'twas a rib out o' the side o' Adam the first woman was, so t'Scripture do tell we, and I reckon us men folk do feel the lack o' that rib nowadays, till us gets us a wife."

Antony was spared an answer, a fact for which he sent up devout thanks. They had made another leftward turn by now, and come upon a cottage set a little way back from the road,—a cottage with a wicket gate between two hedges, and a flagged path leading up to a small porch, thatched, as was the cottage.

"Here us be," said the man.

Antony's heart gave a sudden big throb of pleasure. The little place was so extraordinarily English, so primitive and quaint. True, the garden was a bit dilapidated looking, the apple trees in the tiny orchard to the left of the cottage quite amazingly old and lichen grown; but it spelled England for him, and that more emphatically than any other thing had done since his arrival in the Old Country.

Antony dismounted from the trap, then lifted Josephus and his bag to the ground. This done, he began to feel in his pocket for some coins. The man saw the movement.

"That bain't for yue," he replied shortly, "t' Doctor will settle wi' I."

And Antony withdrew his hand quickly, feeling he had been on the verge of a lapse.

"Here's t'key," remarked the man. "And if yue feel like a pipe one o' these evenin's, yue might coom down tue t'village. My place is over opposite t'post office. I be t'saddler. Yue'll see t'name Allbut George over t'shop."

Antony thanked Mr. Albert George, and then watched the patriotically named gentleman turn his horse, and drive off in the direction of the coast. When the trap had vanished from sight, he heaved a sigh of relief.

"Josephus," he remarked, "it will need careful practice and wary walking, but I fancy I did pretty well." And then he opened the garden gate.

He walked up the little path, and fitted the key with which Allbut George had provided him, into the lock. He turned it, and pushed open the door. It gave at once into a small but cheerful room, brick-floored, with a big fireplace at one side. An oak settle stood by the fireplace; a low seat, covered with a somewhat faded dimity, was before the window; there was a basket-chair, two wooden chairs, a round table, a dresser with some highly coloured earthenware crockery on it, a corner cupboard, and a grandfather's clock. There was a door behind the settle to the right of the fireplace, and, in the opposite corner, stairs leading to a room or rooms above.

Antony put his bag down on the table and went to investigate the door. It led into a tiny scullery or kitchen, provided solely with a small range, a deal table, a chair, a sink, and a pump. In one corner was a box containing some pieces of wood. In another corner was a galvanized bucket, a broom, and a scrubbing-brush. He glanced around, then came back into the sitting-room, and made his way to the stairs.

They led direct into a bedroom, a place furnished with a camp bed covered with a red and brown striped blanket; a small, somewhat rickety oak chest of drawers, a rush-bottomed chair, a small table, a corner washstand, and a curtain, which hid pegs driven into the wall. A door led into a small inner room over the kitchen scullery. Antony opened the door. The room was empty. Widow Jenkins had had no use for it, it would appear. Or, so Antony suddenly thought, perhaps all Widow Jenkins's furniture had been removed, and what at present occupied the place had been put there solely on his account.

He crossed to the window, and pushed it back. It looked on to a tiny vegetable garden, in much the same state of neglect as the front garden, and was separated from a field yellow with buttercups by a low hawthorn hedge. Beyond the field was a tiny brook; and, beyond that again, a copse. There was not a sound to break the silence, save the dripping of the rain from the roof of the cottage, and, in the distance, the low sighing note of the sea. The silence was emphasized by the fact that for the last week Antony had had the hum of traffic in his ears, and had but this moment come from the noise of trains and the rattle of a shaky dog-cart.

He still leaned there looking out. It was even more silent than the veldt. There were no little strange animal noises to break the silence. Nothing but that drip, drip of the rain, and that soft distant sighing of the sea.

A curious sense of loneliness fell upon him, a loneliness altogether at variance with the loneliness of the veldt. He could not have defined wherein the difference lay, yet he was well aware that there was a difference. It was one of those subtle differences, exceedingly apparent to the inner consciousness, yet entirely impossible to translate into terms of speech. The nearest approach he could get to anything like a definition of it, was that it was less big, but more definitely poignant. Beyond that he did not, or could not, go. For some five minutes or so he leant at the little casement window, gazing at the gold of the buttercups seen through a blurred mist of rain. Then he pulled the window to, and came down into the parlour.

The hands of the grandfather's clock pointed to ten minutes to five. Antony, remembering the box of wood in the scullery, bethought himself of a cup of tea. His bag contained all the requirements. Long practice had taught him to provide himself with necessities, and also, on occasions, to substitute lemon for milk, as a complement to tea.

He was just about to go and fetch a handful of sticks, preparatory to lighting a fire, when he heard the click of his garden gate. Turning, and looking through the window, he saw a big man coming up the path.



CHAPTER XI

DOUBTS

Doctor Hilary was returning from his rounds. His state of mind was nearly as grey as the atmosphere.

It is one thing to agree to a mad-brained scheme in the first amused interest of its propounding, even to mould it further, and bring it into shape. It is quite another to be actually confronted with the finished scheme, to realize that, though you may not be its veritable parent, you have at all events foster-fathered it quite considerably, and that, moreover, you cannot now, in conscience, cast off responsibility in its behalf.

The fact that you had excellent reasons for adopting the scheme in the first place, will doubtless be of comfort to your soul, but that particular species of comfort and ordinary everyday common sense are not always as closely united as you might desire. In fact they are occasionally apt to pull in entirely opposite directions, a method of procedure which is far from consoling.

Doctor Hilary found it far from consoling.

Conscience told him quite plainly that his real and innermost reason for foster-fathering the scheme was simply and solely for the sake of snatching at any mortal thing that would, or could, bring interest into an old man's life. Common sense demanded why on earth he had not suggested an alternative idea, something a trifle less mad. And it was mad. There did not now appear one single reasonable point in it, though very assuredly there were quite a vast number of unreasonable ones.

In the first place, and it seemed to him nearly, if not quite, the most unreasonable point, Nicholas had known nothing whatever about the young man he had elected to make his heir,—nothing, that is, beyond the fact that he had known the young man's father, and had once seen Antony himself when Antony was a child. There had even been very considerable difficulty in obtaining knowledge of his whereabouts.

In the second place, it appeared quite absurd to appoint the young man to the position of under-gardener at the Hall. It was more than probable that he knew nothing whatever about gardening. It was true that, if he did not, he could learn. But then Golding, the head gardener, might not unreasonably find matter for amazement and comment in the fact that a young and ignorant man, who was paid a pound a week and allowed to rent a furnished cottage, should be thrust upon him, rather than an experienced man, or an ignorant boy who would have received at the most eight shillings a week, and have lived at his own home. Amazement and comment were to be avoided, that had been Nicholas's idea, and yet, to Doctor Hilary's mind they ran the risk of being courted from the outset. In the third place, how was it likely that a man of education—and it had been ascertained that Antony was a university man—could comport himself like a labourer in any position,—gardener, farm-hand, or chauffeur? The conditions had stated that he was to do so. But could he? There was the point.

