ANTONY GRAY, --GARDENER

BYLESLIE MOORE

AUTHOR OF "THE PEACOCK FEATHER, " "THE JESTER, ""THE WISER FOLLY, " ETC. 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONSNEW YORK AND LONDONThe Knickerbocker Press1917

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Copyright, 1917byLESLIE MOORE

The Knickerbocker Press, New York

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ToMRS. BARTON

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CONTENTS

 CHAPTER PAGEPrologue 1 I. The Letter 17 II. Memories 24 III. Quod Scriptum est 31 IV. The Lady of the Blue Book 38 V. A Friendship 44 VI. At Teneriffe 52 VII. England 64 VIII. The Amazing Conditions 70 IX. The Decision 79 X. An English Cottage 86 XI. Doubts 98 XII. Concerning Michael Field 102 XIII. A Discovery 109 XIV. Honor Vincit 117 XV. In the Garden 123 XVI. A Meeting 132 XVII. At the Manor House 139 XVIII. A Dream and Other Things 149 XIX. Trix on the Scene 161 XX. Moonlight and Theories 168 XXI. On the Moorland 183 XXII. An Old Man in a Library 192 XXIII. Antony Finds a Glove 201 XXIV. An Interest in Life 206 XXV. Prickles 212 XXVI. An Offer and a Refusal 227 XXVII. Letters and Mrs. Arbuthnot 237 XXVIII. For the Day Alone 256 XXIX. In the Church Porch 260 XXX. A Question of Importance 277 XXXI. Midnight Reflections 284 XXXII. Sunlight and Happiness 290 XXXIII. Trix Seeks Advice 294 XXXIV. An Amazing Suggestion 302 XXXV. Trix Triumphant 312 XXXVI. An Old Man Tells his Story 319 XXXVII. The Importance of Trifles 330XXXVIII. A Footstep on the Path 334 XXXIX. On the Old Foundation 341Epilogue 347

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ANTONY GRAY, --GARDENER

PROLOGUE

March had come in like a lion, raging, turbulent. Throughout the day thewind had torn spitefully at the yet bare branches of the great elms inthe park; it had rushed in insensate fury round the walls of the big greyhouse; it had driven the rain lashing against the windows. It had sentthe few remaining leaves of the old year scudding up the drive; it hadlittered the lawns with fragments of broken twigs; it had beaten yellowand purple crocuses prostrate to the brown earth. 

Against the distant rocky coast the sea had boomed like the muffledthunder of guns; it had flung itself upon the beach, dragging the stonesback with it in each receding wave, their grinding adding to the crash ofthe waters. Nature had been in her wildest mood, a thing of mad fury. 

With sundown a calm had fallen. The wind, tired of its onslaught, hadsunk suddenly to rest. Only the sea beat and moaned sullenly against thecliffs, as if unwilling to subdue its anger. Yet, for all that, a note offatigue had entered its voice. 

 * * * * *

An old man was sitting in the library of the big grey house. A shadedreading lamp stood on a small table near his elbow. The light was thrownupon an open book lying near it, and on the carved arms of the oak chairin which the man was sitting. It shone clearly on his bloodless oldhands, on his parchment-like face, and white hair. A log fire was burningin a great open hearth on his right. For the rest, the room was a placeof shadows, deepening to gloom in the distant corners, a gloom emphasizedby the one small circle of brilliant light, and the red glow of the fire. Book-cases reached from floor to ceiling the whole length of two walls, and between the three thickly curtained windows of the third. In thefourth wall were the fireplace and the door. 

There was no sound to break the silence. The figure in the oak chair satmotionless. He might have been carved out of stone, for any sign of lifehe gave. He looked like stone, --white and black marble very finelysculptured, --white marble in head and hands, black marble in the piercingeyes, the long satin dressing-gown, the oak of the big chair. Even hiseyes seemed stone-like, motionless, and fixed thoughtfully on space. 

To those perceptive of "atmosphere" there is a subtle difference insilence. There is the silence of woods, the silence of plains, thesilence of death, the silence of sleep, and the silence of wakefulness. This silence was the last named. It was a silence alert, alive, yet verystill. 

A slight movement in the room, so slight as to be almost imperceptible, roused him to the present. Life sprang to his eyes, puzzled, questioning;his body motionless, they turned towards the middle window of the three, from whence the movement appeared to have come. It was not repeated. Theold utter silence lay upon the place; yet Nicholas Danver kept his eyesupon the curtain. 

The minutes passed. Then once more came that almost imperceptiblemovement. 

Nicholas Danver's well-bred old voice broke the silence. 

"Why not come into the room?" it suggested quietly. There was a gleam ofironical humour in his eyes. 

The curtains swung apart, and a man came from between them. He stoodblinking towards the light. 

"How did you know I was there, sir?" came the gruff inquiry. 

"I didn't know, " said Nicholas, accurately truthful. "I merely guessed. "

There was a pause. 

"Well?" said Nicholas watching the man keenly. "By the way, I suppose youknow I am entirely at your mercy. I could ring this bell, " he indicatedan electric button attached to the arm of his chair, "but I suppose itwould be at least three minutes before any one came. Yes, " he continuedthoughtfully, "allowing for the distance from the servants' quarters, Ishould say it would be at least three minutes. You could get through afair amount of business in three minutes. Was it the candlesticks youwanted?" He looked towards a pair of solid silver candlesticks on themantelpiece. "They are cumbersome, you know. Or the miniatures? There arethree Cosways and four Engleharts. I should recommend the miniatures. "

"I wanted to see you, " said the man bluntly. 

"Indeed!" Nicholas's white eyebrows rose the fraction of an inch abovehis keen old eyes. "An unusual hour for a visit, and--an unusualentrance, if I might make the suggestion. "

"There'd never have been a chance of seeing you if I had come any otherway. " There was a hint of bitterness in the words. 

Nicholas looked straight at him. 

"Who are you?" he asked. 

"Job Grantley, " was the reply. "I live down by the Lower Acre. "

"Ah! One of my tenants. "

"Yes, sir, one of your tenants. "

"And--?" suggested Nicholas urbanely. 

"I'm to turn out of my cottage to-morrow, " said the man briefly. 

"Indeed!" The pupils of Nicholas's eyes contracted. "May I ask why thatinformation should be of interest to me?"

"It's of no interest to you, sir, and we know it. You never hear a wordof what happens outside this house. "

"Mr. Spencer Curtis conducts my business, " said Nicholas politely. 

"We know that too, sir, and we know the way it is conducted. It's an ironhand, and a heart like flint. It's pay or go, and not an hour's grace. "

"You can hardly expect him to give you my cottages rent free, " suggestedNicholas suavely. 

The man winced. 

"No, sir. But where a few weeks would make all the difference to a man, where it's a matter of a few shillings standing between home and theroadside--" he broke off. 

Nicholas was silent. 

"I thought perhaps a word to you, sir, " went on the man half wistfully. "We're to go to-morrow if I can't pay, and I can't. A couple of weeksmight have made all the difference. It was for the wife I came, sneakingup here like a thief. She's lost two little ones; they never but openedtheir eyes on the world to shut them again. I'm glad on it now. But womenaren't made that way. There's another coming. She's not strong. I doubtbut the shock'll not take her and the little one too. Better for themboth if it does. A man can face odds, and remake his life if he is aman--" he stopped. 

Still there was silence. 

"I was a fool to come, " said the man drearily. "'Twas the weather did itin the end. I'd gone mad-like listening to the wind and rain, andthinking of her and the child that was to be--" again he stopped. 

Nicholas was watching him from under the penthouse of his eyebrows. Suddenly he spoke. 

"How soon could you pay your rent?" he demanded. 

"In a fortnight most like, sir. Three weeks for certain. "

"Have you told Mr. Curtis that?"

"I have, sir. But it's the tick of time, or out you go. "

"Have you ever been behindhand before?"

"No, sir. "

"How has it happened now?" The questions came short, incisive. 

The man flushed. 

"How has it happened now?" repeated Nicholas distinctly. 

"I lent a bit, sir. "

"To whom?"

"Widow Thisby. She's an old woman, sir. "

"Tell me the whole story, " said Nicholas curtly. 

Again the flush rose to the man's face. 

"Her son got into a bit of trouble, sir. It was a matter of a sovereignor going to gaol. He's only a youngster, and the prison smell sticks. Trust folk for nosing it out. He's got a chance now, and will be sendinghis mother a trifle presently. "

"Then I suppose she'll repay you?"

Job fidgeted with his cap. 

"Well, sir, I don't suppose it'll be more'n a trifle he'll send; andshe's got her work cut out to make both ends meet. "

"Then I suppose you _gave_ her the money?"

Job shifted his feet uneasily. 

"How did you intend to raise the money due for your rent, then?" demandedNicholas less curtly. 

Job left off fidgeting. He felt on safer ground here. 

"It just meant a bit extra saved from each week, " he said eagerly. "Youcan do it if you've time. Boiling water poured into the morning teapotfor evenings, and knock off your bit of bacon, and--well, there's lots ofways, sir, and women is wonderful folk for managing, the best ones. Whereit's thought and trouble they'll do it, and they'd be using strength tooif they'd got it, but some of them hasn't. "

"Hmm, " said Nicholas. He put up his hand to his mouth. "So you _gave_money you knew would never be repaid, knowing, too, that it meantpossible homelessness. "

"You'd have done it yourself if you'd been in my place, " said the manbluntly. 

"Should I?" said Nicholas half ironically. "I very much doubt it. Alsowhat right had you to gamble with your wife's happiness? You knew therisk you ran. You knew the--er, the rule regarding the rents. JobGrantley, you were a fool. "

Again the colour rushed to the man's face. 

"May be, sir. I'll allow it sounds foolishness, but--oh Lord, sir, where's the use o' back-thinking now. I reckon you'd never do a hand'sturn for nobody if you spent your time looking backward and forrard atyour jobs. " He stopped, his chin quivering. 

"Job Grantley, you were a fool. " Nicholas repeated the words with evendeliberation. 

The man moved silently towards the window. There was a clumsy dignityabout his figure. 

"Stop, " said Nicholas. "Job Grantley, you _are_ a fool. "

The man turned round. 

"Go to that drawer, " ordered Nicholas, "and bring me a pocket-book youwill find there. "

Mechanically the man did as he was bidden. Nicholas took the book. 

"Now then, " he said opening it, "how much will put you right?"

The man stared. 

"I--oh, sir. "

"How much will put you right?" demanded Nicholas. 

"A pound, sir. The month's rent is due to-morrow. "

Nicholas raised his eyebrows. 

"Humph. Not much to stand between you and--hell. I've no doubt you didconsider it hell. We each have our own interpretation of that cheerfulabode. "

He turned the papers carefully. 

"Now look here, " he said suddenly, "there's five pounds. It's foryourselves, mind. No more indiscriminate bestowal of charity, youunderstand. You begin your charity at home. Do you follow me?"

The man took the money in a dazed fashion. He was more than halfbewildered at the sudden turn in events. 

"I'll repay you faithfully, sir. I'll----"

"Damn you, " broke in Nicholas softly, "who talked about repayment? Can'tI make a present as well as you, if I like? Besides I owe you somethingfor this ten minutes. They have been interesting. I don't get too manyexcitements. That'll do. I don't want any thanks. Be off with you. Bettergo by the window. There might be a need of explanations if you tried amore conventional mode of exit now. That'll do, that'll do. Go, man. "

Two minutes later Nicholas was looking again towards the curtains behindwhich Job Grantley had vanished. 

"Now, was I the greater fool?" he said aloud. There was an odd, mockingexpression in his eyes. 

 * * * * *

Ten minutes later he pressed the electric button attached to the arm ofhis chair. His eyes were on his watch which he held in his hand. As thelibrary door opened, he replaced it in his pocket. 

"Right to the second, " he laughed. "Ah, Jessop. "

The man who entered was about fifty years of age, or thereabouts, grey-haired, clean-shaven. His face was cast in the rigid lines peculiarto his calling. Possibly they relaxed when with his own kind, but onecould not feel certain of the fact. 

"Ah, Jessop, do you know Job Grantley by sight?"

For one brief second Jessop stared, amazement fallen upon him. Then themask of impenetrability was on again. 

"Job Grantley, yes, sir. "

"What is he like?"

"Tallish man, sir; wears corduroys. Dark hair and eyes; looks straight atyou, sir. "

"Hmm. Very good. Perhaps I wasn't a fool, " he was thinking. 

"Do you know Mr. Curtis?" he demanded. 

"Yes, sir. " This came very shortly. 

"Should you call him--er, a hard man?" asked Nicholas smoothly. 

Again amazement fell on Jessop's soul, revealing itself momentarily inhis features. And again the amazement was concealed. 

"He's a good business man, sir, " came the cautious reply. 

"You mean--?" suggested Nicholas. 

"A good business man isn't ordinarily what you'd call tender-like, " saidJessop grimly. 

Nicholas flashed a glance of amusement at him. 

"I suppose not, " he replied dryly. 

There was a pause. 

"Do the tenants ever ask to see me?" demanded Nicholas. 

"They used to, sir. Now they save their shoe-leather coming up thedrive. "

"Ah, you told them--?"

"Your orders, sir. You saw no one. "

"I see. " Nicholas's fingers were beating a light tattoo on the arm of hischair. "Well, those are my orders. That will do. You needn't come againtill I ring. "

Jessop turned towards the door. 

"Oh, by the way, " Nicholas's voice arrested him on the threshold, "Ifancy the middle window is unlatched. "

Jessop returned and went behind the curtains. 

"It was, wasn't it?" asked Nicholas as he emerged. 

"Yes, sir. "

Jessop left the room. 

"Now how on earth did he know that?" he queried as he walked across thehall. 

The curtains had been drawn when Nicholas had been carried into the room. The knowledge, for a man unable to move from his chair, seemed littleshort of uncanny. 

"_A man can face odds if he is a man, and remake his life. _"

The words repeated themselves in Nicholas's brain. Each syllable was likethe incisive tap of a hammer. They fell on a wound lately dealt. 

A little scene, barely ten days old, reconstructed itself in his memory. The stage was the one he now occupied; the position the same. But anotheractor was present, a big rugged man, clad in a shabby overcoat, --a manwith keen eyes, a grim mouth, and flexible sensitive hands. 

"I regret to tell you that, humanly speaking, you have no more than ayear to live. "

The man had looked past him as he spoke the words. He had had his back tothe light, but Nicholas had seen something almost inscrutable in hisexpression. 

Nicholas's voice had followed close upon the words, politely ironical. 

"Personally I should have considered it a matter for congratulationrather than regret, " he had suggested. 

There had been the fraction of a pause. Then the man's voice had brokenthe silence. 

"Do you?"

"I do. What has my life been for fifteen years?" Nicholas had demanded. 

"What you have made of it, " had been the answer. 

"What God or the devil has made of it, aided by Baccarat--poor beast, "Nicholas had retorted savagely. 

"The devil, possibly, " the man had replied, "but aided and abetted byyourself. "

"Confound you, what are you talking about?" Nicholas had cried. 

The man had still looked towards the book-cases. 

"Listen, " he had said. "For fifteen years you have lived the life of arecluse--a useless recluse, mind you. And why? Because of pride, --sheerpride. Those who had known you in the strength of your manhood, those whohad known you as Nick the dare-devil, should never see the brokencripple. Pride forbade it. You preferred to run to cover, to lie hiddenthere like a wounded beast, rather than face, like a man, the odds thatwere against you, --heavy odds, I'll allow. "

Nicholas's eyes had blazed. 

"How dare you!" he had shouted. 

"You've a year left, " went on the man calmly. "I should advise you to seewhat use you can make of it. "

"The first use I'll make of it is to order you from the house. You can goat once. " Nicholas had pointed towards the door. 

The man had got up. 

"All right, " he had said, looking at him for the first time in the lastten minutes. "But don't forget. You've got the year, you know. "

"To hell with the year, " said Nicholas curtly. 

"Damn the fellow, " he had said as the door had closed behind him. But thevery truth of the words had left a wound, --a clean-cut wound however. There was never any bungling where Doctor Hilary was concerned. 

And now incisive, sharp, came the taps of the hammer on it, taps dealt byJob Grantley's chance words. 

"Confound both the men, " he muttered. "But the fellow deserved the fivepounds. It was the first interest I've had for fifteen years. The kind ofentrance I'd have made myself, too; or perhaps mine would have been evena bit more unusual, eh, Nick the dare-devil!"

It was the old name again. He had never earned it through the leastmalice, however. Fool-hardiness perhaps, added to indomitable highspirits and good health, but malice, never. 

How Father O'Brady had chuckled over the prank that had first earned himthe title, --the holding up of the coach that ran between Byestry andKingsleigh, Nick at the head of a band of half a dozen young scapegracesclad in black masks and huge hats, and armed with old pistols purloinedfrom the historic gun-room of the old Hall! It had been a leaf from thebook of Claude Duval with a slight difference. 

Nick had re-acted the scene for him. He was an inimitable mimic. He hadtaken off old Lady Fanshawe's cackling fright to the life. As thestoutest and oldest dowager of the lot he had obliged her to dance aminuet with him, the terrified coachman, postilion, and solitary malepassenger covered by his companions' pistols the while. The flutteredyounger occupants of the coach had frankly envied the terrified dowager, yet Nick had bestowed but the most perfunctory of glances upon them, andthat for a reason best known to himself. 

Later the truth of the affair had leaked out, and Lady Fanshawe couldnever chaperon one of her numerous nieces to a ball, without beingbesieged by young men imploring the favour of a dance. Being a sportingold lady--when not out of her wits with terror--she had taken it all ingood part. Once, even, she had danced the very same minuet with Nick, thewhole ballroom looking on and applauding. 

It had been the first of a series of pranks each madder than the last, but each equally light-hearted and gay. 

That is till Cecilia Lester married Basil Percy. 

The world, namely the small circle in which Cecilia and Nick moved, hadheard of the marriage with amazement. If Nick was amazed he did not showit, but his pranks held less of gaiety, more of a grim foolhardiness. Father O'Brady no longer chuckled over their recitation. Maybe becausethey mainly reached his ears from outside sources. Nick, who was not ofhis fold, seldom sought his society in these days. Later he heard themnot at all, being removed to another mission. 

And then, at last, came the day when Nick played his final prank in thehunting field, --his maddest prank, in which Baccarat failed him. Thehorse was shot where he lay. His rider was carried home half dead; andhalf dead, literally, he had been for fifteen years. 

And there was yet one more year left to him. 

 * * * * *

Nicholas sat gazing at the fire. 

His brain was extraordinarily alert. There was a dawning humour waking inhis eyes, a hint of the bygone years' devil-may-careness. The old Nickwas stirring within him, roused by the little blows of that sentence. 

Suddenly a flash of laughter illuminated his whole face. He brought hishand down on the arm of his chair. 

"By gad, I've got it, and Hilary's the man to help me. "

It was characteristic of Nicholas to forget his own share in that littleten-day-old scene. Also it may be safely averred that Doctor Hilary wouldbe equally forgetful. 

Nicholas still sat gazing into the fire, chuckling every now and then tohimself. It was midnight before he rang for Jessop. The ringing had beenpreceded by one short sentence. 

"By gad, Nick the dare-devil, the scheme's worthy of the old days. "

CHAPTER I

THE LETTER

Antony was sitting on the stoep of his bungalow. The African sun wasbathing the landscape in a golden glory. Before him lay his garden, amedley of brilliant colour. Just beyond it was a field of green Indiancorn, scintillating to silver as a little breeze swept its surface. Beyond it again lay the vineyard, and the thatched roof of an old Dutchfarmhouse half hidden among trees. Farther off still rose the mountains, golden in the sunlight. 

It was the middle of the afternoon. Silence reigned around, broken onlyby the occasional chirp of a grasshopper, the muffled note of a frog, thetwitter of the canaries among the cosmos, or the rustle of the reedcurtain which veiled the end of the stoep. 

The reed curtain veiled the bathroom, a primitive affair, the bathconsisting of half an old wine vat, filled with velvety mountain water, conducted thither by means of a piece of hose-piping attached to thesolitary water tap the estate possessed. It was emptied by means of abung fixed in the lower part of the vat, the water affording irrigationfor the garden. 

Antony sat very still. His coat lay beside him on the stoep. A smallwire-haired puppy named Josephus mounted guard upon it. Woe betide theperson other than Antony's self who ventured to lay finger on thegarment. There would be a bristling of short wiry white hair, a showingof baby white teeth, and a series of almost incredibly vicious growls. Josephus permitted no man to take liberties with his master's property, nor indeed with his ridiculously dignified small self. Antony was thesole exception to his rule. But then was not he a king among men, aperson whose word was law, whose caress a benediction, whose blow a thingfor which to demand mute pardon? You knew it was deserved, though theknowledge might possibly at times be vague, since your wisdom was as yetbut puppy wisdom. 

Now and again Josephus hung out a pink tongue, a tongue which demandedmilk in a saucer. He knew tea-time to the second, --ordinarily speakingthat is to say. He could not accustom himself to that extra half-hour'sdelay which occurred on mail days, a delay caused by Riffle, the colouredboy, having to walk to the village to fetch the post. The walk was seldomentirely fruitless. Generally there was a newspaper of sorts;occasionally--very occasionally--a letter. Josephus knew that the clickof the garden gate heralded the swift arrival of tea, but it was notalways easy to realize on which days that click was to be expected. 

Antony gazed at the scintillating field of corn. The sight pleased him. There is always a glory in creation, even if it be creation by proxy, soto speak. At all events he had been the human agent in the matter. He hadploughed the brown earth; he had cast the yellow seed, trudging thefurrows with swinging arm; he had dug the little trenches through whichthe limpid mountain water should flow to the parched earth; he hadwatched the first hint of green spreading like a light veil; he had seenit thicken, carpeting the field; and now he saw the full fruit of hislabours. Strong and healthy it stood before him, the soft wind ripplingacross its surface, silvering the green. 

The click of the garden gate roused him from his contemplation. Josephuscocked one ear, his small body pleasurably alert. 

Antony turned his head. Mail day always held possibilities, howeverimprobable, an expectation unknown to those to whom the sound of thepostman's knock comes in the ordinary course of events. Riffle appearedround the corner of the stoep. Had you seen him anywhere but in Africa, you would have vowed he was a good-looking Italian. A Cape coloured boyhe was truly, and that, mark you, is a very different thing from Kaffir. 

"The paper, master, and a letter, " he announced with some importance. Then he disappeared to prepare the tea for which Josephus's doggy soulwas longing. 

Antony turned the letter in his hands. It must be confessed it was adisappointment. It was obviously a business communication. Both envelopeand clerkly writing made that fact apparent. It was a drop to earth afterthe first leap of joy that had heralded Riffle's announcement. It waslike putting out your hand to greet a friend, and meeting--a commercialtraveller. 

Antony smiled ruefully. Yet, after all, it was an English commercialtraveller. That fact stood for something. It was, at all events, a faintbreath of the Old Country. In England the letter had been penned, inEngland it had been posted, from England it had come to him. Yet who onearth had business affairs to communicate to him!

He broke the seal. 

Amazement fell upon him with the first words he read. By the end of theperusal his brain was whirling. It was incredible, astounding. He staredout into the sunshine. Surely he was dreaming. It must be a joke ofsorts, a laughable hoax. Yet there was no hint of joking in the concisecommunication, in the small clerkly handwriting, in the business-likeletter-paper, a letter-paper headed by the name of a most respectablefirm of solicitors. 

"Well, I'm jiggered, " declared Antony to the sunshine. And he fell to asecond perusal of the letter. Here is what he read:

"Dear Sir, "We beg to inform you that under the terms of the will of the late Mr. Nicholas Danver of Chorley Old Hall, Byestry, in the County of Devon, youare left sole legatee of his estate and personal effects estimated at anincome of some twelve thousand pounds per annum, subject, however, tocertain conditions, which are to be communicated verbally to you by us. 

"In order that you may be enabled to hear the conditions without undueinconvenience to yourself, we have been authorized to defray any expensesyou may incur either directly or indirectly through your journey toEngland, and--should you so desire--your return journey. We encloseherewith cheque for one hundred pounds on account. 

"As the property is yours only upon conditions, we must beg that you willmake no mention of this communication to any person whatsoever until suchtime as you have been made acquainted with the said conditions. We shouldbe obliged if you would cable to us your decision whether or no youintend to hear them, and--should the answer be in the affirmative--theapproximate date we may expect you in England. 

 "Yours obediently, "Henry Parsons. "

And the paper was headed, Parsons & Glieve, Solicitors. 

Nicholas Danver. Where had he heard that name before? What faint cord ofmemory did it strike? He sought in vain for the answer. Yet somehow, atsometime, surely he had heard it! Again and again he seemed on the vergeof discovering the clue, and again and again it escaped him, slippingelusive from him. It was tantalizing, annoying. With a slight mentaleffort he abandoned the search. Unpursued, the clue might presentlyreturn to him. 

Riffle reappeared on the stoep bearing a tea-tray. Josephus sat erect. For full ten minutes his brown eyes gazed ardently towards the table. What had happened? What untoward event had occurred? Antony was obliviousof his very existence. Munching bread and butter, drinking hot teahimself, he appeared entirely to have forgotten that a thirsty andbewilderedly disappointed puppy was gazing at him from the harbourage ofhis old coat. At length the neglect became a thing not to be borne. Waving a deprecating paw, Josephus gave vent to a pitiful whine. 

Antony turned. Then realization dawned on him. He grasped the milk jug. 

"You poor little beggar, " he laughed. "It's not often you get neglected. But it's not often that bombshells in the shape of ordinary, simple, harmless-looking letters fall from the skies, scattering extraordinarycontents and my wits along with them. Here you are, you morsel of injuredpatience. "

Josephus lapped, greedily, thirstily, till the empty saucer circled onthe stoep under the onslaughts of his small pink tongue. 

Antony had again sunk into a reverie, a reverie which lasted for anotherfifteen minutes or so. At last he roused himself. 

"Josephus, my son, " he announced solemnly, "there are jobs to be done, and in spite of bombshells we'd better do them, and leave Arabian Nightwonders for further contemplation this evening. "

CHAPTER II

MEMORIES

Some four hours later, Antony, once more in his deck-chair on the stoep, set himself to review the situation. Shorn of its first bewilderment itresolved itself into the fact that he, Antony Gray, owner of a small farmon the African veldt, which farm brought him in a couple of hundred ayear or thereabouts, was about to become the proprietor of an estatevalued at a yearly income of twelve thousand, --subject, however, tocertain conditions. And in that last clause lay the possible fly in theointment. What conditions?

Antony turned the possibilities in his mind. 

Matrimony with some lady of Nicholas Danver's own choosing? He dismissedthe idea. It savoured too much of early Victorian melodrama for theprosaic twentieth century. The support of some antediluvian servant orpet? Possibly. But then it would hardly be necessary to require verbalcommunication of such a condition; a brief written statement to theeffect would have sufficed. The house ghost-haunted; a yearly exorcisingof the restless spirit demanded? Again too melodramatic. A promise tolive on the estate, and on the estate alone? Far more probable. 

Well, he'd give that fast enough. The veldt-desire had never gripped himas it is declared to grip those who have found a home in Africa. Behindthe splendour, the pageantry, the vastness, he had always felt a hint ofsomething sinister, something cruel; a spirit, perhaps of evil, everwakeful, ever watching. Now and again a sound, a scent would make himsick with longing, with longing for an English meadow, for the cleanbreath of new-mown hay, for the fragrance of June roses, for the song ofthe thrush, and the sweet piping of the blackbird. 

He had crushed down the longing as sentimental. Having set out on a pathhe would walk it, till such time as Fate should clearly indicate anothersignpost. He saw her finger now, and welcomed the direction of itspointing. At all events he might make venture of the new route, --anArabian Night's path truly, gold-paved, mysterious. If, after making somesteps along it, he should discover a barrier other than he had a mind tosurmount, he could always return to the old road. Fate might point, butshe should never push him against his will. Thus he argued, confidentwithin his soul. He had the optimism, the trust of youth to his balance. He had not yet learned the deepest of Fate's subtleties, the apparentcandour which conceals her tricks. 

He gazed out into the night, ruminative, speculative. The breeze whichhad rippled across the Indian corn during the day had sunk to rest. Thedarkened field lay tranquil under the stars big and luminous. From faracross the veldt came the occasional beating of a buzzard's wings, likethe beating of muffled drums. A patch of gum trees to the right, beyondthe garden, stood out black against the sky. 

Nicholas Danver. The name repeated itself within his brain, and then, with it, came a sudden flash of lucid memory lighting up a long forgottenscene. 

He saw a small boy, a very small boy, tugging, pulling, and twisting at atough gorse stick on a moorland. He felt the clenching of small teeth, the bruised ache of small hands, the heat of the small body, theobstinate determination of soul. A slight sound had caused the boy toturn, and he had seen a man on a big black horse, watching him withlaughing eyes. 

"You'll never break that, " the man had remarked amused. 

"I've got to. I've begun, " had been the small boy's retort. And he hadreturned to the onslaught, regardless of the watching man. 

Ten minutes had ended in an exceedingly heated triumph. The boy had sunkupon the grass, sucking a wounded finger. The mood of determination hadpassed with the victory. He had been too shy to look at the rider on theblack horse. But the gorse stick had lain on the ground beside him. 

"Shake hands, " the man had said. 

And the boy had scrambled to his feet to extend a grubby paw. 

"What's your name?" the man had demanded. 

"Antony Gray. "

"Not Richard Gray's son?"

"Yes. "

The man had burst into a shout of laughter. 

"Where is your father?"

"In London. "

"Well, tell him his son is a chip of the old block, and Nicholas Danversays so. Ask him if he remembers the coach road from Byestry toKingsleigh. Good-bye, youngster. "

And Nicholas had ridden away. 

It was astonishing in what detail the scene came back to him. He couldsmell the hot aromatic scent of the gorse and wild thyme. He could hearthe humming of the bees above the heather. He could see the figure on theblack horse growing speck-like in the distance as he had gazed after it. 

The whole thing pieced itself together. He remembered that he had gone tothat cottage on the moorland with his nurse to recover after measles. Heremembered that his father had said that the air of the place would makea new boy of him. He remembered his father's laugh, when, later, the taleof the meeting had been recounted to him. 

"Good old Nick, " he had said. "One loses sight of the friends of one'sboyhood as one grows older, more's the pity. I must write to old Nick. "

There the incident had closed. Yet clearly as the day on which it hadoccurred, a day now twenty-five years old, it repainted itself onAntony's brain, as he sat on the stoep, gazing out into the Africannight. 

It never occurred to him to wonder why Nicholas should have left him hismoney and property. That he had done so was marvellous, truly; hisreasons for doing so were not even speculated upon. Antony had achildlike faculty for accepting facts as they presented themselves tohim, with wonderment, pleasure, frank disapprobation, or stoicism, as thecase might be. The side issues, which led to the presentation of thefacts, were, generally speaking, the affair of others rather than hisown; and, as such, were no concern of his. It was not that hedeliberately refused to consider them, but merely that being no concernof his, it never occurred to him to do so. He walked his own route, sometimes singing, sometimes dreaming, sometimes amusedly silent, andalways working. Work had been of necessity from the day his father'sdeath had summoned him hurriedly from college. A quixotic, and, it is tobe feared, culpable generosity on Richard Gray's part had left his sonpenniless. 

Antony had accepted the fact stoically, and even cheerfully. He hadlooked straight at the generosity, denying the culpability, therebypreserving what he valued infinitely more than lands or gold--hisfather's memory, thus proving himself in very truth his son. He had noties to bind him; he was an only child, and his mother was long sincedead. He set out on his own route, a route which had led him far, andfinally had landed him, some five years previously, on the African veldt, where he had become the owner of the small farm he now occupied. 

After all, there had been compensations in the life. All unconsciouslyhe had taken for his watch-word the cry: "I will succeed in spite of... " rather than the usual old lament: "I could succeed if.... "Naturally there had been difficulties. He had considered themgrave-eyed and silent; he had tackled them smiling and singing. Inwardlyhe was the same Antony who had conquered the gorse-stick on themoorland; outwardly--well, he didn't make the fight so obvious. Thatwas all the difference. 

And now, sitting on the stoep with the silence of the African nightaround him, he tried to shape his plans, to bring them forth from theglamour of the marvellous which had enshrouded them, to marshal them upinto coherent everyday form. But the glamour refused to be dispelled. Everything, the smallest and most prosaic detail, stood before him bathedin its light. It was all so gorgeously unexpected, so--so stupendouslymysterious. 

And through all the glamour, the unexpectedness, and the mystery, therewas sounding an ever-repeated chord of music, composed of the notes ofyouth, happiness, memory, desire, and expectation. And, thus combined, they struck the one word--England. 

CHAPTER III

QUOD SCRIPTUM EST

The _Fort Salisbury_ was cutting her way through the translucent greenwater. Cape Town, with Table Mountain and the Lion's Head beyond it, wasvanishing into the increasing distance. 

Antony had taken his passage on the _Fort Salisbury_ for three reasons:number one, she was the first boat sailing from Cape Town after he haddispatched his momentous cablegram; number two, he had a certaindiffidence regarding the expenditure of other people's money, and hispassage on the _Fort Salisbury_ would certainly be lower than on a mailboat; number three, a curious and altogether unaccountable impulse hadimpelled him to the choice. This reason had, perhaps unconsciously, weighed with him considerably more than the other two. He often foundinstinct throwing itself into the balance for or against the motives ofmere reason. When it was against mere reason, matters occasionallycomplicated themselves in his mind. It had been a comfort to find, inthis case, reason on the same side of the scale as instinct. 

Antony, leaning on the rail of the upper deck, was content, blissfullycontent. The sole speck that marred his entire enjoyment was the factthat the rules of the boat had separated him, _pro tem_, from anexceedingly perplexed and distressed puppy. It was the perplexity anddistress of the said puppy that caused the speck, rather than theseparation. Antony, with the vaster wisdom vouchsafed to humans, knew thepresent separation to be of comparatively short duration, and to beendured in the avoidance of a possibly infinitely longer one. Not soJosephus. He suffered in silence, since his deity had commanded thesilence, but the perplexed grief in his puppy heart found an echo inAntony's. 

It was a faint echo, however. Time and a daily visit would bringconsolation to Josephus; and, for himself, the present adventure--it wasan adventure--was all-absorbing and delicious. He revelled in it like aschoolboy on a holiday. He watched the sparkling water, the tiny ripplingwaves; he felt the freshness of the sea breeze, and the throb of theengine like a great living heart in the body of the boat. The fact thatthere were other people on her decks concerned him not at all. Those whohave travelled a good deal become, generally speaking, one of twotypes, --the type that is quite enormously interested in everyone, and thetype that is entirely indifferent to any one. Antony was of this lasttype. He had acquired a faculty for shutting his mental, and to a greatdegree, his physical eyes to his human fellows, except in so far as sheernecessity compelled. Naturally this did not make for popularity; but, then, Antony did not care much for popularity. The winning of it wouldhave been too great an effort for his nature; the retaining of it, evenmore strenuous. Of course the whole thing is entirely a question oftemperament. 

A few of the other passengers looked somewhat curiously at the tall leanman gazing out to sea; but, as he was so obviously oblivious of theirvery existence, so entirely absorbed in his contemplation of the ocean, they left him undisturbed. 

It was not till the dressing bugle sounded that he roused himself, anddescended to his cabin. It was a matter for his fervent thanksgiving thathe had found himself the sole occupant of the tiny two-berthedapartment. 

He arrayed himself with scrupulous care. Only the most stringentexigencies of time and place--though they for a while had beenfrequent--had ever caused him to forego the ceremonial of donning dressclothes for dinner, though no eyes but his own should behold him. Latterly there had been Riffle and then Josephus to behold, and theformer to marvel. Josephus took it, puppy-like, as a matter of course. 

There were not a vast number of passengers on the boat. Of the fourtables in the dining saloon, Antony found only two fully laid, and athird partially so. His own place was some three seats from the captain'sleft. The chair on the captain's right was, as yet, unoccupied. For therest, with but one or two exceptions at the other tables, the passengershad already put in an appearance. The almost entire absence of wind, thesmoothness of the ocean, had given courage even to those the mostsusceptible to the sea's malady. It would have required a really vividimagination to have perceived any motion in the boat other than thethrobbing of her engines. 

Antony slipped into his seat, and a steward placed a plate of clear soupbefore him. In the act of taking his first spoonful, he paused, his eyesarrested by the sight of a woman advancing towards the chair on thecaptain's right. 

At the first glance, Antony saw that she was a tall woman, dressed inblack unrelieved save for ruffles of soft creamy lace at her throat andwrists. Presently he took in further details, the dark chestnut of herhair, the warm ivory of her skin, the curious steady gravity of hereyes--grey or violet, he was not sure which, --the straight line of hereyebrows, the delicate chiselling of her nose, and the red-rose of hermouth. And yet, in spite of seeing the details, they were submerged inthe personality which had first arrested him. Something within him toldhim as clearly as spoken words, that here, in her presence, lay theexplanation of the instinct which had prompted him to take his passage onthis boat. 

An odd little thrill of unaccountable excitement ran through him. He feltlike a man who had been shown a page in his own life-book, and who foundthe words written thereon extraordinarily and amazingly interesting. Hefound himself longing, half-inarticulately, to turn the leaf; and, yet, he knew that Time's hand alone could do this. He could only read as faras the end of the open page before him. And that page but recorded thefact of her presence. 

Once, during the repast, her eyes met his, steady, grave, and yet with alittle note of half interrogation in them. Again Antony felt that oddlittle thrill run through him, this time intensified, while his heartbeat and pounded under his immaculate white shirt-front. 

Perhaps it is a mercy that shirt-fronts, to say nothing of other things, do hide the vagaries of our hearts. It would be a sorry thing for us ifthe world at large could perceive them, --the joy, the anguish, theremorse, and the bitter little disappointments. Yes, above all, thebitter little disappointments, the cause possibly so trivial, so childishalmost, yet the hurt, the wound, so very real, the pain so horriblypoignant. It is the little stab which smarts the most; the blow whichaccompanies the deeper wound, numbs in its very delivery. 

 * * * * *

Later, in the moonlit darkness, Antony found himself again on deck, andagain leaning by the rail. Yet this time he had that page from hislife-book for company; and, marvelling, he perused the written wordsthereon. It was extraordinary that they should hold such significance forhim. And why for him alone? he queried. Might not another, others even, have read the selfsame words?

With the thought came a pang of something akin to jealousy at his heart. He wanted the words for himself, written for him alone. And yet it wasentirely obvious, considering the number at the table, that they musthave been recorded for others also, since, as already mentioned, they butrecorded the fact of her presence. But did they hold the samesignificance for the others? There was the question, and there possibly, nay probably, lay the comfort. Also, what lay on the other side of thepage? Unanswerable at the moment. 

He looked down at the gliding water, alive, alight with brilliantphosphorus. A step behind him made his heart leap. He did not turn, buthe was conscious of a figure on his right, also looking down upon thewater. Suddenly there was a faint flutter of drapery, and the breeze senta trail of something soft and silky across his eyes. 

"Oh, I am sorry, " said a voice in the darkness. 

Antony turned. 

"The wind caught it, " she explained apologetically, tucking the chiffonstreamer within her cloak. 

Now, it is quite certain that Antony had here an opportunity to make oneof those little ordinary pleasant remarks that invariably lead to aconversation, but none presented itself to his mind. He could do nothingbut utter the merest formal, though of course polite, acknowledgment ofher apology, his brain seeking wildly for further words the while. Itfound none. 

She gave him a little bow, courteous and not at all unfriendly, and movedaway across the deck. Antony looked after her figure receding in thedarkness. 

"Oh, you idiot, " he groaned within his heart, "you utter and double-dyedidiot. "

He looked despairingly down at the water, and from it to the moonlit sky. Fate, so he mused ruefully, writes certain sentences in our life-book, truly; but it behoves each one of us to fill in between the lines. And hehad filled in--nothing. 

An hour or so later he descended dejectedly to his cabin. 

CHAPTER IV

THE LADY OF THE BLUE BOOK

He saw her at breakfast the next morning; and again, later, sitting on adeck-chair, with a book. 

Once more he cursed his folly of the previous evening. A word or twothen, no matter how trivial their utterance, and the barriers ofconvention would have been passed. Even should Fate throw a likeopportunity in his path again, it was entirely improbable that she wouldchoose the same hour. She is ever chary of exact repetitions. And, if hisstammering tongue failed in speech with the soft darkness to cover itsshyness, how was it likely it would find utterance in the broad light ofday? The Moment--he spelled it with a capital--had passed, and wouldnever again recur. Therefore he seated himself on his own deck-chair, some twenty paces from her, and began to fill his pipe, gloomily enough. Yet, in spite of gloom, he watched her, --surreptitiously of course. Therewas no ill-bred staring in his survey. 

She was again dressed in black, but this time the lace ruffles had givenplace to soft white muslin cuffs and collar. Her dark hair was covered bya broad-brimmed black hat. She was leaning back in her chair as she read, the book lying on her lap. Suddenly the gravity of her face relaxed. Asmile rippled across it like a little breeze across the surface of somelake. The smile broke into silent laughter. Antony found himself smilingin response. 

She looked up from her book, and out over the sun-kissed water, theamusement still trembling on her lips and dancing in her eyes. 

"I wonder, " reflected Antony watching her, "what she has been reading. "

For some ten minutes she sat gazing at the sunshine. Then she rose fromher chair, placed her book upon it, and went towards the stairway whichled to the lower deck. 

Antony looked at the empty chair--empty, that is, except for a pale bluecushion and a deeper blue book. On the back of the chair, certain letterswere painted, --P. Di D. 

Antony surveyed them gravely. The first letter really engrossed hisattention. The last was merely an adjunct. The first would represent--orshould represent--the real woman. He marshalled every possibility beforehim, merely to dismiss them: Patience, Phyllis, Prudence, Priscilla, Perpetua, Penelope, Persis, Phoebe, Pauline, --none were to his mind. Thelast appeared to him the most possible, and yet it did not truly belong. So he summed up its fitness. Yet, for the life of him, he could find noother. He had run through the whole gamut attached to the initial, so hetold himself. Curiosity, or interest, call it what you will, fell backbaffled. 

He got up from his chair, and began to pace the deck. Passing her chair, he gazed again upon the letters painted thereon, as if challenging themto disclose the secret. Inscrutable, they stared back blankly at him. 

Turning for the third time, he perceived that she had returned on deck. She was carrying a small bag of old gold brocade. She was in the chaironce more as he came alongside of her; but the blue book had slipped tothe ground. He bent to pick it up, involuntarily glancing at the title ashe handed it to her. _Dream Days_. It fitted into his imaginings of her. 

"Do you know it?" she queried, noticing his glance. 

"No, " replied Antony, turning the book in his hands. 

"Oh, but you should, " she smiled back at him. "That is if you have thesmallest memory of your own childhood. I was just laughing over 'deathletters' ten minutes ago. "

"Death letters?" queried Antony perplexed, the while his heart wassinging a little pæan of joy at the vagaries of Fate's methods. 

"Yes; a will or testament. But a death letter is so infinitely moreexplanatory. Don't you think, so?"

Antony laughed. 

"Of course, " he agreed, light breaking in upon him. 

"Take the book if you care to, " she said. "I know it nearly by heart. ButI had it by me, and brought it on deck to look at it again. I didn't wantto get absorbed in anything entirely new. It takes one's mind from allthis, and seems a loss. " A little gesture indicated sunshine, sea, andsky. 

"Yes, " agreed Antony, "it's waste of time to read in the open. " And thenhe stopped. "Oh, I didn't mean--" he stammered, glancing down at thebook, and perceiving ungraciousness in his words. 

"Oh, yes, you did, " she assured him smiling, "and it was quite true, andnot in the least rude. Read it in your berth some time; you can do itthere with an easy conscience. "

She gave him a little nod, which might have been considered dismissal ora hint of emphasis. Antony, being of course aware that she could notpossibly find it the same pleasure to talk to him as he found it to talkto her, took it as dismissal. With a word of thanks he moved off down thedeck, the blue book in his hands. 

He found a retired spot forward on the boat. A curious shyness preventedhim from returning to his own deck-chair, and reading the book withinsight of her. In spite of his little remark against reading in the open, he was longing to make himself acquainted with the contents immediately. Had it not been her recommendation? Death letters! He laughed softly andjoyously. He had never even given the things a thought before, and here, twice within ten days, they had been brought to his notice in a fashionthat, to his mind, fell little short of the miraculous. And it is not atall certain that he did not consider their second queer little entry onthe scene the more miraculous of the two. 

He opened the book, and there, facing him from the fly-leaf, was theanswer to the question he had erstwhile sought to fathom, --Pia diDonatello. His lips formed the syllables, dwelling with pleasure on thefirst three little letters--Pia. Oh, it was right, it was utterly andentirely right. Every other possibility vanished before it into theremotest background, unthinkable in the face of what was. Pia diDonatello! Again he repeated the musical syllables. And yet--andyet--he'd have sworn she was English. There wasn't the faintest trace ofa foreign accent in her speech. If anything, there was a hint ofIrish, --the soft intonation of the Emerald Isle. Her colouring, too, wasIrish, the blue-black hair, the dark violet eyes--he had discovered thatthey were violet; looking, for all the world, as if they had been put inwith a smutty finger, as the saying goes. He revolved the problem in hismind, and a moment later came upon the solution, so he told himself. AnIrish mother, and an Italian father, so he decreed, metaphoricallypatting himself on the back the while for his perspicacity. 

The problem settled, he turned himself to the contents of the book as setforth by the author thereof, rather than the three words inscribed on thefly-leaf by the owner. They were not hard of digestion. The print waslarge, the matter light. Anon he came to Mutabile Semper and the deathletters, and, having read them, and laughed in concord with the erstwhilelaugh of the book's owner, he closed the pages, and gazed out upon thesunshine and the water. 

CHAPTER V

A FRIENDSHIP

Emerson has written a discourse on friendship. It is beautifully worded, truly; it is full of a noble and high-minded philosophy. Doubtless itwill appeal quite distinctly to those souls who, although yet on thisearth-plane, have already partly cast off the mantle of flesh, and havefound their paths to lie in the realm of spirit. Even to those, and it isby far the greater majority, who yet walk humdrumly along the world'sgreat highway, the kingdom of the spirit perceived by them as in a glassdarkly rather than by actual light shed upon them from its realm, it maybring some consolation during the absence of a friend. But for thegeneral run of mankind it is set on too lofty a level. It lacks thewarmth for which they crave, the personality and intercourse. 

"I do then, with my friends as I do with my books, " he says. "I wouldhave them where I can find them, but I seldom use them. "

Now, it is very certain that, for the majority of human beings, thefriendliest books are worn with much handling. If we picture for a momentthe bookshelves belonging to our childish days, we shall at once mentallydiscover our old favourites. They have been used so often. They have beenworn in our service. No matter how well we know the contents, we turn tothem again and again; there is a very joy in knowing what to expect. Timedoes not age nor custom stale the infinite variety. 

Thus it is in our childish days. And are not the majority of us stillchildren? Should our favourite books be placed out of our reach, shouldit be impossible for us to turn their pages, it is certain that we wouldfeel a loss, a gap. Were we old enough to comprehend Emerson'sphilosophy, we might endeavour to buoy ourselves up with the thought thatthus we were at one with him in his nobility and loftiness of sentiment. And yet there would be something childish and pathetic in the endeavour, by reason of its very unreality. Certainly if Providence should, eitherdirectly or indirectly, separate us from our friends, by all means let usaccept the separation bravely. It cannot destroy our friendship. Butseldom to use our friends, from the apparently epicurean point of view ofEmerson, would be a forced and unnatural doctrine to the majority, asunnatural as if a child should bury Hans Andersen's fairy tales for fearof tiring of them. It would savour more of present and actual distaste, than the love which fears its approach. There is the familiarity whichbreeds contempt, truly; but there is also the familiarity which dailyties closer bonds, draws to closer union. 

Antony had established a friendship with the lady of the blue book. Thebook had been responsible for its beginning. With Emerson's definition offriendship he would probably have been largely in harmony; not so in histreatment of it. With the following, he would have been at one, with theexception of a word or so:--"I must feel pride in my friend'saccomplishments as if they were mine, --wild, delicate, throbbing propertyin his virtues. I feel as warmly when he is praised, as the lover when hehears applause of his engaged maiden. We over-estimate the conscience ofour friend. His goodness seems better than our goodness, his naturefiner, his temptations less. Everything that is his, his name, his form, his dress, books, and instruments, fancy enhances. Our own thought soundsnew and larger from his mouth. "

Most true, Antony would have declared, if you will eliminate"over-estimate, " and substitute "is" for "seems. "

Unlike Emerson, he made no attempt to analyse his friendship. He acceptedit as a gift from the gods. Maybe somewhere in his inner consciousness, barely articulate even to his own heart, he dreamt of it as a foundationto something further. Yet for the present, the foundation sufficed. Death-letters--he laughed joyously at the coincidence--had laid the firststone, and each day placed others in firm and secure position round it. The building was largely unconscious. It is the way with true friendship. The life, also, conduced to it. There are fewer barriers of convention onboard ship than in any other mode of living. Mrs. Grundy, it is to besupposed, suffers from sea-sickness, and does not care for this method oftravelling. In fact, it would appear that she seldom does travel, butchooses by preference small country towns, mainly English ones, for herplace of residence. 

The days were days of sunshine and colour, the changing colour of seaand sky; the nights were nights of mystery, veiled in purple, star-embroidered. 

One day Pia made clear to him the explanation of her Irish colouring andher Italian surname. Her mother, she told him, was Irish; her father, English. Her baptismal name had been chosen by an Italian godmother. Shewas eighteen when she married the Duc di Donatello. On their wedding day, when driving from the church, the horses had bolted. She had beenuninjured; he had received serious injuries to his head and spine. He hadlived for seven years as a complete invalid, totally paralysed, but fullyconscious. During those seven years, she had never left him. Two yearspreviously he had died, and she had gone to live at her old home inEngland, --the Manor House, Woodleigh, which had been in the hands ofcaretakers since her parents' death. Her husband's property had passed tohis brother. The last six months she had been staying with a friend atWynberg. 

She told the little tale extremely simply. It never occurred to her toexpect sympathy on account of the tragedy which had marred her youth, andby reason of which she had spent seven years of her life in almost utterseclusion. The fact was merely mentioned in necessary explanation of herstory. Antony, too, had held silence. Sympathy on his part would havebeen somehow an intrusion, an impertinence. But he understood now, inpart at least, the steady gravity, the hint of sadness in her eyes. 

The name of Woodleigh awoke vague memories in his mind, but they were toovague to be noteworthy. Possibly, most probably, he told himself, he hadmerely read of the place at some time. She mentioned that it was inDevonshire, but curiously enough, and this was an omission which he notedlater with some surprise, he never questioned her as to its exactlocality. 

On his side, he told her of his life on the veldt, and mentioned that hewas returning to England on business. On the outcome of that samebusiness would depend the question whether he remained in England, orwhether he returned to the veldt. Having the solicitor's injunction inview, he naturally did not volunteer further information. Such details, too, sank into insignificance before the more absorbing interest ofpersonality. They are, after all, in a sense, mere accidents, and have nomore to do with the real man than the clothes he wears. True, the mannerin which one dons one's clothes, as the manner in which one deals withthe accidental facts of life, affords a certain index to the true man;but the clothes themselves, and the accidental facts, appear, at allevents, to be matters of fate. And if you can obtain knowledge of a manthrough actual contact with his personality, you do not trouble to drawconclusions from his method of donning his clothes. You may speculate inthis fashion with regard to strangers, or mere acquaintances. You have asurer, and infinitely more interesting, fashion with your friends. 

Life around them moved on in the leisurely, almost indolent manner inwhich it does move on board a passenger ship. The younger members playedquoits, cricket on the lower deck, and inaugurated concerts, supported bya gramaphone, the property of the chief officer, and banjo solos by thecaptain. The older members read magazines, played bridge, or knittedwoollen articles, according to the promptings of their sex and theirvarious natures, and formed audiences at the aforementioned concerts. 

Antony and the Duchessa di Donatello alone seemed somewhat aloof fromthem. They formed part of the concert audiences, it is true; but theyneither played bridge, quoits, nor cricket, nor knitted woollen articles, nor read magazines. The Duchessa employed her time with a piece of finelace work, when she was not merely luxuriating in the sunshine, orconversing with Antony. Antony either conversed with the Duchessa, or satin his deck chair, smoking and thinking about her. There was certainly adistinct sameness about the young man's occupation, which, however, hefound not in the smallest degree boring. On the contrary, it wasall-absorbing and fascinating. The very hours of the day were timed bythe Duchessa's movements, rather than by the mere minute portions ofsteel attached to the face of a commonplace watch. Thus:--

Dawn. He realizes the Duchessa's existence when he wakes. (His dreams hadbeen coloured by her, but that's beside the mark. )

Daybreak. The Duchessa ascends on deck and smiles at him. 

Breakfast time. The Duchessa sits opposite to him. 

The sunny morning hours. The Duchessa sews fine lace; she talks, shesmiles, --the smile that radiates through the sadness of her eyes. 

And so on, throughout the day, till the evening gloaming brings a hint offurther intimacy into their conversation, and night falls as she wisheshim pleasant dreams before descending to her cabin. 

He dwelt then, for the moment, solely in her friendship, but vaguely thehalf articulate thought of the future began to stir within him, pulsingwith a secret possibility of joy he barely dared to contemplate. 

CHAPTER VI

AT TENERIFFE

It was about ten o'clock of a sunny morning that the _Fort Salisbury_cast anchor off Teneriffe, preparatory to undergoing the process known ascoaling. 

Antony, from her decks, gazed towards the shore and the buildings lyingin the sunlight. Minute doll-like figures were busy on the land; mules, with various burdens, were ascending the steep street. Boats were alreadyputting out to the ship, to carry ashore such passengers as desired tospend a few hours on land. 

The whole scene was one of movement, light, and colour. The sea, sky, andearth were singing the Benedicite, and Antony's heart echoed theblessings. It was all so astonishingly good and pleasant, --the clean, fresh morning, the blue blue of the sky, the green blue of the water, andthe possibilities of the unknown mountain land lying before him. 

There is an extraordinary fascination in exploring an unknown land, evenif the exploration is to be of somewhat limited duration. The ship bywhich Antony had travelled to the Cape, had sailed straight out; it hadpassed the peak of Teneriffe at a distance. Antony had looked at it as itrose from the sea, like a great purple amethyst half veiled in cloud. Hehad wondered then, idly enough, whether it would ever be his lot to setfoot upon its shores. Never, in his wildest dreams, had he imagined underwhat actual circumstances that lot would be his. How could he haveguessed at what the fates were holding in store for him? They had heldtheir secret close, giving him no smallest inkling of it. If we dream ofparadise, our dream is modelled on the greatest happiness we have known;therefore, since our happiness is, doubtless, but a rushlight as comparedto the sunshine of paradise, our dreams must necessarily fall exceedinglyfar short of the reality. Hitherto Antony's happiness had been largelymonochrome, flecked with tiny specks of radiance. He might indeed havedreamed of something a trifle brighter, but how was it possible for himto have formed from them the smallest conception of the happiness thatwas awaiting him?

"It is really perfect, " said a voice behind him, echoing his thoughts. 

Antony turned. 

The Duchessa had come on deck, spurred and gauntleted for theiradventure, --in other words, attired in a soft, black dress, a shady blackhat on her head, crinkly black gloves, which reached to the elbow, on herhands, and carrying a blue sunshade. 

"It is really perfect, " she repeated, gazing towards the mountainous landbefore them, the doll-like figures on the shore, the boats cleaving thesparkling waters. 

"Absolutely, " declared Antony, his eyes wrinkling at the corners in sheerdelight. "The gods have favoured us. "

"Is there a boat ready?" she demanded, eager as a child to start on theadventure. 

"A boat, " said Antony, looking over the ship's side, "will be with us ina couple of moments I should say, to judge by the strength of the rower'sarms. He has been racing the other fellows, and will be first at hisgoal. "

"Then come, " she said. "Let us be first too. I don't want to lose aminute. "

Antony followed in her wake. Her sentiments most assuredly were his. Itwas not a day of which to squander one iota. 

Ten minutes later they were on their way to the shore. Behind them the_Fort Salisbury_ loomed up large and black from the limpid water; beforethem lay the land of possibilities. 

The other passengers in the boat kept up a running fire of comments. Astout gentleman in a sun-helmet, which he considered _de rigeur_ as longas he was anywhere at all near the regions of Africa, gazed towards theshore through a pair of field-glasses. At intervals he made known suchobjects of interest as he observed, in loud husky asides to his wife, asmall meek woman, who clung to him, metaphorically speaking, as the ivyto the oak. Her vision being unaided by field-glasses, she was unable tofollow his observations with the degree of intelligence he demanded. 

"I don't think I quite--" she remarked anxiously now and again, blinkingin the same direction as her spouse. 

"To the left, my dear, among the trees, " he would reply. Or, "Half-way upthe street. _Now_ don't you see?" Or, removing the field-glasses for amoment to observe the direction of her anxious blinking, "Why, bless mysoul, you aren't looking the right way _at all_. Get it in a line withthat chimney over there, and the yellow house. The _yellow_ house. You'relooking straight at the pink one. Bless my soul, tut, tut. " And soforth. 

A small boy, leaning far over the side of the boat, gazed rapturouslyinto the water, announcing in shrill tones that he could see to the verybottom, an anxious elder sister grasping the back of his jerseymeanwhile. A girl with a pigtail jumped about in a manner calculated tobring an abrupt and watery conclusion to the passage, till forciblyrestrained by her melancholy-looking father. A young man announced thatit was going to be, "Deuced hot on shore, what?" And a gushing youngthing of some forty summers appealed to everyone at intervals to know thehour to the very second it would be necessary to return, since it reallywould be a sin to keep the ship waiting. While the remarks from anelderly and cynical gentleman, that, in the event of unpunctuality on herpart, it would be more probable that she would find herself waitingindefinitely at Teneriffe, caused her to giggle hysterically, and labelhim a naughty man. 

"It is a matter for devout thankfulness, " said the Duchessa some tenminutes later, as she and Antony were walking across the square, "thatthe _Fort Salisbury_ is large enough to permit of a certain separationfrom one's fellow humans. I do not wish to be uncharitable, but theirproximity does not always appeal to me. "

Antony laughed, and tossed some coppers to a small brown-faced girl, who, clasping an infant nearly as large as herself, jabbered at him in anunknown but wholly understandable language. 

"You'll be besieged and bankrupt before you see the ship again, if youbegin that, " warned the Duchessa. 

"Quite possible, " returned Antony smiling. 

The Duchessa shook her head. 

"Oh, if you are in that mood, warnings are waste of breath, " sheannounced. 

"Quite, " agreed Antony, still smiling. 

He was radiantly, idiotically happy. The joy of the morning, thebrilliance of the sunshine, and the fact that the Duchessa was walking byhis side, had gone to his head like wine. If the expenditure of copperscould impart one tenth of his happiness to others, he would fling thembroadcast, he would be a very spendthrift with his gladness. 

At the church to the left of the square, the Duchessa paused. 

"In here first, " she said. And Antony followed her up the steps. 

They made their way through a swarm of grubby children, and entered theporch. It was cool and dark in the church in contrast to the heat andsunshine without. Here and there Antony descried a kneelingfigure, --women with handkerchiefs on their heads, and a big basket besidethem; an old man or two; a girl telling her beads before the Lady Altar;and a small dark-haired child, who gazed stolidly at the Duchessa. Votivecandles burned before the various shrines. The ruby lamp made a spot oflight in the shadows above the High Altar. 

The Duchessa dropped on one knee, and then knelt for a few moments at oneof the _prie-dieux_. Antony watched her. He was sensible that she was nota mere sight-seer. The church held an element of home for her. Two of thepassengers--the young man and the cynical elderly gentleman, who had beenin the boat with them--strolled in behind him. They gazed curiouslyabout, remarking in loudish whispers on what they saw. Antony feltsuddenly, and quite unreasonably, annoyed at their entry. Somehow theydetracted from the harmony and peace of the building. 

"I didn't know you were a Catholic, " he said five minutes later, as heand the Duchessa emerged once more into the sunlight. 

"You never asked me, " she returned smiling. 

"No, " agreed Antony. And then he added simply, as an afterthought, "itdidn't occur to me to ask you. "

"It wouldn't, " responded the Duchessa, a little twinkle in her eyes. 

"No, " agreed Antony again. "I wish those people hadn't come in, " he addedsomewhat irrelevantly. 

"What people?" demanded the Duchessa. "Oh, you mean those two men. Whynot? Most tourists visit the church. "

"I dare say, " returned Antony. "But--well, they didn't belong. "

"No?" queried the Duchessa innocently. 

Antony reddened. 

"You mean I didn't, " he said a little stiffly. 

"Ah, forgive me. " The Duchessa's voice held a note of quick contrition. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Somehow we Catholics get used to Protestantsregarding our churches merely as a sight to be seen, and for the moment Ismiled to think that _you_ should be the one whom it irritated. But I doknow what you mean, of course. And--I'm _glad_ you felt it. "

"Thank you, " he returned smiling. 

The little cloud, which had momentarily dimmed the brightness of his sun, was dispelled. The merest inflection in the Duchessa's voice had thepower of casting him down to depths of heart-searching despair, orlifting him to realms of intoxicating joy. And it must be confessed thatthe past fortnight had been spent almost continuously in these realms. Also, if he had sunk to the depths of despair, it was rather by reason ofan ultra-sensitive imagination on his own part than by any fault of theDuchessa's. But then, as Antony would have declared, the position of asubject to his sovereign is a very different matter from the position ofthe sovereign to the subject. The Duchessa could be certain of hisloyalty. It was for her to give or withhold favours as it pleased her. Itwas a different matter for him. 

It is not easy for a man, who has lived a very lonely life, to believe ina reciprocal friendship where he himself is concerned. A curiousadmixture of shyness and diffidence, the outcome of his lonely life, prevented him from imagining that the Duchessa could desire hisfriendship in the smallest degree as he desired hers. To him, thefriendship she had accorded him had become the most vital thing in hisexistence, quite apart from that vague and intoxicating dream, which hescarcely dared to confess in the faintest whisper to his heart. He knewthat her friendship appeared essential to his very life. But how could hefor one moment imagine that his friendship was essential to her? It couldnot be, though he would cheerfully have laid down his life for her, haveundergone torture for her sake. 

Knowing, therefore, that his friendship was not essential to herhappiness, yet knowing what her friendship meant to him, he was asultra-sensitive as a lonely child. His soul sprang forward to receive hergifts, but the merest imagined hint of a rebuff would have sent him backto that loneliness he had learned to look upon as his birthright. Notthat he would have gone back to that loneliness with a hurt sense ofinjury. That must be clearly understood to understand Antony. To havefelt injury, would have been tantamount to saying that he had had a rightto the friendship, and it was just this very right that Antony could notrealize as in the least existent. He would have gone back with an ache, it is true, but with a brave face, and an overwhelming and life-longgratitude for the temporary joy. That is at the present moment; of later, one cannot feel so certain. 

To-day, however, loneliness seemed a thing unthinkable, unimaginable, with the Duchessa by his side, and the golden day ahead of him. Byskilled manoeuvring, and avoiding the recognized hours of meal-time, theymanaged to escape further contact with their fellow passengers. 