The more Doctor Hilary thought about the conditions, the madder they appeared to him. Yet, having undertaken the job of carrying the mad scheme through, he could not possibly back out at the eleventh hour. He could only hope for the best, but it must be confessed that he was not exceedingly optimistic about that best. And further, he was not exceedingly optimistic about the young man. He could imagine himself, in a like situation, consigning Nick and his conditions to the nether regions; certainly not submitting meekly to a year's effacement of his personality for the sake of money. Such conditions would have enraged him.

No; he was not optimistic regarding the man. He pictured him as either a bit of a fawner, who would cringe through the year, or a keen-headed business man, who would go through it with a steel-trap mouth, and an eye to every weakness in his fellow-workers. Certainly neither type he pictured appealed to him. Yet he felt confident he would find one of the two, and had already conceived a strong prejudice against Antony Gray. From which regrettable fact it will be seen that he was committing the sin of rash judgment.

It was not altogether surprising, therefore, that his mood was nearly as grey as the atmosphere.

He sighed heavily, and shook his head, somewhat after the fashion of a big dog. Reasons, partly mental, partly physical were responsible for the shake. In the first place it was an attempt to dispel mental depression; in the second place it was to free his eyebrows and eyelashes from the rain drops clinging to them, since the rain was descending in a grey misty veil.

With the shake, an idea struck him.

Why not confront the embodied scheme at once? Why not interview this preposterous young man without delay, and be done with it?

He gave a brief direction to his coachman.

Five minutes later saw him standing at the gate of Copse Cottage, his dog-cart driving away down the lane. It had been his own doing. He had said he would walk home. An idiotic idea! What on earth had suggested it to him?

However, it was done now.

He pushed open the gate, and walked up the little flagged path.



CHAPTER XII

CONCERNING MICHAEL FIELD

Antony, having seen a figure approaching the door, opened it, and confronted a big, rugged-faced man, who looked at him somewhat grimly.

"Michael Field?" demanded the big man briefly.

"Sure, 'tis my name," he replied cheerfully. "You'll be Doctor Hilary, I'm thinking. Won't you be coming in out of the wet." He flung wide the door on the words.

"George found you all right?" queried Doctor Hilary stepping across the threshold. He appeared totally oblivious of the fact that Antony's presence made the success of George's search fairly obvious.

"He did that," returned Antony pushing forward a chair, but making no attempt to sit down himself. The impulse had been upon him. Memory had awakened just in time.

Doctor Hilary was silent. The reality was so entirely different from his preconceived notions. The cheerful, clean-shaven young man, with the Irish accent, standing before him in an attitude of quite respectful, but not in the least subservient attention, was at such complete variance with either of his two imaginary types, that he found his attitude of grimness insensibly relaxing.

"Did George speak to you regarding your work?" he demanded suddenly. He couldn't for the life of him, think of anything else to say.

"Well," returned Antony thoughtfully considering, "he asked me about my last place, and I told him I'd been working on my own account. Thereupon he expressed surprise that I should now be taking an under post, but remarked with vast wisdom that every man knew his own business best."

"Hmm," said Doctor Hilary.

"He also," continued Antony, his eyes twinkling, "was for giving me advice on matrimony, and mentioned three 'vitty maids' he could produce for my inspection. I told him," continued Antony solemnly, though his eyes were still twinkling, "that I was not a marrying man at all."

Doctor Hilary found the twinkle in Antony's eyes gaining response in his own. He was such a remarkably cheerful young man, and so confiding.

"Hmm," he remarked again. "He said nothing else I suppose? Expressed no surprise at your being chosen for the post, instead of a local man?"

"He did not," responded Antony, replying to the last question. "It would seem that he thought any appointment to the post unnecessary, in view of the fact that the Hall was at present untenanted."

"And you replied—?" asked Doctor Hilary.

"Sure, I had no opinion to offer," said Antony. "It was not my affair at all. He talked, but I said little."

"A good principle," remarked Doctor Hilary approvingly, "and one I should advise you to adhere to. Your accent is all right, but your—your speech is a trifle fluent, if I may make the suggestion."

Antony laughed pleasantly. He was now made sure of the fact of which he had been already tolerably certain, namely, that this big, rugged-faced man was fully aware of the conditions of the will, and his own identity.

"Sure, 'tis we Irish have the gift o' the gab," he returned apologetically, "but I'll be remembering your advice."

There was a little silence. It was broken by Antony.

"I was for making a cup of tea when you came up the path, sor. Will you be having one with me? It'll not take beyont ten minutes or so to get a fire going, and the water boiling. That is, if you'll be doing me the honour, sor," he concluded gravely.

Doctor Hilary laughed outright.

He watched Antony disappear into the scullery, to reappear with a bundle of sticks and a log. He watched him kneeling by the fire, manipulating them deftly. He watched him fill a kettle with water, and put it on the fire, set cups on the table, then open his bag, and produce bread, butter, a packet of tea, and a lemon.

It was extraordinary what an alteration his sentiments had undergone since entering Copse Cottage. Every trace of prejudice had vanished. There was, in his mind, something pathetic in the skill, evidently born of long practice, with which this tall lean man made his preparations for the little meal.

From watching the man, Doctor Hilary turned his attention to the room. It was fairly comfortable, at all events, if not in the least luxurious. But the inevitable loneliness of the life that would be led within its walls, struck him with a curious forcefulness.

"Do you know anything of gardening?" he demanded suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Sure, it's little I don't know," returned Antony. "'Twas a bit of wild earth my garden was before I took it in hand. Now there's peach trees, and nectarines, and plum trees in it, and all the vegetables any man could be wanting, and flowers fit for a queen's drawing-room. There's roses as big as your fist. Oh, 'tis a fine garden it is out on—" he broke off, "out beyont," he concluded.

"On the veldt," suggested Doctor Hilary quietly.

"'Twas the veldt I was after meaning," responded Antony smiling, "but I thought 'twould be as well to get my tongue used to forgetting the sound of the word, lest it should slip out some fine day, when I wasn't meaning it to at all."

"Wise, anyhow," agreed Doctor Hilary, and he too smiled. "But you understand that I—well, I happen to know all the circumstances of this arrangement."

Antony laughed. "I was thinking as much," he confessed.

"I wonder—" began Doctor Hilary. And then he stopped. He had been about to wonder aloud as to why on earth Antony should have accepted the conditions, why he should have exchanged the freedom and untrammelled spaces of the veldt for the conventional life of England, even with the Hall and a goodly income, at the end of the year, to the balance. He knew most assuredly that nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand would have done so, and he knew that he himself was the thousandth who would not. His exceedingly brief acquaintance with Antony had given him the impression that he, also, was a thousandth man.