An exceedingly late luncheon hour found them the sole occupants of asmall courtyard at the back of an hotel, --a courtyard set with roundtables, and orange trees in green tubs. Over the roofs of the houses, andfar below them, they could see the shining water, and the _FortSalisbury_, lying like a dark blob on its surface. Boats bearing coalwere still putting out to her, and men were busy hauling it over hersides. 

The Duchessa looked down on the ship and the water. 

"It is queer to think, " said she smiling, "that little more than a weekhence, I shall be in Scotland, and, probably, shivering in furs. It canbe exceedingly chilly up there, even as late as May. "

"I thought you were going to your old home, " said Antony. 

"So I am, " she replied, "but not till nearly the end of June. I am goingto stay with friends in Edinburgh first. Where are you going?"

Antony lifted his shoulders in the merest suspicion of a shrug. 

"London first, " he responded. "After that--well, it's on the knees of thegods. "

"Are you likely to stay in England long?" she asked. And then she addedquickly, "You don't think the question an impertinence, I hope. "

"Why should I?" he answered smiling. "But I really don't know yet myself. It will depend on various things. "

There was a little silence. 

"In any case, I shall see you before I leave England again, if I may, " hesaid. "That is, if I do leave. "

The Duchessa was still looking at the water. 

"I hope you will, " she replied. And then she turned towards him. "I don'twant our friendship to end completely with the voyage. "

Antony's heart gave a little leap. 

"It--it really is a friendship?" he asked. 

"Hasn't it been?" she asked him. 

Antony looked at her. 

"For me, yes, " he replied steadily. 

"Can a friendship be one-sided?" she demanded. She emphasised the word alittle. 

"I don't know, " said Antony whimsically. "I don't know much about them. Ihaven't ever wanted one before. "

Again there was a little silence. Then:

"Thank you, " said the Duchessa. 

Antony drew a long breath. They were such simple little words; and yet, to him, they meant more than the longest and most flowery of speeches. There was so infinitely more conveyed in them. And he knew that, if theyhad not been meant, they would not have been spoken. She did think hisfriendship worth while, and she had given him hers. It was all his heartdared ask at the moment, yet, deep within it, his secret hope stirred tofuller life. And then, suddenly, prompted by some instinct, quiteunexplainable at the moment, he put a question. 

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

"Trust, " she responded quickly, her eyes meeting his for a moment. "Andhere, " she said, looking towards the hotel, "comes our lunch. "

It was sunset before the _Fort Salisbury_ was once more cleaving her waythrough the water. Antony, from her decks, looked once more at thereceding land. Again he saw it rising, like a purple amethyst, from thesea, but this time it was veiled in the rose-coloured light of thesinking sun. He looked towards that portion of the amethyst where thelittle courtyard with the orange trees in green tubs was situated. 

Once more he heard his question and the Duchessa's answer. It was amemory which was to remain with him for many a month. 

CHAPTER VII

ENGLAND

A week later, Antony was sitting in a first-class carriage on his wayfrom Plymouth to Waterloo. He gazed through the window, his mind filledwith various emotions. 

Uppermost was the memory of the voyage and the Duchessa. The memoryalready appeared to him almost as a vivid and extraordinarily beautifuldream, though reason assured him to the contrary. The whole events of thelast month, and even his present position in the train, appeared to himintangible and unreal. It seemed a dream self, rather than the realAntony, who was gazing from the window at the landscape which wasslipping past him; who was looking out on the English fields, the Englishwoods, and the English cottages past which the train was tearing. He sawgardens ablaze with flowers; bushes snowy with hawthorn; horses and cowsstanding idly in the shadow of the trees; and, now and again, small, trimly-kept country stations, looking for all the world like primschoolgirls in gay print dresses. 

He glanced from the window to the rack opposite to him, where hisportmanteau was lying. That, at all events, was tangible, real, andfamiliar. It struck the sole familiar note in the extraordinaryunfamiliarity of everything around him. He looked at his own initialspainted on it, slowly tracing them in his mind. He pulled out hispocket-book, and took from it the letter which had altered the wholeperspective of his life. He could almost see the African stoep as helooked at it, feel the heat of the African sun, hear the occasionalchirping of the grasshoppers. Age-old the memory appeared, caught frombygone centuries. And it was only a month ago. Replacing it in the book, his eye fell upon a small piece of pasteboard. The Duchessa had given itto him that morning. Her name was printed on it, and below she hadwritten a few pencilled words, --her address in Scotland. She wasremaining in Plymouth for a day or so, before going North. He was towrite to her at the Scotland address, and let her know where she couldacquaint him with her further movements, and the actual date of herreturn to the Manor House. That, too, was tangible and real, --that smallpiece of white pasteboard. And, then, a little movement beside him, and along quivering sigh of content brought back to him the most tangiblething of all--Josephus. Josephus, who was sleeping the sleep of thecontented, just after a frenzied and rapturous reunion with his deity. 

Oh, of course it was all real, and it was he, Antony, his very self, whowas sitting in the train, the train which was rushing through the goodold English country, carrying him towards London and the answer to theriddle contained in that most amazing of letters. 

"It isn't a dream, Josephus, " he assured the sleepy puppy. "I am real, you are real, the train is real, England is real, and Heaven bepraised--the Duchessa is real. " After which act of assurance he turnedhis attention once more to the window. 

And now, the dream sense dispelled, he found long-forgotten memoriesawaken within him, memories of early boyhood, aroused by the sight ofsome old church tower, of some wood lying on a hillside, of some amberstream rippling past rush-grown banks. He hugged the memories to hissoul, rejoicing in them. They brought a dozen trivial little incidents tohis mind. He could hear his old nurse's voice warning him not to leanagainst the door of the carriage. He could feel his small nose pressedagainst the window-pane, his small hand rubbing the glass where it hadbeen dimmed by his breath. He could hear the crackle of paper bags, assandwiches and buns were produced for his refreshment; he could taste theham between the pieces of bread and butter; and he could see a small boy, with one eye on his nurse, pushing a piece of fat between the cushions ofthe seat and the side of the carriage. This last memory evoked a littlechuckle of laughter. That nurse had been a strong disciplinarian. 

The memories linked together, forming a more connected whole. He recalledplaces farther afield than those caught sight of from the window of thetrain. He remembered a copse yellow with primroses, a pond where he hadfished for sticklebacks, a bank with a robin's nest in it. He remembereda later visit with an aunt. He must then have been fourteen orthereabouts. There had been a small girl, staying with her aunt at aneighbouring farm, who had accompanied him on his rambles. Despite hertender age--she couldn't have been more than five years old--she had beenthe inventor of their worst escapades. It was she who had egged him on tothe attempt to cross the pond on a log of wood, racing round it to shoutencouragement from the opposite side. The timely advent of one of thefarm-labourers alone had saved him from a watery grave. It was she whohad invented the bows and arrows with which he had accidentally shot theprize bantam, and it was she who had insisted on his going with her tosearch for pheasants' eggs, a crime for which he barely escaped thepenalty of the law. 

He remembered her as a fragile fair-haired child, with a wide-eyedinnocence of expression, utterly at variance with her true character. Inspite of her nobly shouldering her full share of the blame, he hadinvariably been considered sole culprit, which he most assuredly was not, though weight of years should have taught him better. But then, one couldhardly expect the Olympians to lay any measure of such crimes at the doorof a grey-eyed, fair-haired angel. And that was what she had appeared tomere superficial observation. It required extreme perspicacity of vision, or great intimacy, to arrive at anything a trifle nearer the truth. Hesought in the recesses of his memory for her name. That it had suited heradmirably, and that it was monosyllabic, was all he could remember. Aftera few minutes fruitless search, he abandoned it as hopeless, and pulledpipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket. 

Presently he saw the square tower and pinnacles of Exeter Cathedral abovesome trees, and the train ran into the station. Antony watched the peopleon the platform with interest. They were English, and it was thirteenyears since he had been in England. He listened to the fragmentaryEnglish sentences he heard, finding pleasure in the sound. He marvelledidly at the lack of colour in the scene before him. The posters on thewalls alone struck a flamboyant note. Yet there was something restful inthe monochrome of the dresses, the dull smoke-griminess of the station. At all events it was a contrast to the vivid colouring of the Africanveldt. 

Despite his interest in his fellow humans, however, he found himselfdevoutly trusting his privacy would remain undisturbed, and it was with asense of relief that he felt the train glide slowly out of the station, leaving him the sole occupant of his compartment. 

Later, he saw the spire of Salisbury Cathedral. Again fortune favouredhim in the matter of privacy, and presently drowsiness descended on hiseyelids, which was not fully dispelled till the train ran into the gloomof Waterloo station. 

CHAPTER VIII

THE AMAZING CONDITIONS

The offices of Messrs. Parsons and Glieve, solicitors, are situated offthe Strand, and within seven minutes' walk of Covent Garden. It is anold-established and exceedingly respectable firm. Its respectability isemphasized by the massiveness of its furniture and the age of its officeboy. He is fifty, if he is a day. An exceeding slowness of brainprevented him from rising to a more exalted position, a position to whichhis quite extraordinary conscientiousness and honesty would have entitledhim. That same conscientiousness and honesty prevented him from beingsuperseded by a more juvenile individual, when his age had passed thelimit usually accorded to office boys. Imperceptibly almost, he becamepart and parcel of the firm, a thing no more to be dispensed with thanthe brass plate outside the office. He appeared now as an elderly andexceedingly reputable butler, and his appearance quite enormouslyincreased the respectability of the firm. 

Nominally James Glieve and Henry Parsons were partners of equal standing, neither claiming seniority to the other; virtually James Glieve was thevoice, Henry Parsons the echo. In matters of great importance, theyreceived clients in company, Henry Parsons playing the part of Greekchorus to James Glieve's lead. In matters of less importance, they eachhad their own particular clients; but it is very certain that, even thus, Henry Parsons invariably echoed the voice. It merely meant that the voicehad sounded in private, while the echo was heard in public. 

When George, the office-boy-butler, presented James Glieve with a smallpiece of pasteboard, on the morning following Antony's arrival in town, with the statement that the gentleman was in the waiting-room, JamesGlieve requested the instant presence of Henry Parsons, prior to theintroduction of Antony. From which token it will be justly observed thatthe matter in hand was of importance. In James Glieve's eyes it was ofextreme importance, and that by reason of its being extremely unusual. 

Some six weeks previously an unknown client had made his appearance inthe person of a big clean-shaven man, by name Doctor Hilary St. John. Henry Parsons happened, this time quite by accident, to be present at theinterview. The big man had made certain statements in an exceedinglybusiness-like manner, and had then requested Messrs. Parsons and Glieveto act on his behalf, or, rather, on behalf of the person for whom he wasemissary. 

"But, bless my soul, " James Glieve had boomed amazed, on the conclusionof the request, "I never heard such a thing in my life. It--I am not atall sure that it is legal. "

"Not at all sure that it is legal, " Henry Parsons had echoed. 

The big man had laughed, recapitulated his statements, and urged hispoint. 

"I don't see how it can be done, " James Glieve had respondedobstinately. 

"It can't be done, " the echo had repeated with even greater assurancethan the voice. 

"Oh, yes, it can, " Doctor Hilary had replied with greater assurancestill. "See here--" and he had begun all over again. 

"Tut, tut, " James Glieve had clucked on the conclusion of the thirdrecital. "You've said all that before. I tell you, man, the wholebusiness is too unusual. It--I'm sure it isn't legal. And anyhow it'smad. What's the name of your--er, your deceased friend?"

"The name?" piped Henry Parsons. 

"Nicholas Danver, " had been the brief response. 

"Nicholas Danver!" James Glieve had almost shouted the words. "NicholasDanver! God bless my soul!" And he had leant back in his chair and shakenwith laughter. Henry Parsons, true to his rôle, had chuckled atintervals, but feebly. For the life of him he could see no cause formirth. 

"Oh, Nick, Nick, " sighed James Glieve, wiping his eyes after a fewminutes, "I always vowed you'd be the death of me. To think of youturning up in the life of a staid elderly solicitor at this hour. "

Henry Parsons stared. And this time his voice found no echo. 

"Well, Doctor, " said James Glieve, stuffing his handkerchief back intohis pocket, "I suppose I--" he broke off. "This is a most respectablefirm of solicitors, " he remarked suddenly and almost fiercely. "We'dnever dream of stooping to anything approaching fraud. "

"Not dream of it, " echoed Henry. 

"Of course not, " said Doctor Hilary heartily. "But this----"

"Oh, yes, I daresay, I daresay. Now then, what are your propositions?"

"Your propositions?" echoed Henry. 

And a fourth time Doctor Hilary repeated them. 

At the end of a lengthy interview, James Glieve opened the door of hissanctum to show Doctor Hilary out. 

"You might give my kindest remembrances--" he stopped. "Bless my soul, Iwas just going to send my remembrances to old Nick, and we've beenspending the last hour settling up his will. Where's my memory going! Ishall probably run down in a few days, and go through matters with you onthe spot. A--er, a melancholy pleasure to see the old place again. What?"

Henry Parsons, within the room, lost this last speech; therefore it foundno echo. 

When Antony entered the private sanctum of James Glieve, he saw a stoutred-faced man, with a suspicion of side whiskers and a slight appearanceof ferocity, seated at a desk. On his right, and insignificant bycomparison, was a small grey-haired and rather dried-up man. 

"Mr. Antony Gray?" queried the red-faced man, looking at Antony over hisspectacles. 

Antony bowed. 

"You come in answer to our communication regarding the will of the--er, late Mr. Nicholas Danver?" asked James Glieve. 

"I do, " responded Antony. And he drew the said communication from hispocket, and laid it on the table. 

James Glieve glanced at it. Then he leant back in his chair, put hiselbows on its arms, and placed the tips of his fingers together. 

"The--er, the conditions of the will are somewhat unusual, " he announced. "It is my duty to set them plainly before you. Should you refuse them, weare to see that you are fully recompensed for any expense andinconvenience your journey will have entailed. Should you, on the otherhand, accept them, it is understood that as a man of honour you willfulfil the conditions exactly, not only in the letter, but in thespirit. "

"In the spirit, " echoed Henry Parsons. 

Antony bowed in silence. 

"Of course, should you fail in your contract, " went on James Glieve, "thewill becomes null and void. But it would be quite possible for you tokeep to the contract in the letter, while breaking it merely in thespirit, in which case probably no one but yourself would be aware that ithad been so broken. You will not be asked to sign any promise in thematter. You will only be asked to give your word. "

"To give your word, " said Henry Parsons, looking solemnly at Antony. 

"Yes, " said Antony quietly. 

James Glieve pulled a paper towards him. 

"The conditions, " he announced, "are as follows. I am about to read whatthe--er, late Mr. Nicholas Danver has himself written regarding thematter. "

He cleared his throat, and pushed his spectacles back on his nose. 

Antony looked directly at him. In spite of the business-like appearanceof the room, the business-like attitude of the two men opposite to him, he still felt that odd Arabian Nights' entertainment sensation. The roomand its occupants seemed to be masquerading under a business garb; itseemed to need but one word--if he could have found it--to metamorphosethe whole thing back to its original and true conditions, to change theroom into an Aladdin's cave, and the two men into a friendly giant and anattendant dwarf. The only thing he could not see metamorphosed wasGeorge, the office-boy-butler. He retained his own appearance andpersonality. He appeared to have been brought--as a human boy, possibly--into the entertainment, and to have grown up imperturbably init. Though quite probably, under his present respectable demeanour, hewas well aware of the true state of affairs, and was laughing inwardly atit. 

James Glieve cleared his throat a second time, and began. 

"The conditions under which I make the aforesaid Antony Gray my heir, " heread, "are as follows. He will not enter into possession of eitherproperty or money for one year precisely from the day of hearing theseconditions. He shall give his word of honour to make known to no personwhatsoever that he is my heir. He shall live, during the said year, in afurnished cottage on the estate, the cottage to be designated to him bymy friend Doctor Hilary St. John. He will undertake that he lives in thatcottage and nowhere else, not even for a day. He will live as an ordinarylabourer. That this may be facilitated he will have a post as one of theunder-gardeners in the gardens of Chorley Old Hall. Golding, thehead-gardener, will instruct him in his duties. He will be paid one poundsterling per week as wage, and he shall pay a rent of five shillings perweek for the cottage. He will undertake to use no income or capital ofhis own during the said year, nor receive any help or money from friends. Briefly, he will undertake to make the one pound per week, which he willearn as wage, suffice for his needs. He will take the name of MichaelField for one year, and neither directly nor indirectly will he acquaintany one whomsoever with the fact that it is a pseudonym. In short, hewill do all in his power to give the impression to everyone that he issimply and solely Michael Field, working-man, and under-gardener atChorley Old Hall. 

"He will make his decision in the matter within twenty-four hours, and, should his decision be in the affirmative, he will bind himself, as a manof honour to abide by it. And, further, he will proceed to Byestry withinone week of the decision, to take up his duties, and his residence in theaforesaid cottage. 

 "Nicholas Danver. 

 "The fifth day of March, nineteen hundred and eleven. "

James Glieve stopped. He did not look at Antony, but at the paper, whichhe placed on the desk in front of him. 

"Hmm, " said Antony quietly and ruminatively. 

"You have twenty-four hours in which to make your decision, " said JamesGlieve. 

"Twenty-four hours, " said Henry Parsons. 

"I think that's as well, " returned Antony. He was still feeling the quiteabsurd desire to find the word which should metamorphose the scene beforehim to its true conditions. 

"I told you the terms of the will were unusual, " said James Glieve. 

"Very unusual, " emphasized Henry Parsons. 

"They are, " said Antony dryly. Then he got up from his chair. He lookedat his watch. "Well, Mr. Glieve, it is twelve o'clock. I will let youknow my decision by eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. That, I believe, will entirely fulfil the conditions?"

"Entirely, " said James Glieve. 

"Entirely, " echoed Henry Parsons. 

CHAPTER IX

THE DECISION

As soon as Antony left the office, he walked down into the Strand, wherehe took an omnibus as far as Pimlico. There he dismounted, and made hisway to the embankment, intending to walk back to his rooms in Chelsea. Hehad spent the previous evening hunting for rooms solely on Josephus'saccount. Dogs, and more especially puppies, are not welcomed at hotels;also, Antony considered the terms demanded for this special puppy'shousing and maintenance entirely disproportionate to Josephus's size andrequirements. 

As he walked along the embankment he reviewed the situation andconditions recently placed before him. At first sight they appearedalmost amusing and absurd. The whole thing presented itself to the mindin the light of some huge joke; and yet, behind the joke, lay a curioussense of inexorableness. At first he did not in the least realize whatcaused this sense, he was merely oddly aware of its existence. He walkedwith 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 hisright. An occasional group of somewhat grubby children, generallyaccompanied by an elder sister and a baby in a perambulator, now andagain occupied a seat. A threadbare and melancholy-looking man flungpieces of bread to a horde of sea-gulls. Antony watched them screamingand whirling as they snatched at the food. They brought the _FortSalisbury_ to his mind. And then, in a sudden flash of illumination, hesaw precisely wherein that sense of inexorableness lay. With therealization his heart stood still; and, with it, for the same briefsecond, his feet. The next instant he had quickened his steps, fightingout the new idea which had come to him. 

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

Should he refuse the conditions attached to the will, he remained inexactly the same position in which he had found himself some four or fiveweeks previously; namely, in the position of owner of a small farm on theAfrican veldt, which farm brought him in an income of some two hundred ayear. In that position the dream, which had dawned within his heart onthe _Fort Salisbury_, would be impossible of fulfilment. His life andthat of the Duchessa di Donatello must lie miles apart, separated both bylack of money and the ocean. If, on the other hand, he accepted theconditions, a year must elapse before he made that dream known to her;and--and here lay the meaning of that sense of inexorableness he hadexperienced--he could give her no explanation of the extraordinarysituation in which he would find himself, a situation truly calculated tocreate any amount of misunderstanding. To all appearances the adventureon 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, addressinghimself to Josephus. 

Josephus put his paws on Antony's knees, and licked the hand which wasnot holding the pipe. 

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

And then, suddenly, a memory sprang to life within his soul. He saw againa 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 thewhole business? And yet, was it not something like a confession ofweakness of friendship on his own part, to question the endurance ofhers? She had said they were friends. Perhaps the very test of thestrength of his own friendship was to lie in his trust of the strength ofhers. 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, eventhough he might not give the smallest hint of what that inability was. Atleast he could let her perceive it was by no wish of his own that hestayed away. 

Hope revived within his heart. On the one hand there would be temporarybanishment, truly. But it would be infinitely preferable to life-longexile. A year, after all, was only a year. To him the moments might, naywould, 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 mustlook 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 greynessdid not touch her. And why should it? The fact of his absence could notpossibly bring the same blank to her as it would to him. She might wondera little, she might even question. But had not she herself spoken oftrust?

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

 * * * * *

Perhaps, if Antony had attempted to pen his letter to the Duchessa beforemaking his decision, he might have hesitated regarding making it. It was, however, not till the evening before he left town to take up his newlife, that he attempted to write to her. Then he discovered theextraordinary difficulty of putting into anything like coherent andconvincing words the statement he had to make. He drafted at least adozen 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 undergoneunexpected and quite unforeseen changes. As matters stand at present, Ishall be remaining in England for some time. I had hoped to see you whenyou returned from Scotland, but find, deeply to my regret, that I will beunable to do so, for a considerable time at all events. Need I tell youthat this is a great disappointment to me? I had been looking forward toseeing you again, and now fate has taken matters out of my hands. Whenthe 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 todo so. 

"I would like to thank you for your kindness and comradeship to me duringthe 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 thatlittle 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 moreexplicitly. Honour forbade the smallest hint at the strange position inwhich he found himself; diffidence held him back from writing the wordshis 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 theaddress of his present rooms, giving his landlady instructions to forwardall letters to the post office at Byestry. 

One letter, bearing a Scottish postmark, alone came for him after hisdeparture. It remained for close on two months on the table of the dingylittle hall. Then, fearing lest Antony's receipt of it should betray herown 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. Itis a small town, not much larger than a mere village, lying, as its namedesignates, on the shores of the estuary, which runs from the sea up toKingsleigh. Chorley Old Hall stands on high wooded land, about a milefrom the coast, having a view across the estuary, and out to the seaitself. 

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 theroad beyond the station, a number of carts and carriages, and a couple ofclosed buses, were collected. The drivers of the said vehicles stood bythe gate through which the passengers must pass, ready to accost those bywhom they had been already ordered, or pounce upon likely fares. 

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

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

"I am, " he replied. 

"That's güd, " responded the man cheerfully. "'It the first nail, so tospeak. 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 thetrap, 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. Theadventurous side of the affair had sprung again to the fore, after a weekof business-like detail, --writing letters of instruction to Riffle tocarry on with the farm till further notice, an office he was fullyqualified to fulfil; making certain arrangements with Lloyd's bankregarding monies to be sent out to him; buying garments suitable for thepart he himself was about to play; and having one or two furtherinterviews with Messrs. Parsons and Glieve, in which the absolutenecessity of his playing up to his rôle in every way was furtherimpressed upon him. 

The one difficulty that had presented itself to his mind, was his speech. He spent several half hours conversing with himself in broadestDevonshire, but finally decided that, it being the speech of the natives, he might sooner or later betray himself by some inadvertent lapse. Nexthe attempted a Colonial accent. James Glieve, however, being consulted onthe subject, it was firmly negatived as likely to prove unpopular. In theend 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. Possiblyhis actual phraseology would not prove all it might be, but the Devonianswere not likely to be much the wiser. Anyhow Antony admired his ownprowess 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 ofmoorland. Gorse bushes bloomed golden against a background of grey skyand atmosphere, seen through a fine veil of rain. 

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

He looked out at the wide expanses around him. Mist covered the fartherdistances, but through it, afar off, he fancied he could descry the greyline of the sea. To the right the moorland gave place to a distant stonewall, beyond which was a wheat field; to the left it stretched away intothe 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. Yü'm to be under-gardener there I heerdt'Doctor say. What they'll want wi' keeping up t'gardens now I doantknoaw, and t'old Squire gone. Carried off mighty suddint 'e was. Us saidas t'journey tü Lunnon ud be the death o' he. Never outside t'doors thesefifteen year and more, and then one fine day Doctor takes he oop toLunnon to see one o' they chaps un calls a speshulist. Why t'speshulistdidn't come to he us can't tell. Carried on a stretcher he was fromt'carriage to t'train, for all the world like a covered corpse. Nextthing Doctor coom home alone, and us hears as t'old Squire be dead. Idoant rightly knoaw as who 'twas was the first to tell we, for Doctor, 'edoant like talking o' the business. But there 'tis, and t'Lord only knowswho'll have t'old place now, seeing as 'ow 'e never 'ad no wife to bearun a son. Us _heerd_ as 'twould be a chap from foreign parts. 'Twas JaneEllen from Doctor's as put that around, but us thinks her got the notionin a way her shouldn't, for her's backed out o' the sayin' o't now. Saysher never said nowt o' the kind. But her did. 'Twas Jim Morris's wife hertold. S'pose Mr. Curtis'll run t'show till t'heir turns oop. 'Twont makemuch difference to we. He's run it the last ten year and more, and run it_hard_, I tell 'ee that. Doant yü go for to get the wrong side o' SpencerCurtis, 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'tnever 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 andwe. 'E'd never set eyes on nobody, 'e wouldn't. If I'd my way I'd giveevery gentry what owns property a taste o' livin' on it same's we. 'E'dknow a bit more aboot the fair runnin' o' it then. "

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

He'd had experience enough and to spare, --he smiled grimly tohimself, --experience such as an English farm-labourer earning a pound aweek, even with a wife and children to keep, and all odds against him, could never in the remotest degree aided by the wildest flights ofimagination, conceive. In England water at least is always obtainable. Antony had visions of the jealous husbanding of a few drops of hotmoisture in a sunbaked leather bottle. In England the law at leastprotects 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 inhis life which it was not good to recall. 

They were descending now, driving between the high banks and hedges of atrue Devonshire lane. Primroses starred the banks, though in lessprofusion than they had been a fortnight earlier; bluebells and pinkcampion 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 waslower. Over it, and across an expanse of sloping fields dotted here andthere with snow-white hawthorn bushes, Antony saw the roofs of houses andcottages, and, beyond them, the sea. It lay grey and tranquil under anequally grey sky. A solitary fishing smack, red-sailed, made a note ofcolour in the neutral atmosphere of sea and sky. To the right was agorse-crowned cliff; to the left, and across the estuary, a headland ranfar out into the water. 

"Byestry, " said the man, nodding in the direction of the roofs. "Us doantgo down into t'place. Yü'm to have Widow Jenkins's cottage, her as diedback tü Christmas. 'Tis a quarter o'mile or so from t'town, and 'twill bethat mooch nearer t'old Hall. Yü see yon chimbleys by they three elmsyonder? 'Tis Doctor's house. Yü'm tü go there this evenin' aboot seveno'clock 'e bid me tell 'ee. Where was yü working tü 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 beendoing a bit on my own account lately. "

"Hmm, " replied the man. "I reckon if I'd been workin' my own jobs, I'dnot take an under post in a hurry. But yü knoaws your own business best. T'last chap as was underest gardener oop tü t'Hall got took on by folksliving over Exeter way. He boarded wi' t'blacksmith and his wife. Maybeyü'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! Yü'd best be takin' oop wi' a wife. There's a sight of vitty maidstü Byestry, and 'tis lonesome like comin' home to an empty hearth and nosupper. There's Rose Darell, her's a güd maid, and has a bit o' money; orJenny Horswell, her's a bit o' a squint, but is a fair vitty maid tüt'cleanin'; or Vicky Mathers, her's as pretty as a picter, but her's notthe money nor the house ways o' Rose or Jenny, " he ended with thoughtfulconsideration. 

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

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

"Crossed?" queried the man. "Ah, well, doan't 'ee go for to get down onyour luck for one maid. There's as güd blackberries hangin' on t'bushesas ever was plucked from them. And yü'm tü young a chap tü be thinkin' o'yürself 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 withhypocritical 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 firstwoman was, so t'Scripture do tell we, and I reckon us men folk do feelthe 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 alittle way back from the road, --a cottage with a wicket gate between twohedges, and a flagged path leading up to a small porch, thatched, as wasthe cottage. 

"Here us be, " said the man. 

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

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

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

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

"Here's t'key, " remarked the man. "And if yü feel like a pipe one o'these evenin's, yü might coom down tü t'village. My place is overopposite t'post office. I be t'saddler. Yü'll see t'name Allbut Georgeover t'shop. "

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

"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 Georgehad 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 bigfireplace 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 abasket-chair, two wooden chairs, a round table, a dresser with somehighly coloured earthenware crockery on it, a corner cupboard, and agrandfather's clock. There was a door behind the settle to the right ofthe fireplace, and, in the opposite corner, stairs leading to a room orrooms above. 

Antony put his bag down on the table and went to investigate the door. Itled 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 boxcontaining some pieces of wood. In another corner was a galvanizedbucket, a broom, and a scrubbing-brush. He glanced around, then came backinto the sitting-room, and made his way to the stairs. 

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

He crossed to the window, and pushed it back. It looked on to a tinyvegetable garden, in much the same state of neglect as the front garden, and was separated from a field yellow with buttercups by a low hawthornhedge. Beyond the field was a tiny brook; and, beyond that again, acopse. There was not a sound to break the silence, save the dripping ofthe rain from the roof of the cottage, and, in the distance, the lowsighing note of the sea. The silence was emphasized by the fact that forthe last week Antony had had the hum of traffic in his ears, and had butthis moment come from the noise of trains and the rattle of a shakydog-cart. 

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

A curious sense of loneliness fell upon him, a loneliness altogether atvariance with the loneliness of the veldt. He could not have definedwherein the difference lay, yet he was well aware that there was adifference. It was one of those subtle differences, exceedingly apparentto the inner consciousness, yet entirely impossible to translate intoterms of speech. The nearest approach he could get to anything like adefinition 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 heleant at the little casement window, gazing at the gold of the buttercupsseen through a blurred mist of rain. Then he pulled the window to, andcame 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 ofa cup of tea. His bag contained all the requirements. Long practice hadtaught 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 tolighting a fire, when he heard the click of his garden gate. Turning, andlooking 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 nearlyas grey as the atmosphere. 

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

The fact that you had excellent reasons for adopting the scheme in thefirst place, will doubtless be of comfort to your soul, but thatparticular species of comfort and ordinary everyday common sense are notalways as closely united as you might desire. In fact they areoccasionally apt to pull in entirely opposite directions, a method ofprocedure which is far from consoling. 

Doctor Hilary found it far from consoling. 

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

In the first place, and it seemed to him nearly, if not quite, the mostunreasonable point, Nicholas had known nothing whatever about the youngman he had elected to make his heir, --nothing, that is, beyond the factthat he had known the young man's father, and had once seen Antonyhimself when Antony was a child. There had even been very considerabledifficulty in obtaining knowledge of his whereabouts. 

In the second place, it appeared quite absurd to appoint the young man tothe position of under-gardener at the Hall. It was more than probablethat he knew nothing whatever about gardening. It was true that, if hedid not, he could learn. But then Golding, the head gardener, might notunreasonably find matter for amazement and comment in the fact that ayoung and ignorant man, who was paid a pound a week and allowed to rent afurnished cottage, should be thrust upon him, rather than an experiencedman, or an ignorant boy who would have received at the most eightshillings a week, and have lived at his own home. Amazement and commentwere to be avoided, that had been Nicholas's idea, and yet, to DoctorHilary's mind they ran the risk of being courted from the outset. In thethird place, how was it likely that a man of education--and it had beenascertained that Antony was a university man--could comport himself likea labourer in any position, --gardener, farm-hand, or chauffeur? Theconditions had stated that he was to do so. But could he? There was thepoint. 

The more Doctor Hilary thought about the conditions, the madder theyappeared to him. Yet, having undertaken the job of carrying the madscheme through, he could not possibly back out at the eleventh hour. Hecould only hope for the best, but it must be confessed that he was notexceedingly optimistic about that best. And further, he was notexceedingly optimistic about the young man. He could imagine himself, ina like situation, consigning Nick and his conditions to the netherregions; certainly not submitting meekly to a year's effacement of hispersonality for the sake of money. Such conditions would have enragedhim. 

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

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

He sighed heavily, and shook his head, somewhat after the fashion of abig dog. Reasons, partly mental, partly physical were responsible for theshake. 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 therain drops clinging to them, since the rain was descending in a greymisty veil. 

With the shake, an idea struck him. 

Why not confront the embodied scheme at once? Why not interview thispreposterous 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, hisdog-cart driving away down the lane. It had been his own doing. He hadsaid he would walk home. An idiotic idea! What on earth had suggested itto 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, andconfronted 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 thedoor on the words. 

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

"He did that, " returned Antony pushing forward a chair, but making noattempt to sit down himself. The impulse had been upon him. Memory hadawakened just in time. 

Doctor Hilary was silent. The reality was so entirely different from hispreconceived notions. The cheerful, clean-shaven young man, with theIrish accent, standing before him in an attitude of quite respectful, butnot in the least subservient attention, was at such complete variancewith either of his two imaginary types, that he found his attitude ofgrimness insensibly relaxing. 

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

"Well, " returned Antony thoughtfully considering, "he asked me about mylast place, and I told him I'd been working on my own account. Thereuponhe expressed surprise that I should now be taking an under post, butremarked 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 meadvice on matrimony, and mentioned three 'vitty maids' he could producefor my inspection. I told him, " continued Antony solemnly, though hiseyes were still twinkling, "that I was not a marrying man at all. "

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

"Hmm, " he remarked again. "He said nothing else I suppose? Expressed nosurprise at your being chosen for the post, instead of a local man?"

"He did not, " responded Antony, replying to the last question. "It wouldseem that he thought any appointment to the post unnecessary, in view ofthe 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 atall. He talked, but I said little. "

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

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

"Sure, 'tis we Irish have the gift o' the gab, " he returnedapologetically, "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 yoube having one with me? It'll not take beyont ten minutes or so to get afire going, and the water boiling. That is, if you'll be doing me thehonour, sor, " he concluded gravely. 

Doctor Hilary laughed outright. 

He watched Antony disappear into the scullery, to reappear with a bundleof sticks and a log. He watched him kneeling by the fire, manipulatingthem deftly. He watched him fill a kettle with water, and put it on thefire, 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 undergonesince entering Copse Cottage. Every trace of prejudice had vanished. There was, in his mind, something pathetic in the skill, evidently bornof long practice, with which this tall lean man made his preparations forthe little meal. 

From watching the man, Doctor Hilary turned his attention to the room. Itwas fairly comfortable, at all events, if not in the least luxurious. Butthe 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 thesilence. 

"Sure, it's little I don't know, " returned Antony. "'Twas a bit of wildearth 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 mancould be wanting, and flowers fit for a queen's drawing-room. There'sroses as big as your fist. Oh, 'tis a fine garden it is out on--" hebroke off, "out beyont, " he concluded. 

"On the veldt, " suggested Doctor Hilary quietly. 

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

"Wise, anyhow, " agreed Doctor Hilary, and he too smiled. "But youunderstand that I--well, I happen to know all the circumstances of thisarrangement. "

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

"I wonder--" began Doctor Hilary. And then he stopped. He had been aboutto wonder aloud as to why on earth Antony should have accepted theconditions, why he should have exchanged the freedom and untrammelledspaces of the veldt for the conventional life of England, even with theHall and a goodly income, at the end of the year, to the balance. He knewmost assuredly that nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousandwould have done so, and he knew that he himself was the thousandth whowould not. His exceedingly brief acquaintance with Antony had given himthe 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 wasnot precisely what he had originally intended to say. 

"'Tis England, " said Antony briefly. 

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

Antony looked him full in the eyes. 

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

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

"There's no milk, " said Antony presently, pouring tea into two cups. "Canyou 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 quitenatural and friendly. Josephus, who at the outset had viewed the entry ofthe big man on the scene with something akin to disapproval, now walkedsolemnly over to him, stood on his hind legs, and put his fore paws onDoctor 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 Mondaymorning, " said Doctor Hilary some quarter of an hour later, as he rose totake his leave. "He lives at the lodge about five minutes' walk up theroad. You'll find the place all right. You will take all instructions asto your work from him. If you should wish to see me personally at anytime regarding anything, you will usually find me at home in theevening. "

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--ofcourse, 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 tome godfathers and godmothers for giving me such a one. "

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

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

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

The Doctor laughed. 

"I fancy not, " he replied. "I'd better give you your first week's wage inadvance. You'll need to lay in provisions. There's a general store inByestry. 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 gateclicked 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 dayhad 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 opencasement window. He lay very still, listening to the flood of liquidnotes, 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 littlebreeze blowing from the sea, and sweeping softly across buttercuppedmeadow and gorse-grown moorland. Once a flight of rooks passed across thesquare blue patch, and once a pigeon lighted for an instant on thewindowsill, to fly off again on swift, strong wings. 

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

For a moment or so longer Antony lay very still, listening to thesilence. Then he flung back the bed-clothes, went to the window, andlooked 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 afield of close-cropped grass, dotted here and there with sheep. To theleft a turn in the lane, and the high banks and hedges, shut further viewfrom sight. To the right, and far below the cottage, across meadows andthe 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 closequarters last night, from the little quay, seen it smooth and grey, itsbreast 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 toa 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 onhis descent of the narrow steep little stairs, intimating that he wasevery whit as ready to be up and doing as was his master. The sunshine, the blithesomeness of the morning was infectious. You felt yourselfsmiling 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 morecommonplace scents mingling with them, --the appetizing smell of friedsausages, the aromatic odour of freshly made coffee. Josephus foundhimself in two minds as to the respective merits of the attractionswithout, and the alluring odours within. Finally, after one scamper roundthe garden, he compromised by seating himself on the doorstep, for themost part facing the sunshine, but now and again turning a wet black nosein the direction of the breakfast table and frying-pan. 

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

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

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

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

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

He sat down on the sand, and began to fill his pipe. It wasextraordinarily lonely, extraordinarily peaceful. There was no sinisternote in the loneliness such as he had experienced in the vast spaces ofthe African veldt, but a reposefulness, a quiet rest which appealed tohim. The very blueness of the sky and sparkle of the sunshine was tenderafter the brazen glitter of the African sun. Turning to look behind him, he saw that here the cliff was grass-covered, sloping almost to thebeach, and among the grass, hiding its green, were countless bluebells, asheet of shimmering colour. Two lines of Tennyson's came suddenly intohis 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 placeto be, and no fear of fighting, with himself as sole inhabitant. So mightthe islands have been after Maeldune had renounced his purpose ofrevenge, after he had returned from the isle of the saint who had spokenwords of peace. 

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

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

 * * * * *

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

Coming to the small barn-like-looking building which he had noticedearlier 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'sobservation to tell him that he was in a Catholic church. A curtainedtabernacle stood on the little altar, before which hung a ruby lamp. Thebuilding was too small to allow of two altars, but at one side was astatue of Our Lady, the base surrounded with flowers, since it was themonth of May. Near the porch was a statue of St. Peter. 

Antony looked curiously around. It was the third time only that he hadentered a Catholic church, the second time being at Teneriffe with theDuchessa. Ordering Josephus to stay without, he walked up the littleaisle, 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 someimpulse was at work. 

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

From looking at the altar he looked at the chairs, and the small oblongpieces of pasteboard fastened to their backs. He looked down at the piecewhich denoted the owner of the chair in which he was sitting. And then hefound himself staring at it, while his heart leaped and thumped madly. Onthe 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 thoughtflashed into his brain, making his heart stand still. 

A door to the left opened, and a priest came out. He looked momentarilyat Antony, then went into the sanctuary, genuflected, took the coveredchalice from the altar, genuflected again, and went back into thesacristy, leaving the door partly open. 

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

"Excuse me, " said Antony, "but can you tell me where Woodleigh is?" HisIrish 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 byhis dress, yet spoke in an obviously refined voice. He waited, perhapsexpecting some further question. 

"That was all I wanted to know, " said Antony. "Thank you. " He turned backinto 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 toJosephus, who was busy with the investigation of a distant smithy, andturned up the street, walking rather quickly. 

CHAPTER XIV

HONOR VINCIT

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

Of course he knew, and assured himself that he knew, that the chanceswere all against any probability of their meeting. How was it likely theyshould meet, seeing that she was a _grande dame_, and he merely anunder-gardener at the Hall? Of course it was not probable. Neverthelessthere was just the faintest chance. He couldn't deny that remote chance. And if they did meet, and she should recognize him?--There was thequestion. 

Explanation would be impossible in view of his promise. And what wouldshe think? Wouldn't it be conceivable, nay, wouldn't it be natural thatshe should be indignant at the thought that she had admitted to herfriendship 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 lightof a fraud? Wouldn't his letter appear to her as a piece of preposterouspresumption on his part? How could it be expected that she should seebeneath the surface of things as they seemed to be, and solve the riddleof appearances? It was such an inconceivable situation, such analtogether unheard of situation, laughable too, if it weren't for thevague possibility of the--to him--tragedy he now saw involved in it. Itwas this, this vague sense of tragedy, that was causing that leadensensation at his heart. 

He tried to tell himself that he was being morbid, that he ran nopossible risk of coming face to face with the Duchessa, in spite of thefact that the Manor House Woodleigh lay but two miles distant. But theassurances he heaped upon his soul, went a remarkably small way towardscheering it. 

And yet, through the leadenness upon his soul, through that vague, almostindefinable sense of tragedy at hand, ran a curious little note ofexultation. 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 thesight be worth the dull ache, the horrible sense of isolation in theknowledge that word with her was forbidden. 

He realized now, for the first time in its fullest measure, what heradvent into his life meant to him. Bodily separation for a year had beenpossible to contemplate. Even should it extend to a lifetime, he wouldstill have three golden weeks of memory to his comfort. But should mentalseparation fall upon him, should it ever be his lot to read anger in hereyes, he felt that his very soul would die. Even memory would be lost tohim, by reason of the unbearable pain it would hold. And then, with thecharacteristics of a man accustomed to face possibilities, to confrontcontingencies and emergencies beforehand, he saw himself face to facewith a temptation. Should the emergency he contemplated arise, was therenot a simple solution of it? She was quick-witted, she might quiteconceivably guess at the existence of some riddle. Would not the tiniesthint 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 windowopposite to him, without seeing it. It appeared to him that there werevoices talking within his brain or soul, --he didn't know which, --while hehimself 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 thepresent; it told him that the probability of his meeting the Duchessa wasso extraordinarily remote, that it was not worth while torturing his mindwith considerations of what line of action he would take should theemergency arise. Should it do so, he could act then as his conscienceprompted. 

He found himself replying to this voice, speaking almost stubbornly. Hehad got to fight the matter out now, he declared. He had got to decideabsolutely definitely what course of action he intended to pursue, shouldthe emergency he feared arise. He was not going to leave matters tochance and be surprised into saying or doing something he might eitherway afterwards regret. He knew the danger of not making up his mindbeforehand. To which the loud voice responded with something like asneer, telling him to have it his own way. And then it remained mockinglysilent, while another and more insidious voice began to speak. 

The insidious voice told him quite gently that this emergency mightindeed arise; it pointed out to him the quite conceivable events thatmight occur from it; it assured him that it had no possible desire thathe should break his promise in any way. He was not to dream of giving anyexplanation to the Duchessa, but that he would owe it to himself, _and toher_, to give her the faintest hint that at a future date he _could_ giveher an explanation. That was all. There would be no breaking of hispromise. She could not possibly even guess at what that explanation mightbe. She would merely realize that _something_ underlay the presentappearances. 

The proposition sounded perfectly reasonable, perfectly just. His owncommon sense told him that there could be no harm in it. It was therightful solution of the difficulty, arrived at by silencing that firstloud voice, --the voice which had clearly wished him to abandon allconsideration of the matter, that he might be surprised into giving afull explanation of the situation. 

Antony drew a long breath of relief. 

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

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

 * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

"I think a meal will do us both good, old man, " he said with a littlewhimsical 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 werefamous for their beauty. They still deserved to be famous, and the reasonthat they were so no longer, arose merely from the fact that they hadbecome unknown, had sunk into obscurity, since no one but the actualinmates of the Hall, Doctor Hilary, and the gardeners themselves ever seteyes on them. 

Yet Golding, being an artist at heart, cared for them for pure love ofthe work, rather than for any kudos such care might bring him. Had heread poetry with as great diligence as he read works on horticulture, hewould 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 asgardens may be. Where trimness was desirable, they were as neat, aswell-ordered, as stately as some old-world lady; where nature was allowedfuller sway, they luxuriated in a very riot of mad colour, --pagan, bacchanalian almost, yet in completest harmony, despite the freedompermitted. 

Before the house, beyond a rose-embowered terrace, a wide lawn, soft asthickest velvet, terminated in two great yews, set far apart, a sundialbetween them, and backgrounded by the sea and sky. To right and left wereflower borders brilliant in colour, against yew hedges. Still farther tothe right was the Tangle Garden, where climbing roses, honeysuckle, andclematis roamed over pergolas and old tree stumps at their own sweet willand 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 whitemarble statues, set on either side, gleamed among the darkness of thetrees. The end of the avenue formed a frame for an expanse of billowingmoorland, range upon range of hills, melting from purple into palelavender against the distant sky. 

Behind the house was another and smaller lawn, broken in the middle bya great marble basin filled with crystal water, whereon rested the smoothflat leaves of water-lilies, and, in their time, the big white blossomsof the chalice-like flowers themselves. A little fountain sprang fromthe marble basin, making melodious music as the ascending silverstream fell back once more towards its source. Fantailed pigeons preenedthemselves on the edge of the basin, and peacocks strutted the velvetgrass, spreading gorgeous tails of waking eyes to the sun. Beyond thelawn, 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 snowyblossoms--pear, cherry, plum, and apple. A mellow brick wall enclosed theorchard, a wall beautified by small green ferns, by pink and redvalerian, and yellow toadflax. Behind the wall lay the kitchen gardens andglass houses, which ended in another wall separating them from a woodcrowning the heights on which Chorley Old Hall was situated. 

Had Antony had a free choice of English gardens in which to work, it isquite conceivable that he had chosen these very ones in which fate, orNicholas Danver's conditions, had placed him. In an astonishingly shortspace 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 wasover-pleased to welcome a young man, who had been thrust upon him fromthe unknown without so much as a by your leave to him. For the first weekor so, he eyed the cheerfully self-contained young gardener withsomething very akin to suspicion, merely allotting to him the heavy andcommonplace tasks which Antony had foreseen as his. 

Antony made no attempt to impress Golding with the fact that hisknowledge of fruit growing, if not of floriculture, was certainly on alevel with his own. It was mere chance that brought the fact tolight, --the question of a somewhat unusual blight that had appeared on afruit tree. Antony happened to be in the vicinity of the peach tree whenGolding was remarking on it to another gardener. Five minutes later, thesecond gardener having departed, Antony approached Golding. Herespectfully mentioned the nature of the blight, and suggested a remedy. It led to a conversation, in which Golding's eyes were very considerablyopened. He was not a man to continue to indulge in prejudice merelybecause it had formerly existed in his mind. He realized all at once thathe had found a kindred spirit in Antony, and a kind of friendship betweenthe two, having its basis on horticulture, was the result. Not that heshowed him the smallest favouritism, however. That would have beenaltogether outside his sense of the fitness of things. 

There were moments when Antony found the situation extraordinarilyamusing. Leaning on his spade, he would look up from some freshly turnedpatch of earth towards the old grey house, a light of humorous laughterin his eyes. Virtually speaking the place was his own already. The monthsahead, till he should enter into possession, were but an accidentalinterlude, in a manner of speaking. He was already planning a littledrama in his own mind. He saw himself sauntering into the garden one finemorning, with Josephus at his heels. 

"Ah, by the way, Golding, " he would say, "I'm thinking we might have abed 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 dignifiedamazement. 

"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 mymind since a year ago last March. I am not sure whether the _fact_ datedfrom that month, or came into actuality this morning. "

There his imagination would fail him. There would be an interim. Then thescene would conclude by their having a drink together, Golding looking atAntony 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 issmall wonder that Antony found himself chuckling quietly every now andthen as he considered it. The only thing was, that he wanted it to hurryup, and that not solely for his own sake, nor for the sake of his secrethopes, nor for the sake of watching Golding's amazed face during theenactment of the little drama, but quite largely for the sake of the biggrey house, which lay before him. 

It looked so terribly lonely; it looked dead. It was like aflower-surrounded corpse. That there actually was life within it, he wasaware, since he had once seen a white-haired man at a window, who, so afellow-gardener had informed him on being questioned later, must havebeen the old butler. He and his wife had been left in charge ascaretakers. All the other indoor servants had been dismissed by DoctorHilary on his return from that fateful journey from London. Somehow theman'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 hadlooked out from a coffin. Antony never had nearer view of either thebutler or his wife. Tradespeople called for orders, he believed; but, ifeither the man or woman ever sought the fresh air, it must be after thework in the gardens was over for the day. 

Antony liked to picture himself restoring life to the old place. Now andagain he allowed himself to see a woman aiding him in the pleasant task. He would picture her standing by the sundial, looking out towards thesparkling water; standing by the marble basin with white pigeons alightedat her feet, and peacocks strutting near her; walking among the marblestatues, 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 thatpossible emergency from him on the same afternoon as he had decided onhis course of action, should it arise. He never crossed bridges before hecame to them, as the saying is. He might recognize their possibleexistence, he might recognize the possibility of being called upon tocross them, even recognize to the full all the unpleasantness he wouldfind on the other side. Having done so, he resolutely refused to approachthem till driven thereto by fate. 

He found a delight, too, in his little English cottage, in his tinyorchard, and tinier garden. Each evening saw him at work in it, firstclearing the place of weeds, reducing it to something like order; later, putting in plants, and sowing seeds. Each Sunday morning saw him walkingthe lonely beach with Josephus, and, when Mass was over, seeking thelittle church where the Duchessa had formerly worshipped, and wouldworship again. Added to the quite extraordinary pleasure he felt insitting in her very chair, was strange sense of peace in the littlebuilding. Father Dormer became quite accustomed to seeing the solitaryfigure in the church. Of course later, Antony knew, it might be desirablethat 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 childishmemory. He found the pond where he had endangered his life at theinstigation of the fair-haired angel, whose name he could not yet recall. The pond had not shrunk in size as is usual with childhood'srecollections; on the contrary it was quite a large pond, a deep pond, and he found himself marvelling that he had ever had the temerity toattempt to cross it on so insecure a bark as a mere log of wood. Possiblythe angel had been particularly insistent, and, despite the fact that hewas a good many years her senior, he had feared her scorn. He found thewood 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 beentransferred 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 notesof song birds. Antony would lie at full length on the moss, listening tothe various notes, dreamily content as his body luxuriated in temporaryidleness. As the afternoon passed into evening the sound of a church bellwould float up to him from the hidden village. He had discovered by nowanother church, on the outskirts of the village, an old stone edificedating from long before the times of the so-called reformation. It neverclaimed him as a visitor, however: it held no attraction for him as didthe little barn-like building on the quay. The sound of the bell wouldrouse him to matters present, and he would return to his cottage toprepare his evening meal, after which he sat in the little parlour withpipe and book. 

Thus quietly the days passed by. May gave place to June, with meadowswaist high in perfumed grass, and hedges fragrant with honeysuckle, whileAntony's thoughts went more frequently out to Woodleigh and theDuchessa's return. 

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

CHAPTER XVI

A MEETING

And as the end of June drew nearer, Antony found himself once morecontemplating 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 quiteplainly that, in all probability before many weeks, many days even, werepassed, there would be a severance of that friendship which meant so muchto him. He forced himself to realize it, to dwell upon it, to bringconsciously home to his soul the blankness the severance would bring withit. There was a certain relief in facing the worst; yet he could notalways face it. There was the trouble. Now and then a hope, which he toldhimself was futile, would spring unbidden to his heart, establish itselfas a radiant guest. Yet presently it would depart, mocking him; or fadeinto 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 knewhe had still to learn the final and definite manner of its coming. Thatit 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 inthe darkness, gazing through the small square of his window at thestar-powdered sky without, an odd smile had twisted his lips. Pain, bodily pain, had at one time been his close companion for weeks, he hadthen fancied he had known once and for all the worst of her torments. Heknew now that her dealings with the body are quite extraordinarily lightin comparison to her dealings with the mind. And this was onlyanticipation. 

 * * * * *

One Saturday afternoon he started off for a walk on a hitherto untriedroute. It was in a direction entirely opposite to Woodleigh, which he nowwished to avoid. 

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

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

A slight sound roused him, and he sat up, for the first moment barelyrealizing his whereabouts. Then he saw the source of the sound which hadawakened 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 ata terrible rate. 

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

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

Antony pulled off his cap. 

"Fancy meeting you here!" cried the Duchessa di Donatello. "Why everdidn't you let me know that you were in these parts? Or, perhaps you haveonly 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 mewhen 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 couldnot understand. He seemed entirely different from the man she had knownon the _Fort Salisbury_. Yet--well, perhaps it was only fancy. 

"You know now, anyhow, " she responded gaily. "And you must come and seeme. " Then her glance fell upon his clothes. Involuntarily a littlepuzzlement 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 respondedcheerfully, and as if it were the most entirely natural thing in theworld, 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 ChorleyOld Hall. "

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

"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--youaren'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 amunder-gardener at Chorley Old Hall, or, in other words, a labourer. I geta pound a week wage, and a furnished cottage, for which I pay fiveshillings 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 askedslowly. 

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, youdid not trust me sufficiently. You did not trust my friendship had Iknown, 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 hervoice. 

"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 AntonyGray, " 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 mymemory as completely as I can wipe out so disagreeable an incident. Willyou, 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 afterthem. When, once more, the moorland was deserted, he sat down again onthe heather. 

Josephus, returning from a rabbit hunt more than an hour later, found himstill there in the same position. Disturbed by something queer in hisdeity'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 catchin his voice. 

CHAPTER XVII

AT THE MANOR HOUSE

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Tibbutt nodded approvingly. 

"I thought he would in time. So you went right over the Crossways. Whichway 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 anaccident it might be hours before any one found you. I suppose you didn'tsee 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 yetshe did not know why she had it. She was perfectly certain that somethingwas wrong; and, whatever that something was, it had occurred between thetime Pia had set off in the pony-cart with Clinker after lunch, and herreturn, very late for tea, in the evening. Also, Pia had said she didn'twant any tea, but had gone straight to her room. And that was unlikeher, --certainly unlike her. It would have been far more natural for herto have ordered a fresh supply, and insisted on Miss Tibbutt sharing itwith her, quite oblivious of the fact that she had already had all thetea 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 itwas very hot, but I walked slowly, and took my largest sunshade. I wantedto get some black silk to mend one of my dresses. I saw Father Dormer. Hewas very glad to hear that you were back. I told him you had only arrivedon 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 momentforgotten. 

"Yes. I wonder none of the servants happened to mention it. But I supposethey forgot we didn't know, and probably they have forgotten all aboutthe poor man by now. It's sad to think how soon one _is_ forgotten. Itappears he went to London in March with Doctor Hilary to consult aspecialist and died the day after his arrival in town. Perhaps thejourney was too much for him. I should think it might have been, butDoctor Hilary would know best, or perhaps Mr. Danver insisted on going. Anyhow the place is in the hands of caretakers now; the butler and hiswife 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 forcertain. But they must be keeping the garden in good order. Golding isstaying on, and the other men, and they've just got anotherunder-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 Tibbuttapologetically. "I really don't mean to be. But in a little place, littlethings interest one. I am afraid I did ask Father Dormer a good manyquestions. I hope he didn't--" And she broke off anxiously. 

"You dear old Tibby, " smiled the Duchessa, "I'm sure he didn't. Nobodythinks you're a gossip. Gossiping is talking about things people don'twant known, and generally things that are rather unkind, to say the leastof it. You're the soul of honour and charity, and Father Dormer knowsthat as well as everyone else. "

"Oh, my dear!" expostulated Miss Tibbutt. "But I'm glad you think hedidn't----"

The Duchessa got up from the table. 

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

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

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

"Why do you ask?" queried the Duchessa. 

"Oh, my dear! I don't know. You said that about cobwebs, you see. And Ithought 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 prettysoap-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 andthe memory of the soap-bubble. "

"You're certain it--the cobweb--isn't worrying you now?" asked MissTibbutt. 

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

It was a very reassuring little laugh. Miss Tibbutt knew it to be quiteabsurd that, in spite of it, she still could not entirely dispel thatvague sense of uneasiness. It spoilt the keen pleasure she ordinarilytook in the garden, especially in the evening and most particularly inthe month of June. She had a real sentiment about the month of June. Fromthe first day to the last she held the hours tenderly, lingeringly, loathto let them slip between her fingers. There were only three more daysleft, and now there was this tiny uneasiness, which prevented her mindfrom entirely concentrating on the happiness of these remaining hours. 

And then she gave herself a little mental shake. It was, after all, aselfish consideration on her part. If there were cause for uneasiness, she ought to be thinking of Pia rather than herself, and if there were nocause--and Pia had just declared there was not--she was being thoroughlyabsurd. She gave herself a second mental shake, and looked towards thehouse, whence a young footman was just emerging with a tray on which weretwo coffee cups and a sugar basin. He put the tray down on a small rustictable near them, and went back the way he had come, his step making nosound on the soft grass. 

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

Now, as a matter of fact, Miss Tibbutt was exceedingly punctual, but thenit was by no means absolutely incumbent upon her to be so; she couldquite 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 goon without me. You couldn't very well go on if Dale had forgotten to laythe table, or if Morris had felt disinclined to cook the food. "

"No, " agreed the Duchessa. And then, after a moment, she said, "Anyhowthere are some things we have to do to time--Mass on Sundays and days ofobligation, for instance. "

Miss Tibbutt nodded. "Oh, of course. But that's generally only once aweek. Besides that's different. It's a big voice that tells one to dothat--the voice of the Church. The other is a little human voice givingthe orders. I know, in a sense, one ought to hear the big voice behind itall; but sometimes one would forget to listen for it. At least, I know Ishould. And then I should simply hate the routine, and doingthings--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 theyshould 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 thereligious life. Fancy you in a convent! I can imagine you suggesting tothe Reverend Mother that a change in the time of saying divine officewould be desirable, or at all events that it should be varied onalternate days; and I can see you going off for long and rampageous daysin the country, just for a change. "

Miss Tibbutt shook her head. 

"Oh, no!" she said gravely. "I should hear the big voice there. "

"You'd hear it speak through quite a number of human voices, anyhow, "returned the Duchessa. 

There was a silence. She wondered what odd coincidence had led Tibby tosuch a subject. If it were not a coincidence, it must be a kind ofthought transference. Almost unconsciously she had been seeing a tall, thin, brown-faced man marching off in the early morning hours to his workin a garden. She had seen him busy with hoe and spade, till the bell overthe stables at the Hall announced the dinner hour. She had seen him againtake up his implements at the summons of the same bell, working throughthe sunshine or the rain, as the case might be, till its final eveningdismissal. Above all, she had seen him taking his orders from Golding, awell-meaning man truly, and an exceedingly capable gardener, but--well, she pictured Antony as she had seen him in evening dress on the _FortSalisbury_, as she had seen him throwing coppers to the brown-faced girloutside the Cathedral at Teneriffe, as she had seen him sitting in thelittle courtyard with the orange trees in green tubs, and the idea of hisreceiving and taking orders from Golding seemed to her quiteextraordinarily incongruous. 

Yet until Miss Tibbutt had introduced the subject, she had been more orless unaware of these mental pictures. 

"Besides, " she remarked suddenly, and quite obviously in continuation ofher last remark, "it entirely depends on what you have been brought upto, I mean, of course as regards the question of being a servant. Thequestion of a religious is entirely different. "

"Oh, entirely, " agreed Miss Tibbutt promptly. "You can always get anotherplace as a servant if you happen to dislike the one you are in. "

"Yes, " said the Duchessa, slowly and thoughtfully. 

A sudden little anxious pang had all at once stabbed her somewhere nearthe region of the heart. Would that be the effect of that afternoon'smeeting? Most assuredly she hoped it would not be, and equally assuredlyshe had no idea she was hoping it; verily, her feeling towards Antony wasone of mingled anger, indignation, and mortified pride. 

Once more there was a silence, --a silence in which Miss Tibbutt satstirring her coffee, and looking towards the reflection of the sunset skyseen through the branches of the trees opposite. Suddenly she spoke, dismayed apology in her voice. 

"Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry, I quite forgot. A letter came for you thisafternoon. I put it down on the little round table in the drawing-roomwindow, meaning to give it to you when you came in. But you went straightto your room, and so I forgot it. I will get it at once. "

"Nonsense, " said the Duchessa lightly, "I will get it. I don't supposefor an instant that it is important. "

She got up and went across the lawn. In a minute or two she returned, anopen letter in her hand. 

"It's from Trix, " she announced as she sat down again, "She wants to knowif she can come down here at the beginning of August. "

Miss Tibbutt literally beamed. 

"How delightful!" she exclaimed. "Trix has never stayed with you here. You will like having her. "

"Dear Trix, " said the Duchessa. 

"I do so enjoy Trix, " remarked Miss Tibbutt fervently. 

"So do most people, " smiled the Duchessa. 

CHAPTER XVIII

A DREAM AND OTHER THINGS

It is perfectly amazing to what a degree the physical conditions of theatmosphere appear to be bound up with one's own mental atmosphere. In themore ordinary nature of things, the physical conditions will act on themental, sending your mind up to the point marked gaiety when the sunshines, dropping it down to despair--or, at any rate, down todulness--when the skies are leaden. Also, in more extreme cases, themental conditions will act on the physical, if not actually, at leastwith so good a show of reality as to appear genuine. If you arethoroughly unhappy--no mere, light, passing depression, mind you--itmatters not at all how brilliant the sunshine may be, it is nothing butgrey fog for all you see of it. If, on the other hand, you are in theseventh heaven of joy, the grey clouds are suffused with a golden lightof radiance. But these are extreme cases. 

It was an extreme case with Antony. Despite the sunshine which lay uponthe earth, despite the singing of the birds in the early morning, and atevening, despite the flowers which displayed their colours and lavishedtheir scents around him as he worked, the world might have been bathed infog for all he saw of its brightness. Hope had taken unto herself wingsand fled from him, and with her joy had departed. 

He felt a queer bitterness towards his work, a bitterness towards thegarden and the big grey house, and most particularly towards the man whohad lived in it, and who was responsible for his present unhappiness. Hehad none towards the Duchessa. But then, after all, he appeared in hereyes as a fraud, the thing of all others he himself most detested. Hecould not possibly blame her for her attitude in the matter. Yet all thetime, he had a queer feeling of something like remorse for his presentbitterness; it was almost as if the garden and the very flowersthemselves were reproaching him for it, reminding him that they were notto blame. And then a little incident suddenly served to dispel his gloom, at all events in a great measure. 

It was a slight incident, a trivial incident, merely an odd dream. Nevertheless, having in view its oddness, and--unlike most dreams--itscurious connectedness, also its effect on Antony's spirit, it may be wellto record it. 