"You wonder—?" queried Antony.

"I wonder how you'll like the life," said Doctor Hilary, though it was not precisely what he had originally intended to say.

"'Tis England," said Antony briefly.

"Is that your sole reason for accepting the life?" asked Doctor Hilary curiously.

Antony looked him full in the eyes.

"It is not," he replied smiling. And then he turned to the kettle, which was on the point of boiling over.

Of course it was a rebuff. But it was a perfectly polite one. And oddly—or, perhaps, not oddly—Doctor Hilary did not resent it in the least. On the contrary, he respected the man who had administered it.

"There's no milk," said Antony presently, pouring tea into two cups. "Can you be putting up with a lemon?"

"I like it," Doctor Hilary assured him.

After the meal they smoked together, making remarks now and again, interspersed with little odd silences, which, however, appeared quite natural and friendly. Josephus, who at the outset had viewed the entry of the big man on the scene with something akin to disapproval, now walked solemnly over to him, stood on his hind legs, and put his fore paws on Doctor Hilary's knees.

"A token of approval," said Antony.

And then another of the odd little silences fell.

"You will report yourself to Golding at half-past seven on Monday morning," said Doctor Hilary some quarter of an hour later, as he rose to take his leave. "He lives at the lodge about five minutes' walk up the road. You'll find the place all right. You will take all instructions as to your work from him. If you should wish to see me personally at any time regarding anything, you will usually find me at home in the evening."

Antony touched his forehead in the most approved style.

"I thank you, sor," he responded.

Doctor Hilary smiled. "Well, good luck to you. It will be better—of course, from now onward, we must remember that you are Michael Field, under-gardener at the Hall."

"'Tis a good name," said Antony solemnly. "Sure, I'm downright obliged to me godfathers and godmothers for giving me such a one."

Again Doctor Hilary smiled. "Oh, and by the way," he said, "how about money."

Antony felt in his pockets. He produced two florins, a sixpence, and a halfpenny. He looked at them lying in the palm of his hand. Then he looked whimsically at the Doctor.

"I don't know whether the possession of these coins breaks the spirit of the contract. I'm thinking 'twill hardly break the letter. 'Tis all I have."

The Doctor laughed.

"I fancy not," he replied. "I'd better give you your first week's wage in advance. You'll need to lay in provisions. There's a general store in Byestry. Perhaps you'll want to do a little in the purchasing line. Remember, to-morrow is Sunday."

He laid a sovereign on the table, and a moment later the garden gate clicked to behind him.

Antony went back into the little parlour.



CHAPTER XIII

A DISCOVERY

The morning broke as fair, as blue-skied, as sunny, as the previous day had been gloomy, grey-skied, and wet.

The song of a golden-throated lark was the first sound that Antony heard, as he woke to find the early morning sunshine pouring through the open casement window. He lay very still, listening to the flood of liquid notes, and looking at the square of blue sky, seen through the window. Now and again an ivy leaf tapped gently at the pane, stirred by a little breeze blowing from the sea, and sweeping softly across buttercupped meadow and gorse-grown moorland. Once a flight of rooks passed across the square blue patch, and once a pigeon lighted for an instant on the windowsill, to fly off again on swift, strong wings.

He lay there, drowsily content. For that day at least, there was a pleasant idleness ahead of him, nothing but his own wants to attend to. The morrow would see him armed with spade and rake, probably wrestling with weeds, digging deep in the good brown earth, possibly mowing the grass, and such like jobs as fall to the lot of an under-gardener. Antony smiled to himself. Well, it would all come in the day's work, and the day's work would be no novel master to him. The open air, whether under cloud or sunshine, was good. After all, his lot for the year would not be such a bad one. He was in the mood to echo the praises of that brown-feathered morsel pouring forth its lauds somewhere aloft in the blue. Suddenly the song ceased. The bird had come to earth.

For a moment or so longer Antony lay very still, listening to the silence. Then he flung back the bed-clothes, went to the window, and looked out.

He looked across the tiny garden, and the lane, to a wild-rose hedge; fragile pink blossoms swayed gently in the breeze. Beyond the hedge was a field of close-cropped grass, dotted here and there with sheep. To the left a turn in the lane, and the high banks and hedges, shut further view from sight. To the right, and far below the cottage, across meadows and the hidden village of Byestry, lay the sea.

It lay blue and sparkling, flecked with a myriad moving specks of gold, as the sunshine fell on the dancing water. He had seen it at close quarters last night, from the little quay, seen it smooth and grey, its breast heaving now and then as if in gentle sleep. To-day it was awake, alive, and buoyant. He must get down to it again. It was inviting him, smiling, dimpling, alluring.

He made a quick but exceedingly careful toilet. Antony was fastidious to a degree in the matter of cleanliness. Earth dirt he had no objection to; slovenly dirt was as abhorrent to him as vice.

Josephus, who had slept in the parlour, accorded him a hearty welcome on his descent of the narrow steep little stairs, intimating that he was every whit as ready to be up and doing as was his master. The sunshine, the blithesomeness of the morning was infectious. You felt yourself smiling in accord with its smiles.

Antony flung wide the cottage door. A scent of rosemary, southernwood, and verbena was wafted to him from the little garden,—clean, old-fashioned scents, English in their very essence. Anon he had more commonplace scents mingling with them,—the appetizing smell of fried sausages, the aromatic odour of freshly made coffee. Josephus found himself in two minds as to the respective merits of the attractions without, and the alluring odours within. Finally, after one scamper round the garden, he compromised by seating himself on the doorstep, for the most part facing the sunshine, but now and again turning a wet black nose in the direction of the breakfast table and frying-pan.

An hour or so later he was giving himself wholeheartedly to the grassy and rabbitty scents dear to a doggy soul, as he scampered in the direction of Byestry with his master. Occasionally he made side tracks into hedges and down rabbit holes, whence at a whistle from Antony, he would emerge innocent in expression, but utterly condemned by traces of red earth on his black nose and white back.

There was a lazy Sundayish atmosphere about the village as Antony passed through it, with Josephus now at his heels. Men lounged by cottage doors, women gossiped across garden fences. The only beings with an object in view appeared to be children,—crimp-haired little girls, and stiffly-suited small boys, who walked in chattering groups in the direction of a building he rightly judged to be a Sunday-school.

A little farther on, a priest was standing by the door of a small barn-like-looking place with a cross at one end. Antony vaguely supposed it to be a church, and thought, also vaguely, that it was the oddest-looking one he had ever seen. He concluded that Byestry was too small to boast a larger edifice.