He dreamt he was walking in a garden. He knew it was the garden ofChorley Old Hall, though there was something curiously unlike about it, as there often is in dreams. The garden was full of flowers, and he couldsmell their strong, sweet scent. At one side of the garden--and this, inspite of that curious unlikeness, was the only distinctly unlike thingabout it--was a gate of twisted iron. He was standing a long way from thegate, and he was conscious of two distinct moods within himself, --animpulse which urged him towards the gate, and something which held himback from approaching it. 

Suddenly, from another direction, he saw a woman coming towards him. Recognition and amazement fell upon him. She was the same small girl hehad played with in his boyhood, and whose name he could not remember, butgrown to womanhood. She came towards him, her fair hair uncovered, andshining in the sunshine. 

As she reached him she stood still. 

"Antony, " she cried in her old imperious way, "why don't you go to thegate at once? She is waiting to be let in. "

"Who is waiting?" he demanded. 

"Go and see, " she retorted. And she went off among the flowers, turningonce to laugh back at him over her shoulder. 

Antony stood looking after her, till she disappeared in the distance. Then he went slowly towards the gate. As he came near it, he saw a figurestanding outside. But he could not see it distinctly, because, curiouslyenough, though the garden was full of sunshine, it was dark outside thegate, as if it were night. 

"Who are you?" asked Antony. 

The figure made no reply. 

"What do you want?" he asked. 

Still the figure made no reply. 

Antony felt his heart beating quickly, madly. And then, suddenly from adistance behind him, he heard a gay mocking voice. 

"Why don't you open the gate, silly? Can't you hear her knocking?"

Still Antony stood irresolute, though he heard little taps falling on theiron. 

"Open it, open it, " came the sweet mocking voice, this time with asuspicion of pleading in it. 

Antony went towards the gate. A great key was sticking in the iron lock. He took hold of it and found it needed the strength of both his hands toturn. Then he flung the gate wide open. The figure moved slowly throughthe gate, and into the full sunshine. 

"Antony, " she said smiling. 

"You! You at last!" he cried. 

And he woke, to find he had cried the words aloud. He sat up in bed. Awhite pigeon was on the sill outside his window, tapping with its beak onthe glass. 

Of course it was an entirely trifling incident, and probably he wassuperstitious to attach any real importance to it. Nevertheless it had avery marked influence on his spirits. 

Doubtless it was as well it had, since about this time a certainhappening occurred, which, though it did not precisely depress him, mostassuredly caused him considerable anger and indignation. 

In spite of the somewhat hermit-like life he led, he nevertheless hadsomething of an acquaintance with his fellow-creatures. Among thesefellow-creatures there was one, Job Grantley, a labourer on the homefarm, possessed of a pretty, rather fragile wife, and a baby of aboutthree months old. Antony had a kindly feeling for the fellow, and oftenthey exchanged the time of day when meeting on the road, or when Jobchanced to pass Antony's garden in the evening. 

One evening Antony, busy weeding his small flagged path, saw Job in theroad. 

"Good evening, " said Antony; and then he perceived by the other's face, that matters were not as they might be. 

"Sure, what's amiss with the world at all?" demanded Antony, going downtowards the gate. 

"It's that fellow Curtis, " said Job briefly, leaning on the gate. 

"And what'll he have been up to now?" asked Antony. It would not be thefirst time he had heard tales of the agent. 

Job kicked the gate. 

"Says he's wanting my cottage for a chauffeur he's getting down fromBristol, and I'm to turn out at the end of August. "

"Devil take the man!" cried Antony. "Why can't his new chauffeur beliving in the room above the garage, like the old one?"

Job grunted. "Because this one's a married man. "

"And where are you to go at all?" demanded a wrathful Antony. 

"He says I can have the cottage over to Crossways, " said Job. "He knows'tis three mile farther from my work. But that's not all. 'Tis double therent, and I can't afford it. And that's the long and short of it. "

Antony dug his hoe savagely into the earth. 

"Why can't he be putting his own chauffeur there, and be paying him wageenough for the higher rent?" he asked. 

"Why can't he?" said Job bitterly. "Because he won't. He's had his knifeinto me ever since March last, when I paid up my rent which he thought Icouldn't do. I'd been asking him for time; then the last day--well, I gotthe money. I wasn't going to tell him how I got it, and he thought I'dbeen crying off with no reason. See? Now he thinks he can force me to thehigher rent. 'Tis a bigger cottage, but 'tis so far off, even well-to-dofolk fight shy of the extra walk, and so it's stood empty a year andmore. Now he's thinking he'll force my hand. "

Antony frowned. 

"What'll you do?" he demanded. 

"The Lord knows, " returned Job gloomily. "If I chuck up my work here, howdo I know I'll get a job elsewhere? If I go to the other place I'll bebehind with my rent for dead certain, and get kicked out of that, and beat the loss of ten shillings or so for the move. I've not told the wifeyet. But I can see nought for it but to look out for a job elsewhere. Wish I'd never set foot in this blasted little Devonshire village. WishI'd stayed in my own parts. "

Antony was making a mental survey of affairs, a survey at once detailedyet rapid. 

"Look here, " said he, "I'd give a pretty good deal to get even with thatold skinflint, I would that. You and your wife just shift up along withme. There's an extra room upstairs with nothing in it at all. We'llmanage top hole. Sure, 'twill be fine havin' me cooking done for me. Youcan be giving me the matter of a shilling a week, and let the cooking gofor the rest of the rent. What'll you be thinking at all?"

Now, the offer was prompted by sheer impulsive kind-heartedness, weddedto a keen indignation at injustice. Yet it must be confessed that asensation exceeding akin to dismay followed close on its heels. Of hisown free will he was flinging his privacy from him, and hugging intrusionto his heart. 

Job shook his head. 

"You'll not stand it, " said he briefly. "We don't say anything, but weknow right enough you're a come down. You didn't start in the same mouldas the rest of us. "

"Rubbish, " retorted Antony on a note of half-anger and wholly aghast atthe other's perspicacity. "I'm the same clay as yourself. "

"A duke's that, " declared Job, "but the mould's different. "

"Saints alive!" cried Antony, "it's no matter what the mould may be. Sure, it's just a question of what it's been used for at all. My mouldhas been used for labour since I was little more than a boy, and stifferlabour than this little smiling village has dreamt of, that's sure. Besides, think of your wife and child, man. "

Job hesitated, debated within his soul. "It's them I am thinking of, " hesaid; "I could fend for myself well enough, and snap my fingers at Curtisand his like. "

"Then, 'tis settled, " said Antony with amazing cheerfulness. 

There was a silence. 

"Well, " said Job at last, "if you're in the same mind a week hence, butdon't you go for doing things in a hurry-like, that you'll repentlater. "

"'Tis settled now, " said Antony. "Tell your wife, and snap your fingersat that old curmudgeon. "

Nevertheless despite his cheery assurance, he had a very bitter qualm athis heart as, an hour or so later, he looked round his little cottage, and realized, even more forcibly, precisely what he had done. 

"Never mind, " he told himself and Josephus with a good show of bravery, "it's not for a lifetime. And, hang it all, a man's mere comfort ought togive way before injustice of that kind. "

Thus he buoyed himself up. 

And then another aspect of affairs arose. 

No one knew how the matter of the intended arrangement leaked out. Jobvowed he'd mentioned it to no one but his wife; his wife vowed shementioned it to no one but Job. Perhaps they spoke too near an openwindow. Be that as it may, Antony, again at work in his garden oneevening, became aware of Mr. Curtis looking at him over the littlehedge. 

"Good evening, " said Mr. Curtis smoothly. 

"Good evening, " returned Antony equally smoothly, and going on with hiswork. 

"I hear you're thinking of taking in lodgers, " said Mr. Curtis blandly. 

"Sure now, that's interesting hearing, " returned Antony pleasantly, andwondering who on earth had babbled. 

"Perhaps, " said Mr. Curtis, still blandly, "I was misinformed. I heardthe Grantleys were moving up here. I daresay it was merely an idlerumour. "

"Sure it may have been, " returned Antony nonchalantly, and sticking hisspade into the ground. 

"It must have been, " said Mr. Curtis thoughtfully. "All lodging housesare rented at ten shillings a week, even unfurnished small ones, not fiveshillings. Besides Grantley is only getting a pound a week wage. He can'tafford to live in apartments, unless he's come in for a fortune. If hehas I must look out for another man. Men with fortunes get a trifle abovethemselves, you know. Besides he'd naturally not wish to stay on. But ofcourse the whole thing's merely a rumour. I'd contradict it if I wereyou. Good evening. "

He walked up the lane smiling. 

"You bounder, " said Antony softly, looking after him. "Just you wait tillnext March, my friend. "

He left his spade stuck into the earth, and went back into the cottage. Half an hour later, he was walking quickly in the direction of Byestry. 

 * * * * *

Doctor Hilary was in his surgery, when he was told that Michael Field hadasked if he could see him. He went at once to the little waiting-room. Antony rose at his entrance. 

"Good evening, sor, " he said, touching his forehead. "Can you be sparingme five minutes' talk?"

"By all means, " said Doctor Hilary. "Sit down. "

Antony sat down. In a few brief words he put the Grantley affair beforehim. 

"Well?" said Doctor Hilary, as he finished. 

"Well, " queried Antony, "can nothing be done?"

Doctor Hilary shook his head. "I am not the agent. I have no voice in themanagement of the estate. "

"Then you can do nothing?"

"I am afraid not. "

"Thank you, " said Antony, "that's all I wanted to know. " He got up. 

"Sit down again, " said Doctor Hilary. 

Antony sat down. 

"What do you mean to do?" asked Doctor Hilary quietly. 

Antony looked directly at him. 

"The only thing I can do. I'll get that extra rent to Job somehow. Hemustn't know it comes from me; I must think out how to manage. But, ofcourse, that's merely a make-shift in the business. I wanted theinjustice put straight. "

Doctor Hilary looked through the window behind Antony. 

"Let me advise you, " said he, "to do nothing of the kind. "

"Why not?" The words came short and rather quick. 

"Because Mr. Curtis means to get rid of Grantley. He has got his knifeinto him, as Grantley said. Your action would merely postpone the evilday, and make it worse in the postponement. Job Grantley had better go. "

"And how about another job?" demanded Antony. 

Doctor Hilary shrugged his shoulders. "He must see what he can find. "

"Well of all the--" began Antony. And then he stopped. After all, he'dseen enough injustice in his time, to be used to it. 

"You're honest in saying I would make it worse for Job if I tried to helphim?" he asked. 

"Perfectly honest, " said Doctor Hilary with an odd little smile. 

Antony again got up from his chair. 

"All right, " and his voice was constrained. "I'll not be keeping you anylonger, sor. "

Doctor Hilary went with him to the door. 

"I'm sorry about this business, " he said. 

"Are you?" said Antony indifferently. 

Doctor Hilary went back to his surgery. 

"He didn't believe me, " he said to himself, "small wonder. "

He pulled out his note-book and made a note in it. Then he shut the bookand put it in his pocket. 

"Anyhow, " he said, "it's the kind of thing we wanted. "

The memorandum he had entered, ran:--

"Write Sinclair _re_ Grantley. "

CHAPTER XIX

TRIX ON THE SCENE

"Tibby, angel, what's the matter with Pia?"

Trix Devereux was sitting on the little rustic table beneath the limetrees, smoking a cigarette. Miss Tibbutt was sitting on the rustic seat, knitting some fine lace. The ball of knitting cotton was in a black satinbag on her lap. 

Trix had arrived at Woodleigh the previous day, two days earlier than shehad been expected. A telegram had preceded her appearance. It was alengthy telegram, an explicit telegram. It set forth various facts in amanner entirely characteristic of Trix. Firstly, it announced her almostimmediate arrival; secondly, it remarked on the extraordinary heat inLondon; and thirdly it stated quite clearly her own overwhelming andinstant desire for the nice, fresh, cool, clean, country. 

"Trix is coming to-day, " the Duchessa had said as she read it. 

"How delightful!" Miss Tibbutt had replied instantly. And then, after amoment's pause, "There will be plenty of food because Father Dormer isdining here to-night. "

The Duchessa had laughed. It was so entirely like Tibby to think of foodthe first thing. 

"I know, " she had replied. And then reflectively, "I think it might bedesirable to telephone to Doctor Hilary and ask him to come too. Itreally is not fair to ask Father Dormer to meet three solitary females. "

A second time Miss Tibbutt had momentarily and mentally surveyed thecontents of the larder, and almost immediately had nodded her entireapproval of the idea. She most thoroughly enjoyed the mild excitement ofa little dinner party. 

"Tibby, angel, what's the matter with Pia?"

The question fell rather like a bomb, though quite a small bomb, into thesunshine. 

"Matter with Pia, " echoed Miss Tibbutt. "What do you think, my dear?"

"That, " said Trix wisely, "is precisely what I am asking you?"

Miss Tibbutt laid down her knitting. 

"But do you think anything _is_ the matter?" she questioned anxiously. 

"I don't think, I know, " remarked Trix succinctly. 

Miss Tibbutt took off her spectacles. 

"But she is so bright, " she said. 

Trix nodded emphatically. 

"That's just it. She's too bright. Oh, one can overdo the merrylight-hearted rôle, I assure you. And then, to a new-comer at all events, the cloak becomes apparent. But haven't you the smallest idea?"

Miss Tibbutt shook her head. 

"Not the least, " she announced. "I fancied one evening shortly after shereturned here, that something was a little wrong. I remember I asked her. She talked about soap-bubbles and cobwebs but said there weren't anyleft. "

"Of which, " smiled Trix. "Soap-bubbles or cobwebs?"

"Oh, cobwebs, " said Miss Tibbutt earnestly. "Or was it both? Shesaid, --yes, I remember now just what she did say--she said that a prettybubble had burst and become a cobweb. And when I asked her if the cobwebwere bothering her, she said both it and the bubble had vanished. So, yousee!" This last on a note of triumph. 

"Hmm, " said Trix ruminative, dubious. "Bubbles have a way of taking upmore space than one would imagine, and their bursting sometimes leaves anunpleasant gap. The bursting of this one has left a gap in Pia's life. You haven't, by any chance, the remotest notion of its colour?"

"Its colour?" queried Miss Tibbutt. 

Trix laughed. "Nonsense, Tibby, angel, nonsense pure and simple. But allthe same, I wish I knew for dead certain. "

"So do I, " said Miss Tibbutt anxiously, though she hadn't the smallestnotion what advantage a knowledge of the colour would be to either one ofthem. 

Trix dabbed the stump of her cigarette on the table. 

"Well, don't let her know we think there's anything wrong. If you want toremain wrapped up in the light-hearted cloak, nothing is more annoyingthan having any one prying to see what's underneath, --unless it's theright person, of course. And we're not sure that we are--yet. We mustjust wait till she feels like giving us a peep, if she ever does. "

A silence fell. Miss Tibbutt took up her knitting again. Trix hummed alittle air from a popular opera. Presently Miss Tibbutt sighed. Trix leftoff humming. 

"What's the matter, Tibby?"

Miss Tibbutt sighed more deeply. "I'm afraid it's my fault, " she said. 

"What's your fault?" demanded Trix. 

"I've not noticed Pia. I thought everything was all right after what shesaid. I ought to have noticed. I've been too wrapped up in my ownaffairs. Perhaps if I'd been more sympathetic I should have found outwhat was the matter. "

Trix laughed, a happy amused, comfortable little laugh. 

"Oh, Tibby, you angel, that's so like you. You always want to shoulderthe blame for every speck of wrong-doing or depression that appears inyour little universe. Women like you always do. It's an odd sort ofresponsible unselfishness. That doesn't in the very least express to anyone else what I mean, but it does to myself. You never allow that any oneelse has any responsibility when things go wrong, and you never take thesmallest share of the responsibility--or the praise, rather--when thingsgo right. "

Miss Tibbutt laughed. In spite of her queer earnestness over whatseemed--at all events to others--very little things, and her quiteextraordinary conscientiousness--some people indeed might have called itscrupulosity--she had really a keen sense of humour. She was always readyto laugh at her own earnestness as soon as she perceived it. She was not, however, always ready to abandon it, unless it were quite, quite obviousthat she had really better do so. And then she did it with a quick mentalshake, and put an odd little mocking humour in its place. 

"But, my dear, one generally is responsible, and that just because myuniverse is so small, as you justly pointed out. But I always believeliterally what any one says. I don't in the least mean that Pia said whatwas not true. Of course she thought she had swept away the cobweb and thebubble, and I've no doubt she did. But it left a gap, as you said. Iought to have seen the gap and tried to fill it. "

Trix shook her head. 

"You couldn't, Tibby, if the bubble were the colour I fancy. Only thebubble itself, consolidated, could do that. "

"Oh, my dear, you mean--?" said Miss Tibbutt. 

"Just that, " nodded Trix. "It was bound to happen some time. Pia is madeto give and receive love. She was too young when she married to know whatit really meant. And, well, think of those years of her married life. "

"I thought of them for seven years, " said Miss Tibbutt quietly. "Youdon't think I've forgotten them now?"

Trix's eyes filled with quick tears. 

"Of course you haven't. I didn't mean that. What I do mean is that Isuppose she thought she had got the real thing then, and all the younghappiness in it was destroyed in a moment. Then came those seventerrible years. For an older woman perhaps there would have been aself-sacrificing joy in them; for Pia, there was just the brave facingof an obvious duty. She was splendid, of course she was splendid, but noone could call it joy. Now, somehow, she's had a glimpse of what realjoy might be. And it has vanished again. I don't know how I know, but it'strue. I feel it in my bones. "

Again there was a silence. Then:

"What can we do?" asked Miss Tibbutt simply. 

Trix laughed, though her eyes were grave. "You, angel, can pray. Ofcourse I shall, too. But I'm going to do quite a lot of thinking, andkeeping my eyes open as well. And now I am going right round thisperfectly heavenly garden once more, and then, I suppose, it will be timeto dress for dinner. "

Swinging herself off the table, she departed waving her hand to MissTibbutt before she turned a corner by a yew hedge. 

"Dear Trix, " murmured Miss Tibbutt. 

CHAPTER XX

MOONLIGHT AND THEORIES

The little party of two men and two women were assembled in thedrawing-room. Trix had not yet put in an appearance. But, then, thedinner gong had not sounded. Trix invariably saved her reputation forpunctuality by appearing on the last stroke. 

Miss Tibbutt and Father Dormer were sitting on the sofa; Pia was in anarmchair near the open window, and Doctor Hilary was standing on thehearthrug. His dress clothes seemed to increase his size, and he did notlook perfectly at home in them; or, perhaps, it was merely the fact thathe was so seldom seen in them. Doctor Hilary in a shabby overcoat orloose tweeds, was the usual sight. 

Father Dormer was a tallish thin man, with very aquiline features, anddark hair going grey on his temples. At the moment he and Miss Tibbuttwere deep in a discussion on rose growing, a favourite hobby of his. Deeply engrossed, they were weighing the advantages of the scent of themore old-fashioned kinds, against the shape and colour of the newervarieties, with the solemnity of two judges. 

"They're pretty equally balanced in my garden, " said Father Dormer. "Ican't do without the old-fashioned ones, despite the beauty of the newersorts. I've two bushes of the red and white--the York and Lancaster rose. I was a Lancashire lad, you know. "

And then the first soft notes of the gong sounded from the hall, risingto a full boom beneath the footman's accomplished stroke. 

There was a sound of running steps descending the stairs, and a finaljump. 

"Keep it going, Dale, " said a voice without. And then Trix entered theroom, slightly flushed by her rapid descent of the stairs, but with anassumption of leisurely dignity. 

"I'm not late, " she announced with great innocence. "The gong hasn'tstopped. "

Doctor Hilary, who was facing the door, looked at her. He saw a small, elf-like girl in a very shimmery green frock. The green enhanced herelf-like appearance. 

"Deceiver, " laughed Pia. "We heard you quite, quite distinctly. "

Obviously caught, Trix echoed the laugh. 

"Well, anyhow I'd have been in before the echo stopped, " she announced. 

They went informally into the dining-room, where the light of shaded waxcandles on the table mingled with the departing daylight, for thecurtains were still undrawn. 

"I like this kind of light, " remarked Trix, as she seated herself. 

Trix almost always thought aloud. It meant that conversation in herpresence seldom flagged, since her brain was rarely idle; though shecould be really marvellously silent when she perceived that silence wasdesirable. 

"Do you know this garden?" she said, addressing herself to Doctor Hilary, by whom she was seated. 

He assented. 

"Well, isn't it lovely? That's what made me nearly late, --going round itagain. I've been round five times since yesterday. It's just heavenlyafter London. Roses _versus_ petrol, you know. " She wrinkled up her noseas she spoke. 

"You ought to see the gardens of Chorley Old Hall, Miss Devereux, " saidFather Dormer. "Not that I mean any invidious comparison between them andthis garden, " he added, with a little smile towards the Duchessa. 

"Chorley Old Hall, " remarked Trix. "I used to go there when I was a tinychild. There was a man lived there, who used to terrify me out of mywits, his eyes were so black. But I liked him, when I got over my firstfright. What has become of him?"

"He died a short time ago, " said the Duchessa quietly. "Oh, " said Trixregretfully. Possibly she had contemplated a renewal of theacquaintanceship. 

"He'd been an invalid for a long time, " explained the Duchessa. She was alittle, just a trifle anxious as to whether the conversation might notprove embarrassing for Doctor Hilary. There was a feeling in the villagethat the journey, which Doctor Hilary had permitted--some, indeed, saidadvocated--had been entirely responsible for the death. 

But Doctor Hilary was eating his dinner, apparently utterly andcompletely at his ease. 

"Anyhow the gardens aren't being neglected, " said Father Dormer. "They'vegot a new under-gardener there who is proving rather a marvel in hisline. In fact Golding confesses that he'll have to look out for his ownlaurels. He's a nice looking fellow, this new man, and a cut above theordinary type, I should say. I used to see him in church after Mass onSundays at one time. But he has given up coming lately. "

"Really, " said the Duchessa. 

Trix looked up quickly, surprised at the intonation of her voice. 

"Oh, he isn't a Catholic, " smiled Father Dormer. "Perhaps curiositybrought him in the beginning, and now it has worn off. "

Trix was still looking at the Duchessa. She couldn't make out the oddintonation of her voice. It had been indifferent enough to be almostrude. But, if it were intended for a snub, Father Dormer had evidentlynot taken it as such. Yet there was a little pause on the conclusion ofhis remark, almost as if Doctor Hilary and Miss Tibbutt had had the sameidea as herself. At least, that was what Trix felt the little pause tomean. And then she was suddenly annoyed with herself for having felt it. Of course it was quite absurd. 

She looked down at her plate of clear soup. It had letters of a whiteedible substance floating in it. 

"I've got an A and two S's in my soup, " she remarked pathetically. "Idon't think it is quite tactful of the cook. "

There was an instant lowering of eyes towards soup plates, an announcingof the various letters seen therein. Trix had an application for each, making the letters stand as the initials for words. 

"C. S. , " said Miss Tibbutt presently, entering into the spirit of thegame. 

"Sure there isn't a T?" asked Trix. 

"No, " said Miss Tibbutt peering closer, "I mean there isn't one. "

"Well then, it can't be Catholic Truth Society. My imagination has givenout. I can only think of Christian Science. I don't think it's quiteright of you, Tibby dear. "

Miss Tibbutt blinked good-humouredly. 

"Aren't they the people who think that the Bible dropped down straightfrom heaven in a shiny black cover with S. P. G. Printed on it?" sheasked. 

Trix shook her head. 

"No, " she declared solemnly, "they're Bible Christians. The ChristianScience people are the ones who think we haven't got any bodies. "

"No bodies!" ejaculated Miss Tibbutt. 

"Well, " said Trix, "anyhow they think bodies are a false--false somethingor other. "

"False claim, " suggested Father Dormer. 

"That's it, " cried Trix, immensely delighted. "How clever of you to havethought of it. Only I'm not sure if it's the bodies are a false claim, orthe aches attached to the bodies. Perhaps it's both. "

"I thought that was the New Thought Idea, " said Pia. 

Trix shook her head. "Oh no, the New Thought people think a lot aboutone's body. They give us lots of bodies. "

"Really?" queried Doctor Hilary doubtfully. 

"Oh yes, " responded Trix. "I once went to one of their lectures. "

"My dear Trix!" ejaculated Miss Tibbutt flustered. 

"It was quite an accident, " said Trix reassuringly. "A friend of mine, Sybil Martin, was coming up to town and wanted me to meet her. Shesuggested I should meet her at Paddington, and then go to a lecture onpsychometry with her, and tea afterwards. I hadn't the faintest notionwhat psychometry was, but I supposed it might be first cousin totrigonometry, and quite as dull. But she wanted me, so I went. It _was_funny, " gurgled Trix. 

Doctor Hilary was watching her. 

"You'd better disburden your mind, " he said. 

Trix crumbled her bread, still smiling at the recollection. 

"Well, the lecture was held in a biggish room, and there were a lot ofodd people present. But the oddest of all was the lecturer. She wore akind of purple velvet tea-gown, though it was only three o'clock in theafternoon. She talked for a long time about vibrations, and things thatbored me awfully, and people kept interrupting with questions. One maninterrupted particularly often. He kept saying, 'Excuse me, but am Iright in thinking--' And then he would give a little lecture on his ownaccount, and look around for the approval of the audience. I should haveflung things at him if I had been the purple velvet lady. It was soobvious that he was not desiring _her_ information, but merely wishful toair his own. There was a text on the wall which said, 'We talk abundancehere, ' and when I pointed out to Sybil how true it was, she wasn't a bitpleased, and said it didn't mean what I thought _in the least_. But shewouldn't explain what it did mean. After the lecture, the purple velvetlady held things--jewelry chiefly--that people in the audience sent up toher, and described their owners, and where they'd got the things from. There was quite a lot of family history, and people's characteristics andvirtues and failings, and very, _very_ private things made public, but noone seemed to mind. "

"That's the odd thing about those people, " said Doctor Hilarythoughtfully. "Disclosing their innermost thoughts, feelings, andso-called experiences, seems an absolute mania with them. And the morepublic the disclosure the better they are pleased. But go on, MissDevereux. "

"Well, " said Trix, "at last she began describing a sort of Cleopatralady, and--and rather vivid love scenes, and--and things like that. Whenshe'd ended, the bracelet turned out to belong to a little dowdy womanlooking like a meek mouse. I thought the purple velvet lady would havebeen really upset and mortified at her mistake. But she wasn't in theleast. She just smiled sweetly, and returned the bracelet to the owner, and said that the dowdy little woman had been Cleopatra in a formerincarnation. Of course when she began on _that_ tack, I saw the kind oflecture I'd really let myself in for, and I knew I'd no business to be inthe place at all, so I made Sybil take me away. It was nearly the end, and she didn't mind, because she missed the silver collection. But shetalked to me about it the whole of tea-time, and she really believed itall, " sighed Trix pathetically. 

Miss Tibbutt looked quite shocked. 

"Oh, but, my dear, she couldn't really. "

"She did, " nodded Trix. 

Miss Tibbutt appealed helplessly to Father Dormer. 

"Why do people believe such extraordinary things?" she demanded almostwrathfully. 

Father Dormer laughed. "That's a question I cannot pretend to answer. ButI suppose that if people reject the truth, and yet want to believesomething beyond mere physical facts, they can invent anything, that isif they happen to be endowed with sufficient imagination. "

"Then the devil must help them invent, " said Miss Tibbutt with exceedingfirmness. 

After dinner they had coffee in the garden. A big moon was coming up inthe dusk behind the trees, its light throwing the shadows dark and softon the grass. 

"It's so astonishingly silent after London, " said Trix, gazing at theblue-grey velvet of the sky. 

She looked more than ever elfin-like, with the moonlight falling on herfair hair and pointed oval face, and the shimmering green of her dress. 

"I wonder why we ever go to bed on moonlight nights, " she pursued. "Brilliant sunshine always tempts us to do something--a long walk, adrive, or boating on a river. Over and over again we say, 'Now, the verynext fine day we'll do--so and so. ' But no one ever dreams of saying, 'Now, the next moonlight night we'll have a picnic. ' I wonder why not?"

"Because, " said Doctor Hilary smiling, and watching her, "the old andstaid folk have no desire to lose their sleep, and--well, the conventionsare apt to stand in the way of the young and romantic. "

"Conventions, " sighed Trix, "are the bane of one's existence. They hamperall one's most cherished desires until one is of an age when the desiresbecome non-existent. My aunt Lilla is always saying to me, 'When you're amuch older woman, dearest. ' And I reply, 'But, Aunt Lilla, _now_ is themoment. ' I know, by experience, later is no good. When I was a tiny childmy greatest desire was to play with all the grubbiest children in theparks. Of course I was dragged past them by a haughty and righteousnurse. I can talk to them now if I want to, and even wheel theirperambulators. But it would have been so infinitely nicer to wheel a verydirty baby in a very ramshackle perambulator when I was eight. Conventions are responsible for an enormous lot of lost opportunities. "

"Mightn't they be well lost?" suggested Father Dormer. 

Trix looked across at him. 

"Serious or nonsense?" she demanded. 

"Whichever you like, " he replied, a little twinkle in his eyes. 

"Oh, serious, " interpolated Miss Tibbutt. 

Trix leant a little forward, resting her chin on her hands. 

"Well, seriously then, conventions--those that are merely conventions fortheir own sake, --are detestable, and responsible for an enormous lot ofunhappiness. 'My dear (mimicked Trix), you can be quite polite to so andso, but I cannot have you becoming friendly with them, you know they arenot _quite_. ' I've heard that said over and over again. It's hateful. I'mnot a socialist, not one little bit, but I do think if you like a personyou ought to be able to be friends, even if you happen to be a Duchessand he's a chimney-sweep. The motto of the present-day world is, 'Whatwill people think?' People!" snorted Trix wrathfully, warming to hertheme, "what people? And is their opinion worth twopence halfpenny? Fancythem associating with St. Peter if he appeared now among them as he usedto be, with only his goodness and his character and his fisherman'sclothes, instead of his halo and his keys, as they see him in thechurches. "

The two men laughed. Miss Tibbutt made a little murmur of something likequery. The Duchessa's face looked rather white, but perhaps it was onlythe effect of the moonlight. 

"But, Miss Devereux, " said Doctor Hilary, "even now the world--people, asyou call them, are quite ready to recognize genius despite the fact thatit may have risen from the slums. "

"Yes, " contended Trix eagerly, "but it's not the person they recognizereally, it's merely their adjunct. "

"What do you mean?" asked Miss Tibbutt. Father Dormer smiledcomprehendingly. 

"I mean, " said Trix slowly, "they recognize the thing that makes theshow, and the person because of that thing, not for the person's ownself. Let me try and explain better. A man, born in the slums, has amarvellous voice. He becomes a noted singer. He's received everywhere andfêted. But it's really his voice that is fêted, because it is the fashionto fête it. Let him lose his voice, and he drops out of existence. Peopledon't recognize him himself, the self which gave expression to the voice, and which still _is_, even after the voice is dumb. "

Father Dormer nodded. 

"Well, " went on Trix, "I maintain that that man is every bit as wellworth knowing afterwards, --after he has lost his voice. And even if he'dnever been able to give expression to himself by singing, he might havebeen just as well worth knowing. But the world never looks for insidethings, but only for external things that make a show. So if Mrs. B. Hasn't an atom of anything congenial to me in her composition, but has amagnificent house and heaps of money, it's quite right and fitting Ishould know her, so people would say, and encourage me to do so. But it'sagainst all the conventions that I should be friendly with little Miss F. Who lives over the tobacconist's at the corner of such and such a street, though she _is_ thoroughly congenial to me, and I love her plucky andcheery outlook on life. " She stopped. 

"Go on, " encouraged Doctor Hilary. 