On reaching the quay he turned to the right, walking along a cobbled pavement, which presently sloped down to the beach and a narrow stretch of firm smooth sand, bordered by brown rocks and the sea on one side, and a towering cliff on the other. The tide was going down, leaving the brown rocks uncovered. Among them were small crystal pools, reflecting the blue of the sky as in a mirror. Sea spleenwort and masses of samphire grew on the cliffs to his right. No danger here to the would-be samphire gatherer; it could be plucked from the safety of solid earth, with as great ease as picking up shells from the beach.

After some half hour's walking, Antony turned a corner, bringing him to a yet lonelier beach. Looking back, he found Byestry shut from his view,—the cliffs behind him, the sea before him, the sky above him, stretches of sand around him, and himself alone, save for Josephus, and sea-gulls which dipped to the water or circled in the blue, and jackdaws which cried harshly from the cliffs.

He sat down on the sand, and began to fill his pipe. It was extraordinarily lonely, extraordinarily peaceful. There was no sinister note in the loneliness such as he had experienced in the vast spaces of the African veldt, but a reposefulness, a quiet rest which appealed to him. The very blueness of the sky and sparkle of the sunshine was tender after the brazen glitter of the African sun. Turning to look behind him, he saw that here the cliff was grass-covered, sloping almost to the beach, and among the grass, hiding its green, were countless bluebells, a sheet of shimmering colour. Two lines of Tennyson's came suddenly into his mind.

And the whole isle side flashing down with never a tree Swept like a torrent of gems from the sky to the blue of the sea.

The island of flowers and the island of silence in one, he felt the place to be, and no fear of fighting, with himself as sole inhabitant. So might the islands have been after Maeldune had renounced his purpose of revenge, after he had returned from the isle of the saint who had spoken words of peace.

He lost count of time. A pleasant waking drowsiness fell upon him, till at length, seeing that the sun had reached its zenith, he realized that it must be noon, and began to consider the advisability of retracing his steps.

He got to his feet, whistling to a white speck in the distance, which he rightly judged to be Josephus, and set out on his homeward route.

* * * * *

The village appeared deserted, as he once more reached it. Doubtless the Sunday dinner, which accounts so largely for Sunday sleepiness, was in progress.

Coming to the small barn-like-looking building which he had noticed earlier in the morning, and seeing that the door was open, he looked in. The air was heavy with the scent of incense. It needed only a moment's observation to tell him that he was in a Catholic church. A curtained tabernacle stood on the little altar, before which hung a ruby lamp. The building was too small to allow of two altars, but at one side was a statue of Our Lady, the base surrounded with flowers, since it was the month of May. Near the porch was a statue of St. Peter.

Antony looked curiously around. It was the third time only that he had entered a Catholic church, the second time being at Teneriffe with the Duchessa. Ordering Josephus to stay without, he walked up the little aisle, and sat down in one of the rush-seated chairs near the sanctuary. He hadn't a notion what prompted the impulse, but he knew that some impulse was at work.

He looked towards the sanctuary. Mass had been said not long since, and the chalice covered with the veil and burse was still on the altar. Antony hadn't a notion of even the first principles of the Catholic faith, not as much as the smallest Catholic child; but he felt here, in a measure, the same sense of home as he knew the Duchessa to have felt in the church at Teneriffe. Oddly enough he did not feel himself the least an intruder. There was almost a sense of welcome.

From looking at the altar he looked at the chairs, and the small oblong pieces of pasteboard fastened to their backs. He looked down at the piece which denoted the owner of the chair in which he was sitting. And then he found himself staring at it, while his heart leaped and thumped madly. On the pasteboard four words were written,—The Duchessa di Donatello.

He gazed at the words hardly able to believe the sight of his own eyes. What odd coincidence, what odd impulse had brought him to her very chair? It was extraordinary, unbelievable almost. And then another thought flashed into his brain, making his heart stand still.

A door to the left opened, and a priest came out. He looked momentarily at Antony, then went into the sanctuary, genuflected, took the covered chalice from the altar, genuflected again, and went back into the sacristy, leaving the door partly open.

Antony got suddenly to his feet. He went towards the sacristy. The priest, hearing the sound of steps, opened the door wide.

"Excuse me," said Antony, "but can you tell me where Woodleigh is?" His Irish brogue was forgotten.

"Certainly," replied the priest. "It is about two miles from here, inland." He looked rather curiously at the man, who, though labourer by his dress, yet spoke in an obviously refined voice. He waited, perhaps expecting some further question.

"That was all I wanted to know," said Antony. "Thank you." He turned back into the church.

Father Dormer looked after him. There was a puzzled look in his eye.

Antony came out of the church and into the sunlight. He called to Josephus, who was busy with the investigation of a distant smithy, and turned up the street, walking rather quickly.



CHAPTER XIV

HONOR VINCIT

His brain was working rapidly, the while he felt a curious leaden sensation at his heart. He had never even contemplated the possibility of the Duchessa living in the neighbourhood, though he now marvelled why he had never happened to question her as to the exact locality of Woodleigh.

Of course he knew, and assured himself that he knew, that the chances were all against any probability of their meeting. How was it likely they should meet, seeing that she was a grande dame, and he merely an under-gardener at the Hall? Of course it was not probable. Nevertheless there was just the faintest chance. He couldn't deny that remote chance. And if they did meet, and she should recognize him?—There was the question.

Explanation would be impossible in view of his promise. And what would she think? Wouldn't it be conceivable, nay, wouldn't it be natural that she should be indignant at the thought that she had admitted to her friendship a man, who, to her eyes, would appear one of inferior birth? Wouldn't his behaviour on the Fort Salisbury appear to her in the light of a fraud? Wouldn't his letter appear to her as a piece of preposterous presumption on his part? How could it be expected that she should see beneath the surface of things as they seemed to be, and solve the riddle of appearances? It was such an inconceivable situation, such an altogether unheard of situation, laughable too, if it weren't for the vague possibility of the—to him—tragedy he now saw involved in it. It was this, this vague sense of tragedy, that was causing that leaden sensation at his heart.

He tried to tell himself that he was being morbid, that he ran no possible risk of coming face to face with the Duchessa, in spite of the fact that the Manor House Woodleigh lay but two miles distant. But the assurances he heaped upon his soul, went a remarkably small way towards cheering it.

And yet, through the leadenness upon his soul, through that vague, almost indefinable sense of tragedy at hand, ran a curious little note of exultation. Though he had no smallest desire for her to set eyes on him, might not he set eyes on her? And yet, if he did, would the joy in the sight be worth the dull ache, the horrible sense of isolation in the knowledge that word with her was forbidden.

He realized now, for the first time in its fullest measure, what her advent into his life meant to him. Bodily separation for a year had been possible to contemplate. Even should it extend to a lifetime, he would still have three golden weeks of memory to his comfort. But should mental separation fall upon him, should it ever be his lot to read anger in her eyes, he felt that his very soul would die. Even memory would be lost to him, by reason of the unbearable pain it would hold. And then, with the characteristics of a man accustomed to face possibilities, to confront contingencies and emergencies beforehand, he saw himself face to face with a temptation. Should the emergency he contemplated arise, was there not a simple solution of it? She was quick-witted, she might quite conceivably guess at the existence of some riddle. Would not the tiniest hint suffice for her? The merest possible inflection of his voice?