"Well, " laughed Trix, "take a more extreme case. Sir A. C. Is--well, nota bad man, but not the least the kind of man I care about, but he maytake me in to dinner, and, on the strength of that brief acquaintance, toa theatre if he wants, provided I have some other woman with me as a sortof chaperon, and he can talk to me by the hour, and that all on accountof his money and title. Mr. Z. Is a really white man, but he's a'come-down, ' through no fault of his own, and a bus-conductor. I happento have spoken to him once or twice; and like him. But I mightn't evenwalk for half an hour with him in the park, if I'd fifty authorizedchaperons attending on me. That's what I mean about conventions that areconventions for their own sake. " She stopped again. 

"And what do you suggest as a remedy?" asked Father Dormer, smiling. 

"There isn't one, " sighed Trix. "At least not one you can applyuniversally. Everybody must just apply it for themselves, and not exactlyby defying conventions, but by treating them as simply non-existent. "

The Duchessa made a little movement in the moonlight. 

"Which, " she said quietly, "comes to exactly the same thing as defyingthem, and it won't work. "

"Why not?" demanded Trix. 

"You'd find yourself curiously lonely after a time if you did. "

"You mean my friends--no, my acquaintances--would desert me?"

"Probably. "

"Well, I'd have the one I'd chanced it all for. "

"Yes, " said the Duchessa slowly and deliberately, "but you'd have to bevery sure, not only that the friend was worth it, but that you were worthit to the friend. "

There was rather a blank silence. Trix gave a little gasp. It was not somuch the words that hurt, as the tone in which they had been spoken. Itwas a repetition of the little scene at dinner, but this timeintensified. And it was so utterly, so entirely unlike Pia. Trix feltmiserably squashed. She had been talking a good deal too, perhaps, indeed, rather foolishly, that was the worst of it. No doubt she _had_made rather an idiot of herself. She swallowed a little lump in herthroat. Well, anyhow that inflection in Pia's tone must be covered atonce. That was the first, indeed the only, consideration. 

"I never thought of all those contingencies, " she laughed. There was thefaintest suspicion of a quiver in her voice. "Let's talk about themoonlight. But it was the moonlight began it all. "

 * * * * *

Two hours later the garden lay deserted in the same moonlight. 

A woman was sitting by an open window, looking out into the garden. Shehad been sitting there quite a long time. Suddenly her eyes filled withtears. 

"Oh, Trix, Trix, " she said half aloud, "if only it would work. But itwon't. And it was the moonlight that began it all. "

CHAPTER XXI

ON THE MOORLAND

Trix was walking over the moorland. The Duchessa and Miss Tibbutt haddeparted to what promised to be an exceedingly dull garden party somefive miles distant. It had been decreed that it was entirely unnecessaryto inflict the same probable dulness on Trix, therefore she had been leftto freedom and her own devices for the afternoon. 

Trix was playing the game of "I remember. " It can be a quiteextraordinarily fascinating game, or an exceedingly painful one. Trix wasfinding it extraordinarily fascinating. It was so gorgeously delightfulto find that nothing had shrunk, nothing lessened in beauty or mystery. Alarch copse was every bit as much a haunt of the Little People asformerly; the moss every bit as much a cool green carpet for theirtripping feet. A few belated foxglove stems added to the old-timeenchantment of the place. Even a little stream rippling through the wood, was a veritable stream, and not merely a watery ditch, as it might quitewell have proved. Then there was the view from the gate, through a frameof beech trees out towards the sea. It was still as entrancing an ocean, sun-flecked and radiant. There were still as infinite possibilities inthe unknown Beyond, could one have chartered a white-winged boat, andhave sailed to where land and water meet. There was a pond, too, surrounded by blackberry bushes and great spear-like rushes, perhaps notquite the enormous lake of one's childhood, but a reasonably large pondenough, and there were still the blackberry bushes and the spear-likerushes. And, finally, there was the moorland, glowing with more radiantcrimson lakes and madders than the most wonderful paint box ever held, and stretching up and down, and up again, till it melted in far awaypurples and lavenders. 

Trix's heart sang in accord with the laughing sun-kissed earth aroundher. It was all so gorgeous, so free and untrammelled. She lay upon thehot springy heather, and crushed the tiny purple flowers of the wildthyme between her fingers, raising the bruised petals to her face todrink in their strong sweet scent. 

From far off she could hear the tinkle of a goat bell, and the occasionalshort bark of a sheep dog. All else was silence, save for the humming ofthe bees above the heather. Tiny insects floated in the still air, looking like specks of thistle-down as the sun caught and silvered theirminute wings. Little blue butterflies flitted hither and thither likeradiant animated flowers. 

For a long time Trix sat very still, body and soul bathed in the beautyaround her. At last she got to her feet, and made her way across theheather, ignoring the small beaten tracks despite the prickliness of herchosen route. 

After some half-hour's walking she came to a stone wall bordering a hillyfield, a low wall, a battered wall, where tiny ferns grew in thecrevices, and the stones themselves were patched with orange-colouredlichen. 

Trix climbed the wall, and walked across the soft grass. A good way tothe right was a fence, and beyond the fence a wood. Trix made her wayslowly towards it. Thistles grew among the grass, --carding thistles, andthistles with small drooping heads. She looked at them idly as shewalked. Suddenly a slight sound behind her made her turn, and with theturning her heart leapt to her throat. 

From over the brow of the hilly field behind her, quite a number ofcattle were coming at a fair pace towards her. 

Now Trix hated cows in any shape or form, and these were the unpleasantwhite-faced, brown cattle, whose very appearance is against them. Theywere moving quickly too, quite alarmingly quickly. 

Trix cast one terrified and pathetic glance over her shoulder. The glancewas all-sufficient. She ran, --ran straight for the wood, the cattle afterher. Doubtless curiosity, mere enquiry maybe, prompted their pursuit. Trix concerned herself not at all with the motive, the fact wasall-sufficient. Fear lent wings to her feet, and with the horned andhorrid beasts still some ten yards behind her, she precipitated herselfacross the fence to fall in an undignified but wholly relieved heap amonga mass of bracken and whortleberry bushes. The briefest of moments sawher once more on her feet, struggling, fighting her way throughshoulder-high bracken. Five minutes brought her to an open space beyond. Trembling, breathless, and most suspiciously near tears, she sank uponthe ground. 

"The beasts!" ejaculated Trix opprobriously, and not as the merestatement of an obvious fact. She took off her hat, which flight hadflung to a somewhat rakish angle, and blinked vigorously towards thetrees. She was _not_ going to cry. 

Presently fright gave place to interest. She gazed around, curious, speculative. It was an unusual wood, a strange wood, a wood of hollytrees, with a scattered sprinkling of beech trees. The grey twistedtrunks of the hollies gleamed among the dark foliage, giving an eerie andalmost uncanny atmosphere to the place. It was extraordinarily silent, too; and infinitely lonelier than the deserted moorland. It gave Trix anodd feeling of unpleasant mystery. Yet there was nothing for it but toface the mystery, to see if she could not find some way out further adownthe wood. Not for untold gold would she again have faced those hornedbeasts behind her. 

A tiny narrow path led downhill from the cleared space. Trix set off downit, swinging her hat airily by the brim the while. Presently the sense ofuncanniness abated somewhat; the elfin in her went out to meet theweirdness of the wood. 

Now and again she stopped to pick and eat whortleberries from the massedbushes beneath the trees. She did not particularly like them, truly;nevertheless she was still young enough to pick and eat what nature hadprovided for picking and eating, and that for the mere pleasure of beingable to do so. Also, at this juncture the action brought confidence inits train. 

Presently, through the trees facing her, she saw a wall, a high wall, abrick wall, and quite evidently bordering civilization. 

"It can't go on for ever, " considered Trix. "It must come to an end sometime, either right, or left. And I'm not going back. " This lastexceedingly firmly. 

She went forward, scrutinizing, anxious. And then, --joyful and welcomesight!--a door, an open door came into view. A mound of half-carted leafmould just without showed, to any one endowed with even the meanestpowers of deduction, that someone--some man, probably--was busy in theneighbourhood. 

Trix made hastily for the door. The next moment she was through it, tofind herself face to face with a man and a wheelbarrow. Trix came to astandstill, a standstill at once sudden and unpremeditated. The mandropped the wheelbarrow. They stared blankly at each other. And Trix wasfar too flustered to realize that his stare was infinitely more amazedthan her own. 

"You can't come through this way, " said the man, decisive thoughbewildered. His orders regarding the non-entrance of strangers had beenof the emphatic kind. 

Trix's brain worked rapidly. The route before her must lead to safety, and nothing, no power on earth, would take her back through the fieldatop the wood. She was genuinely, quite genuinely too frightened. This isby way of excuse, since here a regrettable fact must be recorded. Trixgave vent to a sound closely resembling a sneeze. It was followed by onebrief sentence. 

"There's someone at the gate, " was what the man heard. 

Again amazement was written on his face. He turned towards the gate. Trixfled past him. 

"I couldn't go back, " she insisted to herself, as she vanished round thecorner of a big green-house. "And I _did_ say 'isn't there' even if itwas mixed up with a sneeze. And wherever have I seen that man's facebefore?"

She whisked round another corner of the green-house, attempting no answerto her query at the moment, ran down a long cinder path bordered bycabbages and gooseberry bushes, and bolted through another door inanother wall. And here Trix found herself in an orchard, at the bottom ofwhich was a yew hedge wherein she espied a wicket gate. She made rapidway towards it. And now she saw a big grey house facing her. There was nomistaking it. Childhood's memories rushed upon her. It was Chorley OldHall. 

Trix came through the wicket gate, and out upon a lawn, in the middle ofwhich was a great marble basin full of crystal water, from which rose alittle silver fountain. Before her was the big grey house, melancholy, deserted-looking. The blinds were drawn down in most of the windows. Ithad the appearance of a house in which death was present. 

And then a spirit of curiosity fell upon her, a sudden strong desire tosee within the house, to go once more into the rooms where she had stoodin the old days, a small and somewhat frightened child. 

There was not a soul in sight. Probably the man with the wheelbarrow hadnot thought it worth while to pursue her. The garden appeared as desertedas the house. Trix tip-toed cautiously towards it. She looked like akitten or a canary approaching a dead elephant. 

To her left was a door. Quite probably it was locked; but then, by thefavour of fortune, it might not be. Of course she ran a risk, aconsiderable risk of meeting some caretaker or other, and her presencewould not be particularly easy to explain. Curiosity and prudence waveredmomentarily in the balance. Curiosity turned the scale. She tried thedoor. Vastly to her delight it yielded at her push. She slipped insidethe house, closing it softly behind her. 

She found herself in a long carpeted passage, sporting prints adorningthe walls. She tip-toed down it, her step making no smallest sound on thesoft carpet. The end of the passage brought her into a big square hall. To her right were wide deep stairs; opposite them was a door, in allprobability the front door; to her left was another door. 

Trix recalled the past, rapidly, and in detail. The door to the left mustlead to the library, --that is, if her memory did not play her false. Sheremembered the big room, the book-cases reaching from floor to ceiling, and the man with the black eyes, who had terrified her. Something, somefleeting shadow, of her old childish fear was upon her now, as she turnedthe door handle. The door yielded easily. She pushed it wide open. 

The room was shadowed, gloomy almost. The heavy curtains were drawn backfrom the windows, but other curtains of some thinnish green material hungbefore them, curtains which effectually blotted out any view from thewindow, or view into the room from without. Before her were the oldremembered book-cases, filled with dark, rather fusty books. 

Trix pushed the door to behind her, and turned, nonchalantly, to lookaround the room. As she looked her heart jumped, leapt, and then stoodstill. 

CHAPTER XXII

AN OLD MAN IN A LIBRARY

A white-haired man was watching her. He was sitting in a big oak chair, his hands resting on the arms. 

"Oh!" ejaculated Trix. And further expression failed her. 

"Please don't let me disturb you, " came a suave, courteous old voice. "You were looking for something perhaps?"

"I only wanted to see the library, " stuttered Trix, flabbergasted, dismayed. 

"Well, this is the library. May I ask how you found your way in?"

"Through a door, " responded Trix, voicing the obvious. 

"Ah! I did not know visitors were being admitted to the house?" This on anote of interrogation, flavoured with the faintest hint of irony, thoughthe courtesy was still not lacking. 

Trix coloured. 

"I wasn't admitted, " she owned. "I just came. "

"Ah, I see, " said the white-haired man still courteously. "You perhapswere not aware that your presence might be an--er, an intrusion. "

Again Trix coloured. 

"A man did tell me I couldn't come through this way, " she confessed. 

"Yet he allowed you to do so?" There was a queer note beneath thecourtesy. 

Trix's ear, catching the note, found it almost repellant. 

"It wasn't his fault, " she declared. "I came. I said, 'Isn't theresomeone at the gate?' And while he turned to look, I ran. At least, --" agleam of laughter sprang to her eyes--"I sneezed first, so it soundedlike 'There's somebody at the gate. ' So he thought there was really. It--it was rather mean of me. "

"What you might call an acted lie, " suggested the man. 

Trix looked conscience-stricken, contrite. 

"I suppose it was, " she admitted in a very small voice. "But it was thecows. Only I think they were bulls. I _am_ so frightened of cows. Icouldn't go back. And he wasn't going to let me through. It wasn't hisfault a bit, it wasn't really. I know I told a--a kind of lie. " Shesighed heavily. 

"You did, " said the man. 

Again Trix sighed. 

"I'd never make a martyr, would I? Only"--a degree more hopefully--"Asneeze isn't quite like denying real things, things that matter, is it?"This last was spoken distinctly appealingly. 

"I'm not a theologian, " said the man dryly. 

Trix looked at him. A sudden light of illumination passed over her face, giving place to absolute amazement. 

"Aren't you Mr. Danver?" she ejaculated. 

"I never heard of his being a theologian, " was the retort. 

"But Mr. Danver is dead!" gasped Trix. 

"Is he?"

"Well, " said Trix dazed, bewildered, "he evidently isn't. But why onearth did you--" she broke off. 

"Did I what?" he demanded with a queer smile. 

"Say you were dead?" asked Trix. 

"Dead men, my dear young lady, tell no tales, nor have I ever heard of aliving one proclaiming his own demise. "

Trix laughed involuntarily. 

"Anyhow you've let other people say you are, " she retorted. 

The man shrugged his shoulders. 

"Why did you let them?" asked Trix. 

Again the man shrugged his shoulders. 

"I have no responsibility in the matter. "

"Doctor Hilary has, then, " she flashed out. 

"Has he?" was the quiet response. 

"He has told people you were dead. "

"Are you sure of that?"

"Well, he's let them think so anyway. Why has he?" demanded Trix. 

"You ask a good many questions for an--er--an intruder, " remarked theman. 

Trix's chin went up. "I'm sorry. I apologize. I'll go. "

"No, don't, " said the man. "Sit down. "

Trix sat down near a table. She looked straight at him. 

"Well, " she asked, "what do you want to say to me?"

"I am Nicholas Danver, " he said. 

"I was quite sure of that, " nodded Trix. She was recovering herself-possession. 

"I had an excellent reason for allowing people to imagine I was dead, " heremarked, "as excellent a one, perhaps, as yours for your--yourunexpected appearance. "

"I'm glad you didn't say 'intrusion' again, " said Trix thoughtfully. 

Nicholas gave a short laugh. 

There was a little silence. 

"Doctor Hilary must have told a dreadful lot of lies, " said Trix slowlyand not a little regretfully. 

"On the contrary, " said Nicholas, "he told none. "

Trix looked up quickly. 

"Listen, " said Nicholas, "it's quite an interesting little history in itsway. You can stop me if I bore you.... Doctor Hilary says, in the hearingof a housemaid, that it might be a good plan to consult a specialist. Itis announced in the village that the Squire is going to consult aspecialist. Doctor Hilary travels up to town with an empty litter. Thevillage announces that he has taken the Squire to the specialist. Hereturns alone. The station-master asks him when the Squire will returnfrom London. He is briefly told, never. The village announces theSquire's demise. I don't say that certain little further incidents didnot lend colour to the idea, such as the Squire confining himselfentirely to two rooms, and allowing the butler alone of the servants tosee him; Doctor Hilary's dismissal of the other indoor servants on hisreturn to town; the deserted appearance of the house. But from first tolast there was less actual direct lying in the matter, than in--shall Isay, than in a simple sneeze. "

A third time the colour mounted in Trix's cheeks. 

"You'll not let me forget _that_, " she said pathetically. "But why everdid you want everyone to think you were dead?"

Nicholas looked towards the window thoughtfully, ruminatively. 

"That, my dear young lady, is my own affair. "

"I beg your pardon, " said Trix quickly. She lapsed into silence. Suddenlyshe looked up, an elfin smile of pure mischief dancing in her eyes. "Andnow I know you're not dead, " she remarked. "Exactly, " said Nicholas. "Youknow I'm not dead. "

"Well?" demanded Trix. 

"Well, of course you can go and publish the news to the world, " heremarked smoothly. 

"And equally of course, " retorted Trix, "I shall do nothing of the kind. Quite possibly you mayn't trust me, because--because I _did_ sneeze. Buthonestly I didn't have time to think properly then, at least, only timeto think how to get out of the difficulty, and not time to think aboutfairness or anything. I truly don't tell lies generally. And to tellabout you would be like telling what was in a private letter if you'dread it by accident, so _of course_ I shan't say a word. "

Nicholas held out his hand without speaking. Trix got up from her chair, and put her own warm hand into his cold one. 

"All right, " he said in an oddly gentle voice. "And you can speak toDoctor Hilary about it if you like. You'll no doubt need a safety valve. "He looked again at her, still holding her hand. "Haven't I seen youbefore?" he asked. 

Trix nodded. "When I was a tiny child. My name is Trix Devereux. I usedto come here with my father. "

"What!" exclaimed Nicholas, "Jack Devereux's daughter! How is the oldfellow?"

"He died five years ago, " said Trix softly. 

Nicholas dropped her hand. 

"And I live on, " he said grimly. "It's a queer world. " He looked down atthe black dressing gown which hid his useless legs. "Bah, where's the useof sentiment at this time of day. Anyhow it's a pleasure to meet you, even though your entrance was a bit of----"

"An intrusion, " smiled Trix. 

"I was going to say a surprise, " said Nicholas courteously. "And now youmust allow me to give you some tea. "

Trix hesitated. 

"Oh, but, " she demurred, "the butler will see me. "

"And a very pleasant sight for him, " responded Nicholas, "if you willpermit an old man to pay you a compliment. Besides Jessop is used toholding his tongue. "

Trix laughed. 

"That, " she said, "I can quite well imagine. "

Nicholas pressed the electric button attached to the arm of his chair. Hewatched the door, a curious amusement in his eyes. 

Trix attempted an appearance of utter unconcern, nevertheless she couldnot avoid a reflection or two regarding the butler's possible views onher presence. 

During the few seconds of waiting, she surveyed the room. It wasextraordinarily familiar. Nothing was altered from her childish days. Thevery position of the furniture was the same. There were the same heavybrocaded curtains to the windows, the same morocco-covered chairs, thesame thick Aubusson carpet, the same book-cases lined with rather fustybooks, the same great dogs in the fireplace. 

Nicholas looked at her, observing her survey. 

"Well?" he queried. 

"It's all so exactly the same, " responded Trix. 

"I never cared for change, " said Nicholas shortly. 

And then the door opened. 

"Jessop, " said Nicholas smooth-voiced, "Will you kindly bring tea for meand this young lady. "

A flicker, a very faint flicker of amazement passed over the man's face. 

"Yes, sir, " he responded, and turned from the room. 

"An excellent servant, " remarked Nicholas. 

"I wonder, " said Trix reflectively, "how they manage to see everything, and look as if they saw nothing. When I see things it's perfectly obviousto everyone else I am seeing them. I--I _look_. "

"So do most people, " returned Nicholas. 

 * * * * *

When, some half-hour later, Trix rose to take leave, Nicholas again heldout his hand. "I believe I'd ask you to come and pay me another visit, "he said, "but it would be wiser not. It is not easy for--er, dead men toreceive visitors. "

"I wish you hadn't--died, " said Trix impulsively. 

"Do you mean that?" asked Nicholas curiously. 

Trix nodded. There was an odd lump in her throat, a lump that for themoment prevented her from speaking. 

"You're a queer child, " smiled Nicholas. 

The tears welled up suddenly in Trix's eyes. 

"It's so lonely, " she said, with a half-sob. 

"My own doing, " responded Nicholas. 

"That doesn't make it nicer, but worse, " gulped Trix. 

Nicholas held her hand tighter. 

"On the contrary, it's better. It's my own choice. " He emphasized thelast word a little. 

Trix was silent. Nicholas let go her hand. 

"Let yourself out the front way, " he said. "I am sorry I am unable toaccompany you. "

Trix went slowly to the library door. At the door she turned. 

"It mayn't be right of me, " she announced, "but I'm glad, really glad Idid sneeze. "

Nicholas laughed. 

"To be perfectly candid, " he remarked, "so am I. "

CHAPTER XXIII

ANTONY FINDS A GLOVE

Trix's appearance at the door in the wall had fairly dumbfounded Antony. He had recognized her instantly. And the amazing thing was that she wasexactly as he had seen her in his dream. Her announcement had carried thedream sense further, and it was with a queer feeling of intensedisappointment that he found no one standing outside the gate. There wasnothing but the silent deserted wood and the mound of leaf-mould. For amoment or so he stood listening, almost expecting to hear a footstepamong the trees. Nothing but silence greeted him, however, broken only bythe faint rustling of the leaves. 

He turned back to the garden. It was empty. There was nothing, nothing onearth to prove that the whole thing had not been an extraordinarily vividwaking dream. And if it were a dream, surely it was calculated to dispelthe relief the first dream had brought him. Yet was it a dream? Could ithave been? Wasn't he entirely awake, and in the possession of his rightsenses?

Demanding thus of his soul, solemn, bewildered, and reflective, he turnedonce more to his wheelbarrow. Ten minutes later, trundling it down acinder path, his eye fell on an object lying beneath a gooseberry bush. He dropped the barrow, and picked up the object. 

It was a long soft doe-skin glove. 

"It wasn't a dream, " said Antony triumphantly. "But where in the name ofall that's wonderful did she come from? And where did she vanish to?"

He put the glove into his pocket, and resumed his work. 

"I am afraid, " he remarked to himself as he heaved the leaf-mould out ofthe barrow, "that she knew perfectly well there was no one at the gate. Iwonder why she said there was, and why, above all, she made such anextraordinarily unexpected appearance. "

These considerations engrossed his mind for at least the next half-hour, when, the leaf-mould having been transported from the wood, he went roundto the front of the house to trim the edges of the lawn. He was on hisknees on the gravel path, busily engaged with a pair of shears, when heheard the amazing sound of the front door opening and shutting. He lookedround over his shoulder, to see the same apparition that had appeared tohim from the wood, walking calmly down the steps and in the direction ofthe drive. Apparently she was too engrossed with her own thoughts toobserve him where he was kneeling at a little distance to the eastward ofthe front door. 

"Well!" ejaculated Antony bewildered. And he gazed after her. 

It was not till her white dress had become a speck in the distance, thatAntony remembered the long soft glove reposing in his pocket. He droppedhis shears, and bolted after her. 

Trix was half-way down the drive, when she heard rapid steps behind her. She looked back, to see that she was being pursued by the young man whohad formerly been trundling a wheelbarrow. 

Her first instinct was one of flight. Her second, conscious that theowner of the property had condoned her intrusion, and also having in viewthe fact that there was nowhere but straight ahead to run, and he was inall probability fleeter of foot than she, was to stand her ground, andthat as unconcernedly as possible. 

"Yes?" queried Trix with studied calmness, as he came up to her. 

"Excuse me, Miss, but you dropped this in the kitchen garden. " Antonyheld out the long soft glove. 

"Oh, thank you, " said Trix, infinitely relieved that his rapid approachhad signified nothing worse than the restoration of her own lostproperty. And then she looked at him. Where on earth had she seen himbefore?

"There wasn't any one at the gate, Miss, " said Antony suddenly. 

Trix flushed. "Oh, wasn't there? I--" she broke off. 

Then she looked straight at him. 

"I knew there wasn't, " she confessed. "But I was afraid to go back, so Ihad to make you look away while I ran. It was the cows. " She sighed. Shefelt she had been making bovine explanations during the greater part ofthe afternoon. 

"Cows, Miss?" queried Antony, a twinkle in his eyes. 

Trix nodded. 

"Yes; awful beasts with white faces, in the field above the wood. I'm notsure they weren't bulls. "

Antony laughed. 

"Sure, and why weren't you telling me, then? I'd have tackled them foryou. "

Trix smiled. 

"I never thought of that way out of the difficulty, " she owned. "But itwill be all right, I ex--" She broke off. She had been within an ace ofsaying she had explained matters to Mr. Danver. She really must becareful. "I expect--I'm sure you won't get into trouble about it, " shestuttered. 

"Sure, that's all right, " he said, a trifle puzzled. 

There was a queer pleasure in this little renewal of the acquaintanceshipof the bygone days, despite the fact of its being an entirely one-sidedrenewal. He'd have known her anywhere. It was the same small vivaciousface, the same odd little upward tilt to the chin, the same variedinflection of voice, the same little quick gestures. He would have likedto keep her standing there while he recalled the small imperious child inthe elfin-like figure before him. But, her property having been restored, there was nothing on earth further he could say, no possible reason forprolonging the conversation. He waited, however, for Trix to give thedismissal. 

Trix was looking at him, a queer puzzlement in her eyes. Why _was_ hisface so oddly familiar? It was utterly impossible that she should havemet him before, at all events on the intimate footing the familiarity ofhis face suggested. It must be merely an extraordinary likeness tosomeone to whom she could not at the moment put a name. Quite suddenlyshe realized that they were scrutinizing each other in a way thatcertainly cannot be termed exactly orthodox. She pulled herselftogether. 

"Thank you for restoring my glove, " said she with a fine resumption ofdignity; and she turned off once more down the drive. 

Antony went slowly back to his shears. 

CHAPTER XXIV

AN INTEREST IN LIFE

Doctor Hilary was walking down the lane in a somewhat preoccupied frameof mind. He had been oddly preoccupied the last day or so, lapsing intoprolonged meditations from which he would emerge with a sudden and almostguilty start. 

Coming opposite the drive gates of Chorley Old Hall, he was brought to asense of his surroundings by a figure, which emerged suddenly from themand came to a dead stop. 

"Oh!" ejaculated Doctor Hilary. "Good afternoon. " And he took off hiscap. 

"Good afternoon, " responded Trix. She turned along the lane beside him. 

"Have you been interviewing the gardens?" he asked. She fancied there wasthe faintest trace of anxiety in his voice. 

A sudden spirit of mischief took possession of Trix. She had been givenleave. It was really too good an opportunity to be lost. 

"Oh no, " she responded, dove-like innocence in her voice, "I've just beenhaving tea with Mr. Danver. "

If she wanted to see amazement written on his face, she had her desire. It spread itself large over his countenance, finding verbal expression inan utterly astounded gasp. 

"He seems very well, " said Trix demurely. 

"Miss Devereux!" ejaculated Doctor Hilary. 

"Yes?" asked Trix sweetly. 

"Have you known all the time?" he demanded. 

Trix shook her head, laughter dancing in her eyes. It found its way toher lips. 

"Oh, you looked so surprised, " she gurgled. "I hadn't the tiniest bit ofan idea. How could I? I was never so flummuxed in all my life as when Irealized who was talking to me. "

Doctor Hilary was silent. 

Trix put her hand on his arm, half timidly. 

"Don't be angry, " she said. "He wasn't. And I've promised faithfully notto tell. "

Doctor Hilary glanced down at the hand on his arm. 

"I'm not angry, " he said with a queer smile, "I'm only--" He stopped. 

"Flummuxed, like I was, " nodded Trix, removing her hand. "It's quite theamazingest thing I ever knew. " She gave another little gurgle oflaughter, looking up at the very blue sky as if inviting it to share herpleasure. 

"How much did he tell you?" asked Doctor Hilary. 

Trix lowered her chin, and considered briefly. 

"Just nothing, now I come to think of it, beyond the fact that he was Mr. Danver. But then I'd really been the first to volunteer that piece ofinformation. I haven't the faintest notion why there's all this mystery, and why he has pretended to be dead. He didn't want me to know that. Soplease don't say anything that could tell me. He said I could talk toyou. "

"I won't, " smiled Doctor Hilary answering the request. 

They walked on a few steps in silence. 

"But what I should like to know, " he said after a minute, "is how youmanaged to get inside the house at all?"

"Oh dear!" sighed Trix twisting her glove round her wrist. 

Doctor Hilary looked rather surprised. 

"Don't say if you'd rather not, " he remarked quickly. 

Trix sighed again. 

"Oh, I may as well. It will only be the third time I've had to own up. "

And she proceeded with a careful recapitulation of the events of theafternoon. 

"You must have been very frightened, " said he as she ended. 

"I was, " owned Trix. 

"Ah, well; it's all over now, " he comforted her. 

"Y-yes, " said Trix doubtfully. 

"What's troubling you?" he demanded. 

"The sneeze, " confessed Trix in a very small voice. 

Doctor Hilary stifled a sudden spasm of laughter. She was so utterly andentirely in earnest. 

"I wouldn't worry over a little thing like that, if I were you, " said heconsolingly. 

Once more Trix sighed. 

"Of course it's absurd, " she said. "I know it's absurd. But, somehow, little things do worry me, even when I know they're silly. And there'sjust enough that's not silliness in this to let it be a real worry. "

"A genuine midge bite, " he suggested. "But, you know, rubbing it onlymakes it worse. "

She laughed a trifle shakily. 

"And honestly, " he pursued, "though I do understand your--your consciencein the matter, I'm really very glad you've seen Mr. Danver. "

"Well, so was I, " owned Trix. 

Again there was a silence. They were walking down a narrow lane borderedon either side with high banks and hedges. The dust lay rather thick onthe grass and leaves. It had already covered their shoes with its greypowder. Doctor Hilary was turning certain matters in his mind. Presentlyhe gave voice to them. 

"It is exceedingly good for him that someone besides myself and thebutler and his wife should know that he is alive, and that he should knowthey do know it. I agreed to this mad business because I believed itwould give him an interest in living, eccentric though the interest mightbe. "

Trix gurgled. 

"It sounds so odd, " she explained, "to hear you say that pretending to bedead could give any one an interest in life. " And she gurgled again. Trix's gurgling was peculiarly infectious. 

"Odd!" laughed Doctor Hilary. "It's the oddest thing imaginable. No onebut Nick could have conceived the whole business, or found the smallestinterest in it. But he did find an interest, and that was enough for me. He is lonely now, I grant. But before this--this invention, he wasstagnant as well as lonely. His mind, and seemingly his soul with it, hadbecome practically atrophied. His mind has now been roused to interest, though the most extraordinarily eccentric interest. "

"And his soul?" queried Trix simply. 

Doctor Hilary shook his head. 

"Ah, that I don't know, " he said. 

They parted company at the door of Doctor Hilary's house. Trix went onslowly down the road. She paused opposite the presbytery, before turningto the left in the direction of Woodleigh. She rang the bell, and askedto see Father Dormer. 

He came to her in the little parlour. 

"Oh, " said Trix, getting up as he entered, "I only came to ask you to saya Mass for my intention. And, please, will you say one every week till Iask you to stop?"

"By all means, " he responded. 

"Thank you, " said Trix. Then she glanced at a clock on the mantelpiece. "I had no idea it was so late, " she said. 

She walked home at a fair pace. The midge bite had ceased to worry her. But then, at Doctor Hilary's suggestion, she had ceased to rub it. Shewas thinking of only one thing now, of a solitary old figure in a largeand gloomy library. 

She sighed heavily once or twice. Well, at all events she had asked forMasses for him. 