* * * * *

He had reached his cottage by now. He went in and shut the door.

He sat down on the oak settle, staring at the little casement window opposite to him, without seeing it. It appeared to him that there were voices talking within his brain or soul,—he didn't know which,—while he himself was answering one of them—the loudest.

The loudest voice spoke quite cheerfully, and was full of common sense. It urged him to abandon the consideration of the whole matter for the present; it told him that the probability of his meeting the Duchessa was so extraordinarily remote, that it was not worth while torturing his mind with considerations of what line of action he would take should the emergency arise. Should it do so, he could act then as his conscience prompted.

He found himself replying to this voice, speaking almost stubbornly. He had got to fight the matter out now, he declared. He had got to decide absolutely definitely what course of action he intended to pursue, should the emergency he feared arise. He was not going to leave matters to chance and be surprised into saying or doing something he might either way afterwards regret. He knew the danger of not making up his mind beforehand. To which the loud voice responded with something like a sneer, telling him to have it his own way. And then it remained mockingly silent, while another and more insidious voice began to speak.

The insidious voice told him quite gently that this emergency might indeed arise; it pointed out to him the quite conceivable events that might occur from it; it assured him that it had no possible desire that he should break his promise in any way. He was not to dream of giving any explanation to the Duchessa, but that he would owe it to himself, and to her, to give her the faintest hint that at a future date he could give her an explanation. That was all. There would be no breaking of his promise. She could not possibly even guess at what that explanation might be. She would merely realize that something underlay the present appearances.

The proposition sounded perfectly reasonable, perfectly just. His own common sense told him that there could be no harm in it. It was the rightful solution of the difficulty, arrived at by silencing that first loud voice,—the voice which had clearly wished him to abandon all consideration of the matter, that he might be surprised into giving a full explanation of the situation.

Antony drew a long breath of relief.

After all, he had been torturing himself needlessly. She herself had spoken of trust. Should that trust totter for an instant, would not the faintest possible hint be sufficient to re-establish it on a firm basis?

With the thought, the little square of casement window came back once more to his vision. He saw through it an old-fashioned rose bush of crimson roses in the garden; he heard a bird twitter, and call to its mate. The abnormal had vanished, reduced itself once more to plain wholesome common sense. And then suddenly, and without warning, a sentence flashed through his brain.

* * * * *

Antony sat up, clenching his hands furiously between his knees. It was absurd, preposterous. There was no smallest occasion to take those words in such a desperately literal sense.

"In short, he will do all in his power to give the impression that he is simply and solely Michael Field, working-man, and under-gardener at Chorley Old Hall."

The words rang as clearly in his brain as if there were someone in the room speaking them aloud. Once more the window vanished. There were no voices speaking now; there was only a curious and rather horrible silence, in which there was no need for voices.

The faintest little whine from Josephus aroused him. It was long past the dinner hour, and racing the sands is exceedingly hungry work.

Antony's eyes came back from the window. His face was rather white, and his mouth set in a straight line. But there was an oddly triumphant look in his eyes.

"I think a meal will do us both good, old man," he said with a little whimsical smile. And he began getting down plates from the dresser.



CHAPTER XV

IN THE GARDEN

Some fifteen or more years ago, the gardens of Chorley Old Hall were famous for their beauty. They still deserved to be famous, and the reason that they were so no longer, arose merely from the fact that they had become unknown, had sunk into obscurity, since no one but the actual inmates of the Hall, Doctor Hilary, and the gardeners themselves ever set eyes on them.

Yet Golding, being an artist at heart, cared for them for pure love of the work, rather than for any kudos such care might bring him. Had he read poetry with as great diligence as he read works on horticulture, he would possibly have declared his doctrine to be found in the words:—

Work thou for pleasure, paint, or sing or carve The thing thou lovest, though the body starve. Who works for glory misses oft the goal, Who works for money coins his very soul. Work for the work's sake, and it may be That these things shall be added unto thee.

Certain it is that the gardens under his care were as beautiful as gardens may be. Where trimness was desirable, they were as neat, as well-ordered, as stately as some old-world lady; where nature was allowed fuller sway, they luxuriated in a very riot of mad colour,—pagan, bacchanalian almost, yet in completest harmony, despite the freedom permitted.

Before the house, beyond a rose-embowered terrace, a wide lawn, soft as thickest velvet, terminated in two great yews, set far apart, a sundial between them, and backgrounded by the sea and sky. To right and left were flower borders brilliant in colour, against yew hedges. Still farther to the right was the Tangle Garden, where climbing roses, honeysuckle, and clematis roamed over pergolas and old tree stumps at their own sweet will and fancy. Beyond the yew hedge on the left was another garden of yews, and firs, and hollies. A long avenue ran its full length while white marble statues, set on either side, gleamed among the darkness of the trees. The end of the avenue formed a frame for an expanse of billowing moorland, range upon range of hills, melting from purple into pale lavender against the distant sky.

Behind the house was another and smaller lawn, broken in the middle by a great marble basin filled with crystal water, whereon rested the smooth flat leaves of water-lilies, and, in their time, the big white blossoms of the chalice-like flowers themselves. A little fountain sprang from the marble basin, making melodious music as the ascending silver stream fell back once more towards its source. Fantailed pigeons preened themselves on the edge of the basin, and peacocks strutted the velvet grass, spreading gorgeous tails of waking eyes to the sun. Beyond the lawn, and separated from it by an old box hedge, was an orchard, where, in the early spring, masses of daffodils danced among the rough grass, and where, later, the trees were covered with a sheet of snowy blossoms—pear, cherry, plum, and apple. A mellow brick wall enclosed the orchard, a wall beautified by small green ferns, by pink and red valerian, and yellow toadflax. Behind the wall lay the kitchen gardens and glass houses, which ended in another wall separating them from a wood crowning the heights on which Chorley Old Hall was situated.

Had Antony had a free choice of English gardens in which to work, it is quite conceivable that he had chosen these very ones in which fate, or Nicholas Danver's conditions, had placed him. In an astonishingly short space of time he was taking as great a pride in them as Golding himself. It is not to be supposed, however, that, at the outset, Golding was over-pleased to welcome a young man, who had been thrust upon him from the unknown without so much as a by your leave to him. For the first week or so, he eyed the cheerfully self-contained young gardener with something very akin to suspicion, merely allotting to him the heavy and commonplace tasks which Antony had foreseen as his.