CHAPTER XXV

PRICKLES

If you happen to have anything on your mind, it is impossible--orpractically impossible--to avoid thinking about it. Which, doubtless, isso obvious a fact, it is barely worth stating. 

The Duchessa di Donatello had something on her mind; it possessed herwaking thoughts, it coloured her dreams. And what that something was, isalso, perhaps, entirely obvious. Again and again she told herself thatshe would not dwell on the subject; but she might as well have tried todam a river with a piece of tissue paper, as prevent the thought fromfilling her mind; and that probably because--with true feminineinconsistency--she welcomed it quite as much as she tried to dispel it. 

Occasionally she allowed it free entry, regarded it, summed it up asunsatisfactory, and sternly dismissed it. In three minutes it was wellingup again, perhaps in the same old route, perhaps choosing a differentcourse. 

"Why can't I put the man and everything concerning him out of my mind forgood and all?" she asked herself more than once. And, whatever the replyto her query, the fact remained that she couldn't; the thought had becomesomething of an obsession. 

Now, when a thought has become an obsession, there is practically onlyone way to free oneself from it, and that is by speech. Speech has a wayof clearing the clogged channels of the mind, and allowing the thought toflow outwards, and possibly to disappear altogether; whereas, withoutthis clearance, the thought of necessity returns to its source, gatheringin volume with each recoil. 

But speech is frequently not at all easy, and that not only because thereis often a difficulty in finding the right confidant, but because, withthe channels thus clogged, it is a distinct effort to clear them. Also, though subconsciously you may realize its desirability, it is oftenmerely subconsciously, and reason and common sense, --or, rather, what youat the moment quite erroneously believe to be reason and commonsense--will urge a hundred motives upon you in favour of silence. Maybethat most subtle person the devil is the suggester of these motives. Ifhe can't get much of a look in by direct means, he'll try indirect ones, and depression is one of his favourite indirect methods. At all events sothe old spiritual writers tell us, and doubtless they knew what they weretalking about. 

Now, Trix was perfectly well aware that Pia had something on her mind;she was also perfectly well aware that it was something she would have anenormous difficulty in talking about. And the question was, how to giveher even the tiniest lead. 

Trix had stated that she had guessed the colour of the soap-bubble; butshe hadn't the faintest notion where it had come into existence, norwhere and how it had burst. Nor had Pia given her directly the smallesthint of its having ever existed. All of which facts made it exceedinglydifficult for her even to hint at soap-bubbles--figuratively speaking ofcourse--as a subject of conversation. 

And Pia was slightly irritable too. Of course it was entirely because shewas unhappy, but it didn't conduce to intimate conversation. Prickleswould suddenly appear among the most innocent looking of flowers, in away that was entirely disconcerting and utterly unpleasant. And the worstof it was, that there was no avoiding them. They darted out and prickedyou before you were even aware of their presence. It was so utterlyunlike Pia too, and so--Trix winked back a tear as she thought of it--sohurting. 

At last she came to a decision. The prickles simply must be handled andextracted if possible. Of course she might get quite unpleasantly stabbedin the process, but at all events she'd be prepared for the risk, andanything would be better than the little darts appearing at quiteunexpected moments and places. 

"The next time I'm pricked, " said Trix to herself firmly, "I'll seizehold of the prickle, and then perhaps we'll see where we are. "

And, as a result perhaps of this resolution, the prickles suddenlydisappeared. Trix was immeasurably relieved in one sense, but notentirely easy. She fancied the prickles to be hidden rather thanextracted. However, they'd ceased to wound for the time being, and thatcertainly was an enormous comfort. Miss Tibbutt, with greater optimismthan Trix, believed all to be entirely well once more, and rejoicedaccordingly. 

 * * * * *

"Doctor Hilary has been over here rather often lately, " remarked MissTibbutt one afternoon. Pia and she were sitting in the garden together. 

"Old Mrs. Mosely is ill, " returned Pia smiling oracularly. 

"But only a very little ill, " said Miss Tibbutt reflectively. "Herdaughter told me only yesterday--I'm afraid it wasn't very grateful ofher--that the Doctor had been 'moidering around like 'sif mother was onher dying bed, and her wi' naught but a bit o' cold to her chest, what'sgone to her head now, and a glass or two o' hot cider, and ginger, andallspice, and rosemary will be puttin' right sooner nor you can flick afly off a sugar basin. '"

Pia laughed. 

"My dear Tibby, he doesn't come to see Mrs. Mosely. "

Miss Tibbutt looked up in perplexed query. 

"He comes on here to tea, doesn't he?" asked Pia, kindly, after themanner of one giving a lead. 

"Certainly, " returned Miss Tibbutt, still perplexed. "He would naturallydo so, since he is in Woodleigh just at tea time. "

Pia leant back in her seat, and looked at Miss Tibbutt. 

"Tibby dear, you're amazingly slow at the uptake. "

Miss Tibbutt blinked at Pia over her spectacles. 

"Please explain, " said she meekly. 

Pia laughed. 

"Haven't you discovered, Tibby dear, that it's Trix he comes to see?"

"Trix!" ejaculated Miss Tibbutt. 

"Yes; and she is quite as unaware of the fact as you are, so don't, forall the world, enlighten her. Leave that to him, if he means to. "

Miss Tibbutt had let her work fall, and was gazing round-eyed at Pia. 

"But, my dear Pia, he's years older than Trix. "

"Oh, not so very many, " said Pia reassuringly. "Fifteen or sixteen, perhaps. Trix is twenty-four, you know. "

"And Trix is leaving here the day after to-morrow, " said Miss Tibbuttregretfully. 

"London isn't the antipodes, " declared Pia. "She can come here again, orbusiness may take Doctor Hilary to London. There are trains. "

"Well, well, " said Miss Tibbutt. 

Trix appeared at the open drawing-room window and came out on to theterrace. She paused for a moment to pick a dead rose off a bush growingnear the house. Then she saw the two under the lime tree. She cametowards them. 

"Doctor Hilary has just driven up through the plantation gate, " she said. "I suppose he's coming to tea. His man was evidently going to put up thehorse. "

The Duchessa glanced at a gold bracelet watch on her wrist. 

"It's four o'clock, " she said. 

"He takes tea quite for granted, " smiled Trix. 

"I suppose, " responded the Duchessa, "that he considers five almostconsecutive invitations equivalent to one standing one. "

"Well, anyhow I should, " nodded Trix. "What are you looking so wiseabout, Tibby angel?"

Miss Tibbutt started. "Was I looking wise? I didn't know. "

Trix perched herself on the table. 

"Dale will clear me off in a minute, " she announced. "I suppose you'llhave tea out here as usual. Till then it's the nicest seat. Oh dear, Iwish I wasn't going home to-morrow. That's not a hint to you to ask me tostay longer. I shouldn't hint, I'd speak straight out. But I must joinAunt Lilla at her hydro place. She's getting lonely. She wants anaudience to which to relate her partner's idiocy at Bridge, and someoneto help carry her photographic apparatus. Also someone to whom she cankeep up a perpetual flow of conversation. That's not the leastuncharitable, as you'd know if you knew Aunt Lilla. I think she must havebeen born talking. But I love her all the same. "

Trix tilted back her head and looked up at the sky through the branchesof the trees. 

"I wonder why space is blue, " she said, "and why it's so much bluer somedays than others, even when there aren't any clouds. "

A step on the terrace behind her put an end to her wondering. DoctorHilary came round the corner of the house. 

"I've taken your invitation for granted, Duchessa, as I happened to beout this way, " said he as he shook hands. 

"Is old Mrs. Mosely still so ill?" asked Trix, sympathy in her voice. 

Miss Tibbutt kept her eyes almost guiltily on her knitting. Pia, glancingat her, laughed inwardly. 

"She's better to-day, " responded Doctor Hilary cheerfully. And then hesat down. Trix had descended from the table, and seated herself in abasket chair. 

Dale brought out the tea in a few minutes, and put it on the table Trixhad vacated. The conversation was trivial and desultory, even moretrivial and desultory than most tea-time conversation. Miss Tibbutt wastoo occupied with Pia's recent revelation to have much thought forspeech, Doctor Hilary was never a man of many words, the Duchessa hadbeen marvellously lacking in conversation of late, and Trix's occasionalremarks were mainly outspoken reflections on the sunshine and theflowers, which required no particular response. Nevertheless she wasconscious of a certain flatness in her companions, and wondered vaguelywhat had caused it. 

"I'm going to Llandrindod Wells to-morrow, " said she presently. 

Doctor Hilary looked up quickly. 

"Then your visit here has come to an end?" he queried. 

Trix nodded. 

"Alas, yes, " she sighed, regret, half genuine, half mocking, in hervoice. "But most certainly I shall come down again if the Duchessa willlet me come. I had forgotten, absolutely forgotten, what a perfectlyheavenly place this was. And that doesn't in the least mean that I amcoming solely for the place, and not to see her, though I am aware it didnot sound entirely tactful. "

"And when do you suppose you will be coming again?" asked Doctor Hilarywith a fine assumption of carelessness, not in the least lost upon theDuchessa. 

"Before Christmas I hope, " replied she in Trix's stead. "Or, indeed, atany time or moment she chooses. "

Doctor Hilary looked thoughtful, grave. A little frown wrinkled betweenhis eyebrows. He pulled silently at his pipe. The Duchessa was watchinghim. 

"Alas, poor man!" thought she whimsically. "He was about to seizeopportunity, and behold, fate snatches opportunity from him. Oh, cruelfate!"

And then she beheld his brow clearing. He knocked the ashes from hispipe, and began feeling in his pocket for his pouch to refill it. 

"He's relieved, " declared the Duchessa inwardly, and somewhat astounded. "He's so amazingly diffident, and yet so utterly in love, he'srelieved. "

Of course she was right, she knew perfectly well she was right. Well, perhaps courage would grow with Trix's absence. For his own sake it wasto be devoutly trusted that it would. 

Doctor Hilary took his tobacco pouch from his pocket, and with it a smallpiece of paper. He looked at the paper. 

"The name of a new rose, " he said. "Michael Field, the new under-gardenerat the Hall, gave it to me. He tells me it is a very free flowerer, andhas a lovely scent. Do you care to have the name, Duchessa?" He held theslip of paper towards her. 

The Duchessa looked carelessly at it. Trix was looking at the Duchessa. 

"No, thank you, " she replied. "We have plenty of roses here, and Thornbycan no doubt give me the name of any new kinds I shall want. "

Now it was not merely an entirely unnecessary refusal, but the tone ofthe speech was nearly, if not quite, deliberately rude. It was a terriblybig prickle, and showed itself perfectly distinctly. There wasn't eventhe smallest semblance of disguise about it. 

Doctor Hilary put the paper and his tobacco pouch back into his pocket. 

"I must be off, " he said in an oddly quiet voice. "I've one or two othercalls to make. "

Miss Tibbutt walked towards the house with him, --to fetch some moreknitting, so she announced. Trix suspected a little mental stroking. 

"What's the matter, Pia?" asked Trix calmly, leaning back in her chair. 

"The matter?" said Pia, the faintest suspicion of a flush in her cheeks. 

"You were very--very _snubbing_ to Doctor Hilary, " announced Trix, stillcalmly. Inwardly she was not so calm. In fact, her heart was thumpingquite loudly. 

"My dear Trix, " replied the Duchessa coldly, "I have an excellentgardener. I do not care for recommendations emanating from a completestranger. "

"There was no smallest need to snub Doctor Hilary, though, " said Trixquietly. The queer surprise on his face had caused a little stab at herheart. 

The Duchessa made no reply. 

"Pia, what _is_ the matter?" asked Trix again. 

"I have told you, nothing, " responded the Duchessa. 

Trix shook her head. "Yes; there is. You're unhappy. You've been--you cantell me to mind my own business, if you like--you've been horriblyprickly lately. You've tried to hurt my feelings, and Tibby's, and nowyou've tried to hurt Doctor Hilary's. And he didn't deserve it in theleast, but he thought, for a moment, he did. And it isn't like you, Pia. It isn't one bit. Do tell me what's the matter?"

"Nothing, " said Pia again. 

"Darling, that's a--a white lie at all events. "

Pia coloured. "Anyhow it's not worth talking about, " she said. 

"Are you sure it isn't?" urged Trix. "Couldn't I help the weeniest bit?"

The Duchessa shook her head. 

"Darling, " said Trix again, and she slipped her arm through Pia's. 

"I'm all one big bruise, " said Pia suddenly. 

Trix stroked her hand. 

"It is entirely foolish of me to care, " said the Duchessa slowly. "But Ihappen to have trusted someone rather implicitly. I never dreamed itpossible the person could stoop to act a lie. I would not have minded thething itself, --it would have been absurd for me to have done so. But ithurt rather considerably that the person should have deceived me in thematter, in fact have acted a deliberate lie about it. I am honestly doingmy best to forget the whole thing, but I am being constantly reminded ofit. "

Trix sat up very straight. So that was it, she told herself. How idioticof her not to have guessed at once, --days ago, that is, --when she herselfhad made her marvellous discovery. It was now quite plain to her mindthat Pia must have made it too. It was Doctor Hilary whom she believed tobe the fraud, the friend whom she had trusted, and who had acted a lie. The whole oddness of Pia's behaviour became suddenly perfectly clear toher. Tibby had told her that it had begun on her return to Woodleigh. Well, that must have been when she first found out. How she'd found out, Trix didn't know. But that was beside the mark. She evidently had foundout. 

Trix's mind ran back over various little incidents. She remembered thesnub administered to Father Dormer the evening after her arrival. The newunder-gardener had been the subject of conversation then, of coursereminding Pia of the Hall. And she had snubbed Father Dormer, as she hadsnubbed Doctor Hilary a few minutes ago. All Pia's snubs and suddenprickles came back to her mind. They all had their origin in someinadvertent remark regarding the Hall. 

Yes; everything was as clear as daylight now. Pia had learnt of thisbusiness in some roundabout way that did not allow of her speaking openlyto Doctor Hilary on the subject, so she saw merely the fraud, and had noidea that it was, in all probability, an entirely justifiable one, andthat at all events no one had told any deliberate lie. Of course Pia wasdisturbed and upset. Wouldn't she have been herself, in Pia's place? Andhadn't she felt quite unreasonably unhappy till Mr. Danver had assuredher that Doctor Hilary had not spoken a single word of actual untruth?

Oh, poor Pia!

Now, it was not in the least astonishing that Trix's mind should haveleapt to this entirely erroneous conclusion. For the last fortnight ithad been full of her discovery. The smallest thing that seemed to bear onit, instantly appeared actually to do so. And everything in her presenttrain of thought fitted in with astonishing accuracy. Each littleincident in Pia's late behaviour fell into place with it. 

She did not stop to consider that, if this were the sole cause of Pia'strouble, she--Pia--was unquestionably taking a very exaggerated view ofit. It never occurred to Trix to do so. If she had considered the matterat all, it would have been merely to realize that Pia's attitude towardsit was remarkably like what her own would have been. She would haveknown, had she attempted analysis of the subject, that she herself wasfrequently troubled about trifles, or what at any rate would haveappeared to others as trifles, where any friend of hers was concerned. Her friends' actions and her own, in what are ordinarily termed littlethings, mattered quite supremely to her, most particularly in anyquestion regarding honour. The smallest infringement of it would beenough to cause her sleepless nights and anxious days. Therefore, withoutattempting any analysis, she could perfectly well understand what shebelieved Pia's point of view to be. And her present distress was, that, in view of her promise, she could do nothing definite to help her. 

She could not show her Doctor Hilary's standpoint in the matter, since itwas not permissible for her to give the smallest hint that she wasacquainted either with it, or with the whole business at all. She couldnot even hint that she believed Doctor Hilary to be the person concerningwhom Pia was troubled. She could only take refuge in generalities, which, with a definite case before her, she felt to be a peculiarlyunsatisfactory proceeding. Yet there was nothing else to be done. It wasmore than probable that Pia was in the same kind of cleft stick asherself, and that therefore direct discussion of the matter was out ofthe question. 

Still stroking Pia's hand, Trix spoke slowly. 

"Pia, darling, what I am going to say will sound very poor comfort, Iknow. But it's this. Isn't it just possible that you could give the--theperson concerned the benefit of a doubt? Even if it seems to you that hehas acted a lie, and therefore been something of a fraud, mayn't there besome extraordinarily good reason, behind it all, that circumstances arepreventing him from explaining? Such queer things do happen, andsometimes people have to appear to others as frauds, when they reallyaren't a bit. If you were ever really friends with the person--and youmust have been, or you wouldn't care--I'd just say to myself that I wouldtrust him in spite of every appearance to the contrary. Perhaps some dayyou'll be most awfully sorry if you don't. And isn't it a million timesbetter to be even mistaken in trust where a friend is concerned, thangive way to the smallest doubt which may afterwards be proved to be awrong doubt?"

Pia was silent. Then she said in an oddly even voice, "Trix do you _know_ anything?"

Trix flushed to the roots of her hair. Pia turned to look at her. 

"Trix!" she said amazed. 

"Pia, " implored Trix, "you mustn't ask me a single question, because Ican't answer you. But do, do, trust. "

Pia drew a long breath. 

"Trix, you're the uncanniest little mortal that ever lived, and I can'timagine how you could have guessed, or what exactly it is you really doknow. But I believe I am going to take your advice. "

CHAPTER XXVI

AN OFFER AND A REFUSAL

Antony was working in his front garden. It was a Saturday afternoon, anda blazingly hot one. Every now and then he paused to lean on his spade, and look out to where the blue sea lay shining and glistening in thesunlight. 

It was amazingly blue, almost as blue as the sea depicted on the postersof famous seaside resorts, posters in which a bare-legged child with abucket and spade, and the widest of wide smiles is invariably seen in theforeground. Certainly the designers of these posters are not students ofchild nature. If they were, they would know that a really absorbed andhappy child is almost portentously solemn. It hasn't the time to waste onsmiles; the building of sand castles and fortresses is infinitely tooengrossing an occupation. A smile will greet the anticipation; it is lostin the stupendous joy of the fact. But as smiles are evidently considered_de rigueur_ by the designers of posters, and as the mere anticipationwill not allow of the portrayal of the Rickett's blue sea, destined tohit the eye of the beholder, smiles and sea have--rightly or wrongly--tobe combined. 

Antony gazed at the sea, if not quite as blue as a poster sea, yet--asalready stated--amazingly blue. Josephus lay on a bit of hot earthwatching him, his nose between his forepaws, and quite exhausted after amad and wholly objectless ten minutes' race round the garden. 

Antony turned from his contemplation of the sea, and once more graspedhis spade. Presently he turned up a small flat round object, which atfirst sight he took to be a penny. He picked it up, and rubbed the dirtoff it. It proved to be merely a small lead disk, utterly useless andvalueless; he didn't even know what it could have been used for. He threwit on the earth again, and went on with his digging. But it, or hisaction of tossing it on to the earth, had started a train of thought. Itis extraordinary what trifles will serve to start a lengthy and connectedtrain of thought. Sometimes it is quite interesting, arriving at acertain point, to trace one's imaginings backwards, and see from whencethey started. 

The disk reminded Antony of the coppers he had tossed to the child atTeneriffe. From it he quite unconsciously found himself reviewing all thesubsequent happenings. They linked on one to the other without a break. He hardly knew he was reviewing them, though they so absorbed his mindthat he was totally unconscious of his surroundings, and even of the factthat he was digging. His employment had become quite mechanical. 

He was so engrossed that he did not hear a step in the road behind him. Josephus heard it, however, and gave vent to a faint whine, raising hishead from between his paws. The sound roused Antony, and he turned. 

His face went suddenly white beneath its bronze. The Duchessa diDonatello was standing at the gate, looking over into the garden. 

"Might I come in and rest a moment?" she asked. "The sun is so hot. "

Antony could hardly believe his ears. Surely he could not have heardaright? But there she was, standing at the gate, most evidently waitinghis permission to enter. 

He left his spade sticking in the earth, and went to unfasten the gate. Without speaking, he led the way up the little flagged path, and into theparlour. 

The Duchessa crossed to the oak settle and sat down. Slowly she began topull off her long crinkly doe-skin gloves. Antony watched her. He saw thegleam of a diamond ring on her hand. It was a ring he had often noticed. A picture of the Duchessa sitting at a little round table among orangetrees in green tubs flashed suddenly and very vividly into his mind. 

"It is very hot, " said the Duchessa looking up at him. 

"Yes, " said Antony mechanically. 

"Am I interrupting your work?" asked the Duchessa. 

Antony started. 

"Oh, no, " he replied. And he sat down by the table, leaning slightlyforward with his arms upon it. 

"Do you mind my coming here?" she asked. 

"I don't think so, " said Antony reflectively. 

A gleam of a smile flashed across the Duchessa's face. The reply was soAntonian. 

There was quite a long silence. Suddenly Antony roused himself. 

"You'll let me get you some tea, Madam, " he said. 

Awaiting no reply, he went into the little scullery, where the fire bywhich he had cooked his midday meal was still alight. The kettle filledwith water and placed on the stove, he stood by it, in a measure wishful, yet oddly reluctant to return to the parlour. Reluctance won the day. Heremained by the kettle, gazing at it. 

Left alone, the Duchessa looked round the parlour. It was exceedinglyprimitive, yet, to her mind, curiously interesting. Of course in realityit was not unlike dozens of other cottage parlours, but it held apersonality of its own for her. It was the room where Antony Gray lived. 

She pictured him at his lonely meals, sitting at the table where he hadsat a moment or so agone; sitting on the settle where she was nowsitting, certainly smoking, and possibly reading. She found herselfwondering what he thought about. Did he ever think of the _FortSalisbury_, she wondered? Or had he blotted it from his mind, as she hadendeavoured--ineffectually--to do? And then, with that thought, with thepossibility that he had done so, her presence in the room seemed quitesuddenly an intrusion. What on earth would he think of her for coming?And what on earth did she mean to say to him now she had come?

The impulse which had led her down the lane, which had caused her topause at the gate and speak to him, all at once seemed to her perfectlyidiotic, and, worse still, intrusive and impertinent. What possibleexcuse was she going to give for it, in the face of her behaviour to himthat afternoon on the moorland? Merely to have asked for shelter onaccount of the heat, appeared to her now as the flimsiest of excuses, andwould appear to him as an excuse simply to pry upon him, to see his modeof living. He had not returned to the parlour. Doubtless his absence wasa silent rebuke to her. She had thrust the necessity of hospitality uponhim, but he intended to show her plainly that it was entirely ofnecessity he had offered it. 

Her cheeks burned at the thought. She looked quickly round. Anyhow therewas still time for flight. She picked up her gloves from where she hadlaid them on the settle, and got to her feet. 

"The water won't be long in boiling, Madam, " said Antony's voice. 

He had come back quietly into the room. For a moment he glanced in halfsurprise to see the Duchessa standing by the settle. Then he crossed tothe dresser, and began taking down a cup, a saucer, and a plate. 

The Duchessa sat down again, drawing her hand nervously along hergloves. 

She looked at him getting down the things and setting them on the table. She watched his neat, deft movements. Antony took no notice of her; shemight have been part of the settle itself for all the attention he paidher. His preparations made, he returned momentarily to the scullery tofill the teapot. Coming back with it he placed it on the table. 

"Everything is ready, Madam, " he said. Dale himself could not have beenmore distantly respectful. 

The Duchessa looked at the one cup, the one saucer, and the one plate. 

"Aren't you going to have some tea, too?" she asked. 

"Servants do not sit down with their superiors, " said Antony. 

The colour rose hotly in the Duchessa's face. 

"Why do you say that?" she demanded. 

Antony lifted his shoulders, the merest suspicion of a shrug. 

"I merely state a fact, " he replied. 

"I wish you to, " she said quickly. 

"Is that a command?" asked Antony. 

"If you like to take it so, " she replied. 

Antony turned to the dresser. He took down another cup and plate and putthem on the table. Then he stood by it, waiting for her to be seated. 

"Sugar?" asked the Duchessa. She was making a brave endeavour to steadythe trembling of her voice. 

"If you please, Madam, " said Antony gravely. 

The meal proceeded in dead silence. 

"Mr. Gray, " said the Duchessa suddenly. 

"My name, " said Antony respectfully, "is Michael Field. "

The Duchessa gave a little shaky laugh. 

"Well, Michael Field, " she said. "I was not very kind that day I met youon the moorland. "

Antony kept his eyes fixed on his plate. 

"There was no reason that you should be kind, " he replied quietly. 

"There was, " flashed the Duchessa. 

"I think not, " replied Antony, calmly. "Ladies in your position are underno obligation to be kind to servants, except to those of their ownhousehold. Even then, it is more or less of a condescension on theirpart. "

"You were not always a servant, " said the Duchessa. 

There was the fraction of a pause. 

"I did not happen to be actually in a situation when I was on the _FortSalisbury_, if that is what you mean, Madam, " returned Antony. 

"I mean more than that, " retorted the Duchessa. "I mean that by yourup-bringing you are not a servant. "

Antony laughed shortly. 

"I happen to have had a better education than falls to the lot of mostmen who have been in the positions I have been in, and who are inpositions like my present one. But most assuredly I am a servant. "

"What positions have you been in?" demanded the Duchessa. 

A very faint smile showed itself on Antony's face. 

"I have been a sort of miner's boy, " he replied slowly. "I have been afarm hand, mainly used for cleaning out pigsties, and that kind of work. I have been servant in a gambling saloon; odd man on a cattle boat. Ihave worked on a farm again. And now I am an under-gardener. Veryassuredly I have been, and am, a servant. "

The Duchessa's brows wrinkled. "Yet you speak like a gentleman, and--andyou wore dress clothes as if you were used to them. "

Again a faint smile showed itself on Antony's face. 

"I told you I happen to have had a decent education in my youth. Also, Iwould suggest, that even butlers and waiters wear dress clothes as ifthey were used to them. "

Once more there was a silence. A rather long silence this time. It wasbroken by the Duchessa's voice. 

"Some months ago, " she said, "I offered my friendship to Antony Gray; Inow offer that same friendship to Michael Field. "

Antony gave a little laugh. There was an odd gleam in his eyes. 

"Michael Field regrets that he must decline the honour. "

The Duchessa's face went dead white. 

Antony got to his feet. 

"Please don't misunderstand me, " he said. "I fully appreciate the honouryou have done me, but--" he shrugged his shoulders--"it is quiteimpossible to accept it. It--you must see that for yourself--would be arather ridiculous situation. The Duchessa di Donatello and a friendshipwith an under-gardener! I don't fancy either of us would care to be madea mock of, even by the extremely small world in which we happen to live. "He stopped. 

The Duchessa rose too. Her eyes were steely. 

"Thank you for reminding me, " she said. "In a moment of absurdimpulsiveness I had overlooked that fact. Also, thank you for--for yourhospitality. "

She moved to the door without looking at him. Antony was before her, andhad it open. He followed her down the path and unfastened the wicketgate. She passed through it without turning her head, and walked ratherdeliberately down the lane. 

Antony went back into the cottage. For a moment he stood looking at thetable, his throat contracted. Then slowly, and with oddly unseeing eyes, he began clearing away the débris of the meal. 

CHAPTER XXVII

LETTERS AND MRS. ARBUTHNOT

Trix was sitting in a summer-house in the garden of an hotel atLlandrindod Wells. She was reading a letter, a not altogethersatisfactory letter to judge by the wrinkling of her brows, and thegravity of her eyes. 

The letter was from the Duchessa di Donatello, and ran as follows:

"My Dear Trix:

"I am glad you had a comfortable journey, and that Mrs. Arbuthnot had notbeen pining for you too deeply. It is a pity her letters gave you theimpression that she was feeling your absence so acutely. Possibly it isalways wiser to subtract at least half of the impression conveyed in bothwritten and spoken words. Please understand that I am speaking ingeneralities when I say that we are exceedingly apt to exaggerate our ownimportance to others, and their importance to us. 

"Talking of exaggeration, will you forget our conversation on your lastevening here? I exaggerated my own trouble and its cause. Ratherfoolishly I let your remarks influence me, and sought an explanation, orrather, attempted to ignore appearances, and return to the old footing. The result being that not only did I find that there was no explanationto be given, but that I got rather badly snubbed. As you, of course, willknow who administered the snub, you can understand that it was peculiarlyunpleasant. I had endeavoured to ignore the fact that he was my socialinferior, but he reminded me of it in a way it was impossible tooverlook, and showed me that he deeply resented what he evidently lookedupon as a somewhat impertinent condescension on my part. 

"The theories, my dear Trix, which you set forth in the moonlight underthe lime trees, simply won't hold water. For your own sake I advise youto abandon them forthwith. Blood will always tell; and sooner or later, if we attempt intimacy with those not of our own station in life, weshall get a glimpse of the hairy hoof. I know the theories sound allright, and quite beautifully Christian--as set forth in themoonlight, --but they don't work in this twentieth century, as I havefound to my cost. You had better make up your mind to that fact beforeyou, too, get a slap in the face. I assure you you don't feel liketurning the other cheek. However, that will do. But as it was mainlythrough following out your theories and advice that I found my pride notonly in the mud, but rubbed rather heavily in it, I thought you might aswell have a word of warning. Please now consider the matter closed, andnever make the smallest reference to that rather idiotic conversation. 

"Doctor Hilary was over here again yesterday. He enquired after you, andasked to be very kindly remembered to you. I should like Doctor Hilary toattend me in any illness. He gives one such a feeling of strength andreliance. There's absolutely no humbug about him. 

 "Much love, my dear Trix, "Yours affectionately, "Pia Di Donatello. "

Trix read the letter through very carefully, and then dropped it on herlap. 

"It wasn't Doctor Hilary!" she ejaculated. "So who on earth was it?"

She sat gazing through the opening of the summer-house towards thegarden. It was the oddest _puzzle_ she had ever encountered. Who on earthcould it have been? And why--since it wasn't Doctor Hilary--had Piajumped to the conclusion that she--Trix--knew who it was?

It wasn't Mr. Danver, that was very certain. "Social inferior" put thatfact out of the question. But then, what social inferior had been mixedup in the business? Or--Trix's brain leapt from point to point--had Pia'strouble nothing whatever to do with the mad business at the Hall? Had sheand Pia simply been playing a quite amazing game of cross-purposes thatevening? It would seem that must have been the case. Yet the recognitionof that fact didn't bring her in the smallest degree nearer the solutionof the riddle. Again, who on earth was it? What social inferior wasthere, could there possibly be, at Woodleigh, to cause Pia a moment'strouble? Every preconceived notion on Trix's part, including the colourof the soap-bubble, vanished into thin air, and left her contemplating aninexplicable mystery. 

Whatever it was, it had affected Pia pretty deeply. It was absurd for herto say the incident was closed. Externally it might be, in the matter ofnot referring to it again. Interiorly it had left a wound, and one whichwas very far from being easily healed, to judge by Pia's letter. It hadnot been written by Pia at all, but by a very bitter woman, who hadmerely a superficial likeness to Pia. That fact, and that fact alone, caused Trix to imagine that she had been right when she told Tibby--ifnot in so many words, at least virtually speaking--that love had comeinto Pia's life. Love embittered alone could have inflicted the wound shefelt Pia to be enduring. And yet the wording of her letter would appearto put that surmise out of the question. Truly it was an insolvableriddle. 

Once more she re-read the letter, but it didn't help her in the smallestdegree. There was only one small ounce of comfort in it. It wasn't DoctorHilary who had caused the wound. Pia had merely tried to pick a quarrelwith him, as she had frequently tried to pick one with herself and Tibby, because she was unhappy. If only Trix knew what had caused theunhappiness. And Pia thought she did know. If she wrote and told her nowthat she hadn't the smallest conception of what she was talking about, itwould in all probability rouse conjectures in Pia's mind as to what Trix_had_ thought. That, having in view her promise, had certainly better beavoided. 