Antony made no attempt to impress Golding with the fact that his knowledge of fruit growing, if not of floriculture, was certainly on a level with his own. It was mere chance that brought the fact to light,—the question of a somewhat unusual blight that had appeared on a fruit tree. Antony happened to be in the vicinity of the peach tree when Golding was remarking on it to another gardener. Five minutes later, the second gardener having departed, Antony approached Golding. He respectfully mentioned the nature of the blight, and suggested a remedy. It led to a conversation, in which Golding's eyes were very considerably opened. He was not a man to continue to indulge in prejudice merely because it had formerly existed in his mind. He realized all at once that he had found a kindred spirit in Antony, and a kind of friendship between the two, having its basis on horticulture, was the result. Not that he showed him the smallest favouritism, however. That would have been altogether outside his sense of the fitness of things.

There were moments when Antony found the situation extraordinarily amusing. Leaning on his spade, he would look up from some freshly turned patch of earth towards the old grey house, a light of humorous laughter in his eyes. Virtually speaking the place was his own already. The months ahead, till he should enter into possession, were but an accidental interlude, in a manner of speaking. He was already planning a little drama in his own mind. He saw himself sauntering into the garden one fine morning, with Josephus at his heels.

"Ah, by the way, Golding," he would say, "I'm thinking we might have a bed of cosmos in the southern corner of the Tangle Garden."

It would do as well as any other remark for a beginning, and he would like a bed of cosmos. He could picture Golding's stare of dignified amazement.

"Are you giving orders?" he could imagine his querying with dry sarcasm.

"If you don't mind," Antony heard himself answering. "Though if you have any objection to the cosmos—" And he would pause.

Golding would naturally think that he had taken leave of his senses.

"Under the impression you're master here, perhaps?" Golding might say. Anyhow those were the words Antony put into his mouth.

"I just happen to have that notion," Antony would reply pleasantly.

"Since when?" Golding ought to ask.

"The notion," Antony would reply slowly, "has been more or less in my mind since a year ago last March. I am not sure whether the fact dated from that month, or came into actuality this morning."

There his imagination would fail him. There would be an interim. Then the scene would conclude by their having a drink together, Golding looking at Antony over his glass to utter at slow intervals.

"Well, I'm jiggered."

It was so possible a little drama, so even probable a little drama, it is small wonder that Antony found himself chuckling quietly every now and then as he considered it. The only thing was, that he wanted it to hurry up, and that not solely for his own sake, nor for the sake of his secret hopes, nor for the sake of watching Golding's amazed face during the enactment of the little drama, but quite largely for the sake of the big grey house, which lay before him.

It looked so terribly lonely; it looked dead. It was like a flower-surrounded corpse. That there actually was life within it, he was aware, since he had once seen a white-haired man at a window, who, so a fellow-gardener had informed him on being questioned later, must have been the old butler. He and his wife had been left in charge as caretakers. All the other indoor servants had been dismissed by Doctor Hilary on his return from that fateful journey from London. Somehow the man's presence at the window had seemed but to emphasize the loneliness, the odd corpse-like atmosphere of the house. It was as if a face had looked out from a coffin. Antony never had nearer view of either the butler or his wife. Tradespeople called for orders, he believed; but, if either the man or woman ever sought the fresh air, it must be after the work in the gardens was over for the day.

Antony liked to picture himself restoring life to the old place. Now and again he allowed himself to see a woman aiding him in the pleasant task. He would picture her standing by the sundial, looking out towards the sparkling water; standing by the marble basin with white pigeons alighted at her feet, and peacocks strutting near her; walking among the marble statues, with a book; passing up the wide steps of the solitary house, taking with her the sunshine of the garden to cheer its gloom.

His heart still held hope as its guest. He had put the thought of that possible emergency from him on the same afternoon as he had decided on his course of action, should it arise. He never crossed bridges before he came to them, as the saying is. He might recognize their possible existence, he might recognize the possibility of being called upon to cross them, even recognize to the full all the unpleasantness he would find on the other side. Having done so, he resolutely refused to approach them till driven thereto by fate.

He found a delight, too, in his little English cottage, in his tiny orchard, and tinier garden. Each evening saw him at work in it, first clearing the place of weeds, reducing it to something like order; later, putting in plants, and sowing seeds. Each Sunday morning saw him walking the lonely beach with Josephus, and, when Mass was over, seeking the little church where the Duchessa had formerly worshipped, and would worship again. Added to the quite extraordinary pleasure he felt in sitting in her very chair, was strange sense of peace in the little building. Father Dormer became quite accustomed to seeing the solitary figure in the church. Of course later, Antony knew, it might be desirable that these visits should cease, but till the end of June, at all events, he was safe.

On Saturday and Sunday afternoons and evenings he took long walks inland, exploring moorland, wood, and stream, and recalling many a childish memory. He found the pond where he had endangered his life at the instigation of the fair-haired angel, whose name he could not yet recall. The pond had not shrunk in size as is usual with childhood's recollections; on the contrary it was quite a large pond, a deep pond, and he found himself marvelling that he had ever had the temerity to attempt to cross it on so insecure a bark as a mere log of wood. Possibly the angel had been particularly insistent, and, despite the fact that he was a good many years her senior, he had feared her scorn. He found the wood where he and she had been caught kneeling by the pheasant's nests. It had been well for him that the contents had not already been transferred to his pockets. The crime had been in embryo, so to speak, performed, by good chance, merely in intention rather than in deed.

Now the wood was a mass of shimmering bluebells, and alive with the notes of song birds. Antony would lie at full length on the moss, listening to the various notes, dreamily content as his body luxuriated in temporary idleness. As the afternoon passed into evening the sound of a church bell would float up to him from the hidden village. He had discovered by now another church, on the outskirts of the village, an old stone edifice dating from long before the times of the so-called reformation. It never claimed him as a visitor, however: it held no attraction for him as did the little barn-like building on the quay. The sound of the bell would rouse him to matters present, and he would return to his cottage to prepare his evening meal, after which he sat in the little parlour with pipe and book.

Thus quietly the days passed by. May gave place to June, with meadows waist high in perfumed grass, and hedges fragrant with honeysuckle, while Antony's thoughts went more frequently out to Woodleigh and the Duchessa's return.

He had seen the little place from the moorland, looking down into it where it lay in a hollow among the trees. He had seen the one big house it boasted, white-walled and thatch-roofed, half-hidden by climbing roses. Before many days were passed the Duchessa would be once more within it.



CHAPTER XVI

A MEETING

And as the end of June drew nearer, Antony found himself once more contemplating a possible meeting with the Duchessa, contemplating, also, the worst that meeting might hold in store.

An odd, indefinable restlessness was upon him. He told himself quite plainly that, in all probability before many weeks, many days even, were passed, there would be a severance of that friendship which meant so much to him. He forced himself to realize it, to dwell upon it, to bring consciously home to his soul the blankness the severance would bring with it. There was a certain relief in facing the worst; yet he could not always face it. There was the trouble. Now and then a hope, which he told himself was futile, would spring unbidden to his heart, establish itself as a radiant guest. Yet presently it would depart, mocking him; or fade into nothingness leaving a blank greyness in its stead.

Uncertainty—though reason told him none was existent—tantalized, tormented him. And then, when certainty came nearest home to him, he knew he had still to learn the final and definite manner of its coming. That it must inevitably be preceded by moments of soul torture he was aware. Yet what precise form would that soul torture take?

He put the query aside. He dared not face it. Once, lying wide-eyed in the darkness, gazing through the small square of his window at the star-powdered sky without, an odd smile had twisted his lips. Pain, bodily pain, had at one time been his close companion for weeks, he had then fancied he had known once and for all the worst of her torments. He knew now that her dealings with the body are quite extraordinarily light in comparison to her dealings with the mind. And this was only anticipation.

* * * * *

One Saturday afternoon he started off for a walk on a hitherto untried route. It was in a direction entirely opposite to Woodleigh, which he now wished to avoid.

Half an hour's walking brought him to a wide expanse of moorland, as lonely a spot as can well be imagined. Behind him lay Byestry and the sea; to his left, also, lay the sea, since the coast took a deep turn northwards about three miles or so to the west of Byestry; to the right, and far distant, lay Woodleigh. Before him was the moorland, covered with heather and gorse bushes. About half a mile distant it descended in a gentle decline, possibly to some hidden village below, since a broadish grass path, or species of roadway bearing wheel tracts, showed that, despite its present loneliness, it was at times traversed by human beings.

Antony sat down by a gorse bush, whose golden flowers were scenting the air with a sweet aromatic scent. Mingling with their scent was the scent of thyme and heather, and the hot scent of the sunbaked earth. Bees boomed lazily in the still air, and far off was the faint melodious note of the ever-moving sea. The sun was hot and the droning of the bees drowsy in its insistence. After a few moments Antony stretched himself comfortably on the heather, and slept.

A slight sound roused him, and he sat up, for the first moment barely realizing his whereabouts. Then he saw the source of the sound which had awakened him. Coming along the grass path, and not fifty paces from him, was a small pony and trap, driven by a woman. Antony looked towards it, and, as he looked, he felt his heart jump, leap, and set off pounding at a terrible rate.

In two minutes the trap was abreast him, and the little Dartmoor pony was brought to a sudden standstill. Antony had got to his feet.

"Mr. Gray," exclaimed an astonished voice, though very assuredly there was a note of keen delight mingled with the astonishment.

Antony pulled off his cap.

"Fancy meeting you here!" cried the Duchessa di Donatello. "Why ever didn't you let me know that you were in these parts? Or, perhaps you have only just arrived, and were going to come and see me?"

There was the fraction of a pause. Then,

"I've been at Byestry since the beginning of May," said Antony.

"At Byestry," exclaimed the Duchessa. "But why ever didn't you tell me when you wrote, instead of saying it was impossible to come and see me?"

"I didn't know then that Woodleigh and Byestry lay so near together," said Antony. And then he stopped. What on earth was he to say next?

The Duchessa looked at him. There was an oddness in his manner she could not understand. He seemed entirely different from the man she had known on the Fort Salisbury. Yet—well, perhaps it was only fancy.

"You know now, anyhow," she responded gaily. "And you must come and see me." Then her glance fell upon his clothes. Involuntarily a little puzzlement crept into her eyes, a little amazed query.

"What are you doing at Byestry?" she asked. The question had come. Antony's hand clenched on the side of the pony-trap.

"Oh, I'm one of the under-gardeners at Chorley Old Hall," he responded cheerfully, and as if it were the most entirely natural thing in the world, though his heart was as heavy as lead.

"What do you mean?" queried the Duchessa bewildered.

"Just that," said Antony, still cheerfully, "under-gardener at Chorley Old Hall."

"But why?" demanded the Duchessa, the tiniest frown between her eyebrows.

"Because it is my work," said Antony briefly.

There was a moment's silence.

"But I don't quite understand," said the Duchessa slowly. "You—you aren't a labourer."

Antony drew a deep breath.

"That happens to be exactly what I am," he responded.

"What do you mean, Mr. Gray?" There was bewilderment in the words.

"Exactly what I have said," returned Antony almost stubbornly. "I am under-gardener at Chorley Old Hall, or, in other words, a labourer. I get a pound a week wage, and a furnished cottage, for which I pay five shillings a week rent. My name, by the way, is Michael Field."

The Duchessa looked straight at him.

"Then on the ship you pretended to be someone you were not?" she asked slowly.

Antony shrugged his shoulders.

"That was the reason you wrote and said you couldn't see me?"

Again Antony shrugged his shoulders.

The Duchessa's face was white.

"Why did you pretend to be other than you were?" she demanded.

Antony was silent.

"I suppose," she said slowly, "that, for all your talk of friendship, you did not trust me sufficiently. You did not trust my friendship had I known, and therefore you deliberately deceived me all the time."

Still Antony was silent.

"You really meant to deceive me?" There was an odd note of appeal in her voice.

"If you like to call it that," replied Antony steadily.

"What else can I call it?" she flashed.

There was a long silence.

"I should be grateful if you would not mention having known me as Antony Gray," said Antony suddenly.

"I certainly do not intend to refer to that unfortunate episode again," she replied icily. "As far as I am concerned it will be blotted from my memory as completely as I can wipe out so disagreeable an incident. Will you, please, take your hand off my trap."

Antony withdrew his hand as if the trap had stung him.

The Duchessa touched the pony with her whip, Antony stood looking after them. When, once more, the moorland was deserted, he sat down again on the heather.

Josephus, returning from a rabbit hunt more than an hour later, found him still there in the same position. Disturbed by something queer in his deity's mood, he thrust a wet black nose into his hand.

The touch roused Antony. He looked up, half dazed. Then he saw Josephus.

"I've done it now, old man," he said. And there was a queer little catch in his voice.



CHAPTER XVII

AT THE MANOR HOUSE

The Duchessa di Donatello was sitting at dinner. Silver and roses gleamed on the white damask of the table-cloth. The French windows stood wide open, letting in the soft air of the warm June evening. Through the windows she could see the lawn surrounded by elms, limes, and walnut trees. The sun was slanting low behind them, throwing long blue shadows on the grass. A thrush sang in one of the elm trees, a brown songster carolling his vespers from a topmost branch.

At the other end of the table sat a kindly-faced middle-aged woman, in a grey dress and a lace fichu fastened with a large cameo brooch. She was Miss Esther Tibbutt, the Duchessa's present companion, and one-time governess. Now and then she looked across the table towards the Duchessa, with a little hint of anxiety in her eyes, but her conversation was as brisk and unflagging as usual.

"I hope you had a nice drive this afternoon, my dear. And did Clinker go well?" Clinker was the Dartmoor pony.

The Duchessa roused herself. She was evidently preoccupied about something, thought Miss Tibbutt.

"Oh, yes, very well. And he has quite got over objecting to the little stream by Crossways."

Miss Tibbutt nodded approvingly.

"I thought he would in time. So you went right over the Crossways. Which way did you come home?"

"Over Stagmoor," said the Duchessa briefly.

"Stagmoor," echoed Miss Tibbutt. "My dear, that is such a lonely road. I should have been quite anxious had I known. Supposing you had an accident it might be hours before any one found you. I suppose you didn't see a soul?"

"Oh, just one man," returned the Duchessa carelessly.

"A labourer I suppose," queried Miss Tibbutt.

"Yes, only a labourer," responded the Duchessa quietly.

Miss Tibbutt was silent. She had a vague feeling of uneasiness, and yet she did not know why she had it. She was perfectly certain that something was wrong; and, whatever that something was, it had occurred between the time Pia had set off in the pony-cart with Clinker after lunch, and her return, very late for tea, in the evening. Also, Pia had said she didn't want any tea, but had gone straight to her room. And that was unlike her,—certainly unlike her. It would have been far more natural for her to have ordered a fresh supply, and insisted on Miss Tibbutt sharing it with her, quite oblivious of the fact that she had already had all the tea she wanted, and was going to eat again at a quarter to eight.

"I walked over to Byestry," said Miss Tibbutt presently. "Yes, I know it was very hot, but I walked slowly, and took my largest sunshade. I wanted to get some black silk to mend one of my dresses. I saw Father Dormer. He was very glad to hear that you were back. I told him you had only arrived on Thursday, and I had come on the Tuesday to get things ready for you. My dear, he told me Mr. Danver is dead."

"Mr. Danver," exclaimed the Duchessa, her preoccupation for the moment forgotten.

"Yes. I wonder none of the servants happened to mention it. But I suppose they forgot we didn't know, and probably they have forgotten all about the poor man by now. It's sad to think how soon one is forgotten. It appears he went to London in March with Doctor Hilary to consult a specialist and died the day after his arrival in town. Perhaps the journey was too much for him. I should think it might have been, but Doctor Hilary would know best, or perhaps Mr. Danver insisted on going. Anyhow the place is in the hands of caretakers now; the butler and his wife are looking after it till the heir turns up, whoever he may be. There's a rumour that he is an American, but no one seems to know for certain. But they must be keeping the garden in good order. Golding is staying on, and the other men, and they've just got another under-gardener." She paused.

"Have they?" said the Duchessa carelessly, and a trifle coldly. Nevertheless a little colour had flushed into her cheeks.

"I'm afraid you think I'm a terrible gossip," said Miss Tibbutt apologetically. "I really don't mean to be. But in a little place, little things interest one. I am afraid I did ask Father Dormer a good many questions. I hope he didn't—" And she broke off anxiously.

"You dear old Tibby," smiled the Duchessa, "I'm sure he didn't. Nobody thinks you're a gossip. Gossiping is talking about things people don't want known, and generally things that are rather unkind, to say the least of it. You're the soul of honour and charity, and Father Dormer knows that as well as everyone else."

"Oh, my dear!" expostulated Miss Tibbutt. "But I'm glad you think he didn't——"

The Duchessa got up from the table.

"Of course he didn't. Let us go into the garden, and have coffee out there. The fresh air will blow away the cobwebs."

Miss Tibbutt followed the Duchessa through the French window and across the wide gravel path, on to the lawn. The Duchessa led the way to a seat beneath the lime trees. The bees were droning among the hanging flowers.

"Have you any cobwebs in your mind, my dear?" asked Miss Tibbutt as they sat down.

"Why do you ask?" queried the Duchessa.

"Oh, my dear! I don't know. You said that about cobwebs, you see. And I thought you seemed—well, just a little preoccupied at dinner."

There was a little silence.

"Tell me," said Miss Tibbutt.

"There's nothing to tell," said the Duchessa lightly. "A rather pretty soap-bubble burst and turned into an unpleasant cobweb, that's all. So—well, I've just been brushing my mind clear of both the cobweb and the memory of the soap-bubble."

"You're certain it—the cobweb—isn't worrying you now?" asked Miss Tibbutt.

"My dear Tibby, it has ceased to exist," laughed the Duchessa.

It was a very reassuring little laugh. Miss Tibbutt knew it to be quite absurd that, in spite of it, she still could not entirely dispel that vague sense of uneasiness. It spoilt the keen pleasure she ordinarily took in the garden, especially in the evening and most particularly in the month of June. She had a real sentiment about the month of June. From the first day to the last she held the hours tenderly, lingeringly, loath to let them slip between her fingers. There were only three more days left, and now there was this tiny uneasiness, which prevented her mind from entirely concentrating on the happiness of these remaining hours.

And then she gave herself a little mental shake. It was, after all, a selfish consideration on her part. If there were cause for uneasiness, she ought to be thinking of Pia rather than herself, and if there were no cause—and Pia had just declared there was not—she was being thoroughly absurd. She gave herself a second mental shake, and looked towards the house, whence a young footman was just emerging with a tray on which were two coffee cups and a sugar basin. He put the tray down on a small rustic table near them, and went back the way he had come, his step making no sound on the soft grass.

"I wonder what it feels like to be a servant, and have to do everything to time," she said suddenly. "It must be trying to have to be invariably punctual."

Now, as a matter of fact, Miss Tibbutt was exceedingly punctual, but then it was by no means absolutely incumbent upon her to be so; she could quite well have absented herself entirely from a meal if she desired. That, of course, made all the difference.

"You are punctual," said the Duchessa laughing.

"I know. But it wouldn't in the least matter if I were not. You could go on without me. You couldn't very well go on if Dale had forgotten to lay the table, or if Morris had felt disinclined to cook the food."

"No," agreed the Duchessa. And then, after a moment, she said, "Anyhow there are some things we have to do to time—Mass on Sundays and days of obligation, for instance."

Miss Tibbutt nodded. "Oh, of course. But that's generally only once a week. Besides that's different. It's a big voice that tells one to do that—the voice of the Church. The other is a little human voice giving the orders. I know, in a sense, one ought to hear the big voice behind it all; but sometimes one would forget to listen for it. At least, I know I should. And then I should simply hate the routine, and doing things—little ordinary everyday things—to time. I'd just love to say, if I were cook, that there shouldn't be any meals to-day, or that they should be an hour later, or an hour earlier, to suit my fancy."

The Duchessa laughed again.

"My dear Tibby, it's quite obvious that your vocation is not to the religious life. Fancy you in a convent! I can imagine you suggesting to the Reverend Mother that a change in the time of saying divine office would be desirable, or at all events that it should be varied on alternate days; and I can see you going off for long and rampageous days in the country, just for a change."