Should she, then, ignore Pia's letter, or should she reply to it? Sheweighed the pros and cons of this question for the next ten minutes, andfinally decided she would write, and at once. 

Returning, therefore, to the hotel, she indited the following briefmissive:

"My dear Pia, --

"The incident is closed so far as I am concerned. But I don't mean togive up seeking my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I dare say mostpeople would call it an imaginary quest. Well then, I like an imaginaryquest. It helps to make me forget much that is prosaic, and a good dealthat is sordid in this work-a-day world. 

"Please remember me to Doctor Hilary when you see him. Best love, Piadarling, "Trix. "

Three days later Pia wrote:

"My dear Trix, "The rainbow vanishes, and the sordidness and the prosaicness becomerather horribly apparent, especially when one finds oneself obliged tolook at them after having steadily ignored their existence. 

 "Yours affectionately, "Pia. "

To which Trix replied:

"My dear Pia, "My rainbow shines after every shower, and is brightest against thedarkest clouds. When I look towards the darkest clouds I wait for therainbow. 

 "Yours, "Trix. "

And Pia wrote:

"My dear Trix, "What happens when there is no longer any sun to form a rainbow?

 "Yours affectionately, "Pia. "

And Trix wrote:

"Wait till the clouds roll by, Jenny, wait till the clouds roll by. "

And Pia wrote:

"My dear Trix, "Some people wait a lifetime in vain, "Yours affectionately, "Pia. "

And Trix wrote:

"Darling Pia, "You're twenty-eight. Trix. "

After which there was a cessation of correspondence for a time, neitherhaving anything further to say on the subject, or at all events, nothingfurther they felt disposed to set down in writing. 

Trix spent her mornings, and the afternoons, till tea time, in her Aunt'scompany. After that, Mrs. Arbuthnot being engrossed in Bridge tillbedtime, Trix was free to do exactly as she liked. What she liked waswalking till it was time to dress for dinner, and spending the eveningsin the garden. 

Even before her father's death, Trix had stayed frequently with her aunt. Her mother had died when Trix was three years old and Mrs. Arbuthnot, awidow with no children of her own, would have been quite ready to adoptTrix. But neither Mr. Devereux, nor, for that matter, Trix herself, werein the least disposed to fall in with her plans. Trix was merely lent toher for fairly lengthy periods, and it had been during one of theseperiods that Mrs. Arbuthnot had taken her to a farm near Byestry, inwhich place Mr. Devereux had spent most of his early years. 

In those days Mrs. Arbuthnot's one hobby had been photography. Peopleused to say, of course unjustly, that she never beheld any view with thenaked eye, but merely in the reflector of a photographic apparatus. Yetit is entirely obvious that she must first have regarded it in theordinary way to judge of its photographic merits. Anyhow it is true thatquite a good deal of her time was spent beneath the folds of a blackcloth (she never condescended to anything so amateurish as a mere kodak), or in the seclusion of a dark room. 

Veritable dark rooms being seldom procurable on her travels, sheinvariably carried with her two or three curtains of thick red serge, several rolls of brown paper, and a bottle of stickphast. The two lastmentioned were employed for covering chinks in doors, etc. It cannot besaid that it was entirely beneficial to the doors, but hotel proprietorsand landladies seldom made any complaint after the first remonstrance, asMrs. Arbuthnot was always ready to make handsome compensation for anydamage caused. It is to be feared that at times her generosity waslargely imposed upon. 

In addition to the red curtains, the brown paper, and the stickphast, twolarge boxes were included in her luggage, one containing all herphotographic necessaries, and they were not few, the other containingseveral dozen albums of prints. 

Of late years Bridge had taken quite as large a place in her affectionsas photography. Not that she felt any rivalry between the two; herpleasure in both pastimes was quite equally balanced. Her mornings andearly afternoons were given to photography. The late afternoons andevenings Mrs. Arbuthnot devoted to Bridge. 

 * * * * *

One exceedingly wet afternoon, tea being recently concluded, Trix in herbedroom was surveying the weather from the window. 

She was debating within her mind whether to don mackintosh and souwesterand face the elements, or whether to retire to a far corner of thedrawing-room with a novel, as much as possible out of earshot of theBridge players. She was still in two minds as to which prospect mostappealed to her mood, when Mrs. Arbuthnot tapped on her door, andimmediately after sailed into the room. It is the only word applicable toMrs. Arbuthnot's entry into any room. 

She was a large fair woman, very distinctly inclined to stoutness. In heryouth she had been both slender, and quick in her movements; butrecognizing, and rightly, that quickness means a certain loss of dignityin the stout, she had trained herself to be exceedingly deliberate in heractions. There was an element of consciousness in her deliberation, therefore, which gave the impression of a rather large sailing vesselunder weigh. 

"Trix, dearest, " she began. And then she perceived that Trix had beenobserving the weather. 

"You were not going out, were you, dearest? I really think it wouldhardly be wise. It is blowing quite furiously. I know it is rather dullfor you as you don't play Bridge. Such a pity, too, as you understand itso well. But I have a suggestion to make. Will you paste some of mynewest prints into the latest album? There is a table in the window in myroom, and a fresh bottle of stickphast. Not in the window, I don't meanthat, but in my trunk. And Maunder can find it for you. " Maunder was Mrs. Arbuthnot's maid. 

Trix turned from the window. Of course Mrs. Arbuthnot's request settledthe question of a walk. She had really been in two minds about it. 

"Why, of course, " she said. "Where are the prints?"

Mrs. Arbuthnot brightened visibly. 

"They're inside a green envelope on the writing-table. You'll find asmall pair of very sharp scissors there too. The dark edges are sounsightly if not trimmed. You're sure you don't mind, dearest? It reallywill be quite a pleasant occupation. It is so dreadfully wet. And Maunderwill give you the stickphast. There is clean blotting-paper on thewriting-table too, and Maunder can find you anything else you want. Well, that's all right. Maunder is in my room now. She will be going to her teain ten minutes, so perhaps you might go to her at once. And she is sureto be downstairs for at least an hour and a half, if not longer. Servantsalways have so much to talk about, and take so long saying it. Why, Ican't imagine. It always seems to me so much better not to waste wordsunnecessarily. So you will have the room to yourself, till she comes toput out my evening things. And I must go back to the drawing-room atonce, or they will be waiting Bridge for me. And Lady Fortescue hatesbeing kept waiting. It puts her in a bad temper, and when she's in a badtemper she is extraordinarily erratic as to her declarations. Though, forthat matter, she is seldom anything else. I don't mean bad-tempered, butseldom anything but erratic. So, dearest, I mustn't let you keep me anylonger. Don't forget to ask Maunder for the stickphast, and anything elseyou want. And the prints and the scissors----"

"Yes, I know, " nodded Trix cheerfully, "on the writing table. Hurry, AuntLilla, or they'll all be swearing. "

"Oh, my dearest, I trust not. Though perhaps interiorly. And even that isa sin. I remember----"

Trix propelled her gently but firmly from the room. Doubtless Mrs. Arbuthnot continued her remembrances "interiorly" as she went down thepassage and descended the stairs. 

Ten minutes later, Trix, provided with the stickphast, the greenenvelope, the scissors, and the clean blotting-paper, and having a verylarge album spread open before her on a table, was busily engaged withthe prints. They were mainly views of Llandrindod Wells, though therewere quite a good many groups among them, as well as a fair number ofsingle figures. Trix herself appeared chiefly in these last, --Trix in ahat, Trix without a hat, Trix smiling, serious, standing, or sitting. 

For half an hour or so Trix worked industriously, indefatigably. Shetrimmed off dark edges, she applied stickphast, she adjusted the printsin careful positions, she smoothed them down neatly with the cleanblotting-paper. At the end of that time, she paused to let the paste drysomewhat before turning the page. 

With a view to whiling away the interval, she possessed herself of asister album, one of the many relations stacked against a wall, choosingit haphazard from among the number. 

There is a distinct fascination in photographs which recall earlymemories. Trix fell promptly under the spell of this fascination. Theminutes passed, finding her engrossed, absorbed. Turning a page she cameupon views of Byestry, herself--a white-robed, short-skirted smallperson--appearing in the foreground of many. 

Trix smiled at the representations. It really was rather an adorablesmall person. It was so slim-legged, mop-haired, and elfin-smiled. It wasseen, for the most part, lavishing blandishments on a somewhat ungainlypuppy. One photograph, however, represented the small person in companywith a boy. 

Trix looked at this photograph, and suddenly amazement fell full uponher. She looked, she leant back in her chair and shut her eyes, and thenshe looked again. Yes; there was no mistake, no shadow of a mistake. Theboy in the photograph was the man with the wheelbarrow, or the other wayabout, which possibly might be the more correct method of expressing thematter. But, whichever the method, the fact remained the same. 

Trix stared harder at the photograph, cogitating, bewildered. Below itwas written in Mrs. Arbuthnot's rather sprawling handwriting, "T. D. , aged five. A. G. , aged fourteen. Byestry, 1892. "

Who on earth was A. G. ? Trix searched the recesses of her mind. And thensuddenly, welling up like a bubbling spring, came memory. Why, of courseA. G. Was the boy she used to play with, the boy--she began to rememberthings clearly now--who had tried to sail across the pond, and with whomshe had gone to search for pheasants' eggs. A dozen little details cameback to her mind, even the sound of the boy's voice, and his laugh, acuriously infectious laugh. 

Oh, she remembered him distinctly, vividly. But, what--and there lay thepuzzlement, the bewilderment--was the boy, now grown to manhood, doingwith a wheelbarrow in the grounds of Chorley Old Hall, and, moreover, dressed as a gardener, working as a gardener, and speaking--well, at anyrate speaking after the manner of a gardener? Perhaps to have said, speaking as though he were on a different social footing from Trix, wouldhave better expressed Trix's meaning. But she chose her own phraseology, and doubtless it conveyed to her exactly what she did mean. Anyhow, itwas an amazing riddle, an insoluble riddle. Trix stared at thephotograph, finding no answer to it. 

Finding no answer she left the book open at the page, and returned to thesticking in of prints. But every now and then her eyes wandered to thebig volume at the other end of the table, wonderment and query possessingher soul. 

Maunder appeared just as Trix had finished her task. Helpful, business-like, she approached the table, a gleam spelling order andtidiness in her eye. 

"Leave that album, please, " said Trix, seeing the helpful Maunder aboutto shut and bear away the book containing the boy's photograph. 

Maunder hesitated, sighed conspicuously, and left the book, occupyingherself instead with putting away the stickphast, the scissors, the nownot as clean blotting-paper, and somewhat resignedly picking up smallshreds of paper which were scattered upon the table-cloth and carpet. Inthe midst of these occupations the dressing-gong sounded. Maunder prickedup her ears, actually almost, as well as figuratively. 

Ten minutes elapsed. Then Mrs. Arbuthnot appeared. 

"What, finished, dearest!" she exclaimed as she opened the door. "Splendid! How quick you've been. And I am sure the time flew on--notleaden feet, but just the opposite. It always does when one is pleasantlyoccupied. Developing photographs or a rubber of Bridge, it's just thesame, the hands of the clock spin round. And I've won six shillings, andit would have been more if it had not been for Lady Fortescue's lastdeclaration. Four hearts, my dearest, and the knave as her highest card. They doubled us, and of course we went down. I had only two small ones. Ihad shown her my own weakness by not supporting her declaration. Ofcourse at my first lead I led her a heart, and it was won by the queen onmy left. A heart was returned, and Lady Fortescue played the nine. It wascovered by the ten which won the trick. She didn't make a single trick inher own suit. It is quite impossible to understand Lady Fortescue'sdeclarations. And did you put in all the prints? They will have nearlyfilled the last pages. I must send for another album. Are these they?"She crossed to the open volume. 

"No, " said Trix, "that's an old volume. I was looking at it. Who's theboy in the photograph, Aunt Lilla?"

Mrs. Arbuthnot bent towards the page. 

"'A. G. , aged fourteen. ' Let me see. Why, of course that was Antony Gray, Richard Gray's son. But I never knew his father. He--I mean the boy--wasstaying in rooms with his aunt, Mrs. Stanley. She was his father'ssister, and married George Stanley. Something to do with the stockexchange, and quite a wealthy man, though a bad temper. And his wife wasnot a happy woman, as you can guess. Temper means such endless frictionwhen it's bad, especially with regard to things like interfering with theservants, and wanting to order the kitchen dinner. So absurd, as well asannoying. There's a place for a man and a place for a woman, and theman's place is not the kitchen, even if his entry is only figurative. Bywhich I mean that Mr. Stanley did not actually go to the kitchen, butgave orders from his study, on a sort of telephone business he had hadfixed up and communicating with the kitchen. So trying for the cook'snerves, especially when making omelettes, or anything that requiredparticular attention. She never knew when his voice wouldn't shout at herfrom the wall. A small black thing like a hollow handle fixed close tothe kitchen range. Quite uncomfortably near her ear. Worse than if hehimself had appeared at the kitchen door, which would have been normal, though trying. And Mr. Stanley never lowered his voice. He always spokeas if one were deaf, especially to foreigners who spoke English every bitas well as himself. Mrs. Stanley gave excellent wages, and even bonusesout of her dress money to try and keep cooks. But they all said the voicefrom the wall got on their nerves. And no wonder. And then unpleasantnesswhen the cooks left. As if it were poor Mrs. Stanley's fault, and not hisown. She once suggested they should give up their house and live in anhotel. He couldn't have a telephone arrangement to the kitchen there. Buthe was more unpleasant still. Almost violent. And he died at last of anattack of apoplexy. Such a relief to Mrs. Stanley. Not the dying ofapoplexy, which was a grief. But the quiet, and the being able to keep acook when he had gone. " Mrs. Arbuthnot paused a moment to take breath. 

"Do you know what became of the boy?" asked Trix. 

Mrs. Arbuthnot considered for an instant. 

"I believe he went abroad. Yes; I remember now, hearing from Mrs. Stanleyjust before she died herself, poor soul--ptomaine poisoning and a dirtycook, some people seem pursued by cooks, figuratively speaking, ofcourse, --that her brother had lost all his money and died, and thatAntony had gone abroad. We are told not to judge, and I don't, but it didseem to me that Mrs. Stanley ought to have made him some provision, ifnot before her death, at least after it. By will, of course I mean by'after'! which in a sense would have been before death. But youunderstand. Instead of which she left all her money to a deaf and dumbasylum. No doubt good in its way, but not like anything religious, whichwould have been more justifiable, though she was a Protestant. Andteaching dumb people to speak is always a doubtful blessing. They havesuch an odd way of talking. Scarcely understandable. But perhaps betterthan nothing for themselves, though not for others. Though with apenniless nephew and all that money I _do_ think--But, as I said, we aretold not to judge. "

"And you don't know what became of him after that?" asked Trix. 

Mrs. Arbuthnot looked almost reproachful. 

"My dearest, how could I? Mrs. Stanley in the family grave with herbrother, --she mentioned that particularly in her will, and not with herhusband, I suppose she could not have had much affection for him, --Icould not possibly hear any more of the young man. There were no otherrelations, and I did not even know what part of the world he was in. Norshould I have thought it advisable to write to him if I had, unless ithad been a brief letter of consolation as from a much older woman, whichI was. But even with age I do not think a correspondence between men andwomen desirable, unless they are related, especially with Mrs. Barclay'snovels so widely read. Not for my own sake, of course, as I do not thinkI am easily given to absurd notions. But one never knows what ideas ayoung man may not get into his head. And now, dear child, I must dress. Maunder has been sighing for the last ten minutes, and I know what thatmeans. And you'll be late yourself, if you don't go. "

Much later in the evening, Trix, in a far corner of the drawing-room witha novel, found herself again pondering deeply on her discovery. 

She was absolutely and entirely certain that the man with the wheelbarrowwas none other than Antony Gray, the boy with whom she had played in herchildhood. She remembered now that his face had been oddly familiar toher at the time, though, being unable to put any name to him, she hadlooked upon it merely as a chance likeness. But since he was Antony Gray, what was he doing at Chorley Old Hall?

Her first impulse had been to write to the Duchessa, tell her of hercertainty, and ask her to find out any particulars she could regardingthe man. She had abandoned that idea, in view of the fact that she wouldhave to say where she had met him, which would very probably lead toquestions difficult to answer. 

One thing she would do, however, and she gave a little inward laugh atthe thought, when she was next at Byestry, if she saw him again, shewould ask him if he remembered the pond and the pheasants' eggs. It wouldbe amusing to see his amazed face. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

FOR THE DAY ALONE

Probably there are times in the life of every human being, when the onlypossible method of living at all, would seem to be by living in theday--nay, in the moment--alone, resolutely shutting one's eyes to themistakes behind one, refusing to look at the blankness ahead. And this ismore especially the case when the mistakes and the blankness have beencaused by our own actions. There is not even stolid philosophy to come toour aid, a shrugging of the shoulders, a foisting of the blame on tofate. It may be that the majority of the incidents have been forced uponus, that we have not been free agents in the matter, but if we must ofhonesty say, --Here or there was the mistake which led to them, and I madethat mistake of my own free will, --we cannot turn to philosophy regardingfate for our comfort. 

To Antony's mind he had made a big mistake. Fate had been responsible forhis receipt of that letter, it had had nothing to do with himself; hemight even consider that, having received it, fate was largelyresponsible for his journey to England and his meeting with the Duchessa, but he could not possibly accuse fate of his acceptance of those madconditions attached to the will. He had been an entirely free agent sofar as they were concerned; they had been put before him for him toaccept or reject them as he chose, and he had accepted them. It had beena huge blunder on his part, and one for which he alone had beenresponsible. 

Of course he might quite justly declare that he could not possibly haveforeseen all the other moves fate had up her sleeve; but then no livingbeing could have foreseen them. Fate never does show her subsequentmoves. She puts decisions before us in such a way, that she leaves us toimagine we can shape our succeeding actions to our own mind and accordingto the decision made. She leaves us to imagine it is simply a questionwhether we will reach our goal by a road bearing slightly to the right orto the left, by a road which may take a long time to traverse and be afairly smooth road, or a road which will take a short time to traverseand be a rough one. Or, even, as in Antony's case, she will leave us toimagine there is one route and one route only by which we may reach ourgoal. And then, whatever our choice, she may suddenly plant a hugebarrier across the path, labelled, --No thoroughfare to your goal in thisdirection. 

Sometimes it is possible to defy fate, retrace our steps, and start anewtowards the goal. Occasionally we will find that we have burnt ourbridges behind us; we are up against an obstacle, and there we are boundto remain helpless. And here fate appears at her worst trickery. 

And even supposing we are minded to call it not fate, but Providence, whodoes these things, it will be of remarkably little comfort to us when weare aware of our own blunders in the background. 

A hundred times Antony reviewed the past; a hundred times he blamedhimself for the part he had chosen. It is true that, so far as he couldsee, none other would have had the smallest chance of leading him to hisdesired goal, yet any other could not have raised the enormous barrier henow saw before him. 

He had angered her: she despised him. 

To his mind nothing, no subsequent happening, could alter that fact. There was the thought he had to face, and behind him lay his ownirredeemable blunder. 

Well, the only thing now left for him was to live his life as it was, minus one spark of brightness. Certainly he didn't feel like singing, butwhining was no earthly good. And since he could not sing, and would notwhine, silence alone was left him. He would work as best he could tillthe year was out. He had no intention of going back on his bargain, despite the uselessness of it. At the end of the year, the Hall being hisown property, he would sell the place, and travel. Perhaps he would gooff shooting big game, or perhaps he would go round the world. It did notmuch matter which, so long as it prevented him from whining. 

And quite possibly, though he would never have any heart for singing, theday might come when he would again be able to whistle. 

CHAPTER XXIX

IN THE CHURCH PORCH

It was somewhere about the second week in December that Trix became therecipient of another letter, a letter quite as amazing, perplexing, andextraordinary as that which she had perused in the summer-house atLlandrindod Wells. They had returned to London in October. 

The letter was brought to her in the drawing-room one evening about nineo'clock. Mrs. Arbuthnot had gone out to a Bridge party. 

Trix was engrossed in a rather exciting novel at the moment, a blazingfire and an exceedingly comfortable armchair adding to her blissful stateof well-being. Barely raising her eyes from the book, she merely put outher hand and took the letter from the tray. It was not till she had cometo the end of the chapter that she even glanced at the handwriting. Thenshe saw that the writing was Miss Tibbutt's. 

Now, a letter from Miss Tibbutt was of such extremely rare occurrencethat Trix immediately leapt to the conclusion that Pia must be ill. Itwas therefore with a distinct pang of uneasiness that she broke the seal. This is what she read:

"My Dear Trix, --

"I have made rather an astounding discovery. At least I feel sure I'vemade it, I mean that I am right in what I think. I have no one in whom Ican confide, as it certainly would not do to speak to Pia on thesubject, --I feel sure she would rather I didn't, so I am writing to youas I feel I must tell someone. My dear, it sounds too extraordinary foranything, and I can't understand it myself, but it is this. Pia knows theunder-gardener at the Hall, really knows him I mean, not merely who heis, and that he is one of the gardeners, and that he came to these partslast March, which, of course, we all know. 

"I found this out quite by accident, and will explain the incident toyou. You must forgive me if I am lengthy; but I can only write in my ownway, dear Trix, and perhaps that will be a little long-winded. 

"Yesterday afternoon, which was Saturday, Pia and I motored into Byestry, as she wanted to see Father Dormer about something. I went into thechurch, while she went to the presbytery. I noticed a man in the churchas I went in, a man in workman's clothes, but of course I did not pay anyparticular attention to him. I knelt down by one of the chairs near thedoor, and just beyond St. Peter's statue. I suppose I must have beenkneeling there about ten minutes when the man got up. He didn'tgenuflect, and I glanced involuntarily at him. He didn't notice me, because I was partly hidden by St. Peter's statue. Then I saw it was theunder-gardener, --Michael Field, I believe his name is. 

"My dear, the man looked dreadfully ill, and so sad. It was the face of aman who had lost something or someone very dear to him. He went towardsthe porch, and just before he reached it, I heard the door open. Whoeverwas coming in must have met him just inside the church. There was a soundof steps as if the person had turned back into the porch with him. Then Iheard Pia's voice, speaking impulsively and almost involuntarily. Atleast I felt sure it was involuntarily. It sounded exactly as if shecouldn't help speaking. 

"'Oh, ' she said, 'you've been ill. '

"'Nothing of any consequence, Madam, ' I heard the man's voice answer. 

"'But it must have been of consequence, ' I heard Pia say. 'Have you seena doctor?'

"'There was no need, ' returned the man. 

"Then I heard Pia's voice, impulsive and a little bit impatient. Sheevidently had not seen me in the church, and thought no one was there. 

"'But there is need. Why don't you go and see Doctor Hilary?'

"'I am not ill enough to need doctors, Madam, ' returned the man. 

"'But you are, ' returned Pia, in the way that she insists when she isvery anxious about anything. 

"I heard the man give a little laugh. "

"'It is exceedingly good of you to trouble concerning me, ' he said, 'andI really don't know why you should. '

"'Oh, ' said Pia quickly, 'you need not be afraid that I, personally, wishto interfere with you again. You made it quite plain to me months agothat you had no smallest wish for me to do so. But, speaking simply asone human being to another, as complete and entire strangers, even, I doask you to see a doctor. '

"Then there was a moment's silence. "

"'I think not, ' I heard the man say presently. 'I am really notsufficiently interested in myself. Though--' and then, Trix dear, he halfstopped, and his voice altered in the queerest way, --'the fact that youhave shown interest enough to ask me to do so, has, curiously enough, made me feel quite a good deal more important in my own eyes. '

"'You refused my friendship, ' I heard Pia say, and her voice shook alittle. 

"'I did, ' said the man in rather a stern voice. 

"Again, Trix dear, there was a little silence. Then Pia said:

"'I don't intend again to offer a thing that has once been rejected. Ishall _never_ do that. But because we once were friends, or at allevents, fancied ourselves friends, I do ask you to see Doctor Hilary. That is all. '

"She must have turned from him at once, because she came into the church, and went up the aisle to her own chair. She knelt down, and put her handsover her eyes; and, Trix dearest, she was crying. I am crying now when Ithink about it, so forgive the blots on the paper. A minute later I heardthe door open and shut again, so I knew the man had gone. I got up assoftly as I could, and slipped out of the church. It would never havedone for Pia to see me, and I was so thankful to St. Peter for hidingme. 

"Well, my dear Trix, wasn't it amazing? And one of the most amazingthings was that the man's voice and way of speaking was quite educated, not the least as one would suppose a gardener would speak. 

"I went to the post-office and bought some stamps, though I really hadplenty at home, and loitered about for nearly a quarter of an hour. ThenI thought I had better go and find Pia. I met her coming out of thechurch. She was very pale; but she smiled, and wanted to know where I'dbeen, and I told her to the post-office. And then we drove home together. Pia laughed and chatted all the way, while my heart was in a big lump inmy throat, and I could hardly keep from crying, like the foolish oldwoman that I am. I ought to have been talking, and helping Pia topretend. 

"She has been quite gay all to-day, and oddly gentle too. But you knowthe kind of gayness. And to-night my heart feels like breaking for her, for there is some sad mystery I can't fathom. So, Trix dearest, I havewritten to you, because I cannot keep it all to myself. And I am cryingagain now, though I know I oughtn't to. So I am going to leave off, andsay the rosary instead. 

 "Good night, my dear Trix. "Your affectionate old friend, "Esther Tibbutt. 

P. S. I wish you could come down here again. Can't you?"

Trix leant back in her chair, and drew a long breath. The novel wasutterly and entirely forgotten. So _that_ was what Pia's letter hadmeant. It was this man she had been thinking of all the time. A dozenlittle unanswered questions were answered now, a dozen queer littleriddles solved. 

Trix slid down off her chair on to the bear-skin rug in front of thefire. She leant her arms sideways on the chair, resting her chin uponthem. Most assuredly she must place the whole matter clearly before hermind, in so far as possible. She gazed steadily at the glowing coals, ruminative, reflective. 

And firstly it was presented to her mind as the paramount fact, that itwas the mention of this man--this Michael Field, so-called--that had beenthe direct cause of Pia's odd irritability, and not the indirect cause, as she most erroneously had imagined. Somehow, in some way, he had causedher such pain that the mere mention of his name had been like laying ahand roughly on a wound. Secondly, though Trix most promptly dismissedthe memory, there was Pia's hurting little speech, the speech which hadfollowed on her--Trix's--theories promulgated beneath the lime trees. Inthe light of Miss Tibbutt's letter that speech was easy enough ofexplanation. Had not Pia had practical proof of the unworkableness ofthose theories? Proof which must have hurt her quite considerably. Howutterly and entirely childish her words must have seemed to Pia, --Pia who_knew_, while she truly was merely surmising, setting forth ideas whichassuredly she had never attempted to put into practice. Thirdly--Trixticked off the facts on her fingers--there was the amazing little game ofcross-questions. That too was entirely explained. How precisely it wasexplained she did not attempt to put into actual formulated words. Nevertheless she perceived quite clearly that it was explained. Andlastly there was Pia's letter to her, the letter which had vainly triedto hide the bitterness which had prompted it. Clear as daylight now wasthe explanation of that letter. Buoyed up by Trix's advice, by Trix'seloquence, she had once more attempted to put the high-sounding theoriesinto practice. And it had proved a failure, an utter and completefailure. 

All these things fell at once into place, fitting together like thepieces of a puzzle, an unfinished puzzle, nevertheless. The largestpieces were still scattered haphazard on the board, and there seemedextremely little prospect of fitting them into the rest. How had Pia evermet the man? What was he doing at Chorley Old Hall? And why was hepretending to be Michael Field, when she--Trix--now knew him to be AntonyGray? The last two proved the greatest difficulty, nor could Trix, forall her gazing into the fire, find the place they ought to occupy. Sheremembered, too, her own idea regarding the colour of that bubble. Was itpossible that she had been right in her idea? Verily, if she had been, inthe face of this new discovery, it opened up a yet more astoundingproblem. Pia actually and verily in love with the man, a man she believedto be under-gardener at the Hall, --Pia, the distant, the proud, thereserved Pia! It was amazing, unthinkable!

Trix heaved a sigh; it was all quite beyond her. One thing alone wasobvious; she must go down to Woodleigh again as soon as possible. Certainly she had no very clear notion as to what precise good she coulddo by going, nevertheless she was entirely convinced that go she must. And then, having reached this point in her reflections, she returned oncemore to the beginning, and began all over again. 

And suddenly another idea struck her, one which had been entirely omittedfrom her former train of thought. Was it possible that Mr. Danver knew ofthe identity of this Michael Field? Was it possible, was it conceivablethat he held the key to those greatest riddles? Truly it would seempossible. His one big action had been so extraordinary, so mad even, thatit would be quite justifiable to believe, or at least conjecture, thatminor extraordinary actions might be mixed up with it. 

And then, from that, Trix turned to a somewhat more detailedconsideration of Pia's position. One point presented itself quitedefinitely and clearly to her. It was certainly evident from thatmemorable letter of Pia's, that she _did_ regard this man as a socialinferior, from which fact it was entirely plain that she had no smallestnotion of his real identity. Trix clasped her hands beneath her chin, shut her eyes, and plunged yet deeper into her reflections. They werebecoming even more intricate. 

Now, would it be a comfort to Pia to know that this man was by birth hersocial equal, or would it, in view of the fact that he had in some wayshown her what she had called "a glimpse of the hairy hoof, " appear toher an added insult. Trix pondered the question deeply, turning it in hermind, and sighing prodigiously more than once in the process. 

And then, all at once, she opened her eyes. Where, after all, was the useof troubling her head on that score. Comfort or not, who was to tell Pia?Most assuredly Trix couldn't. She had considered that question already, weeks ago in fact, and answered it in the negative. Of course it wasquite possible that she was being somewhat over-sensitive andultra-scrupulous on the subject. But there it was. It was the way sheregarded matters. 

Trix sighed deeply. It was all terribly perplexing, and Tibby's letterwas quite horribly pathetic. Anyhow she would go down to Woodleigh assoon as she possibly could. 

She had been so entirely engrossed with her reflections, that she hadquite forgotten the passing of time. It was with a start of surprise, therefore, that she heard the door open. At the selfsame moment the clockon the mantelpiece chimed the hour of midnight. Trix got to her feet. 

"My dearest, " exclaimed Mrs. Arbuthnot, "not gone to bed yet! And all thebeauty sleep before midnight, they tell us. Not that you need it exceptin the way of preservation, dearest. For I always did tell you, regardless of making you conceited which I do not think I do do, that Ihave admired you from the time you were in your cradle. Well, food is thenext best thing to sleep, so come and have a sandwich and some sherry. Iam famished, positively famished. And I ate an excellent dinner, I know;but Bridge is always hungry work. Bring the tray to the fire, dearest. Isee James has put it all ready. And ham, which I adore. It may beindigestible, though I never believe it with things I like. Not merelybecause I like to think so, but because it is true. Nature knows best, asshe knew when I was a child, and gave me a distaste for fat which alwaysupset me, and a great appreciation for oranges which doctors are cryingup tremendously nowadays. "

Mrs. Arbuthnot sank down in an armchair, and threw back her cloak. Trixbrought the tray to a small table near her. 

"And how have you been amusing yourself, dearest? Not dull, I hope? Butthe fire and a book are always the best of companions I think, to saynothing of one's own thoughts, though some people do considerday-dreaming waste of time. So narrow-minded. They read novels which areonly other people's day-dreams, and their own less expensive, as savinglibrary subscriptions and the buying of books, besides a certainsuperiority in feeling they are your own. On the whole more satisfactory, too. Even though you know the end before you come to it, it can always bearranged as you like, and sad or happy to suit your mood. Though for mypart it should always be happy. If you're happy you want it happy, and ifyou're not, you still want it to make you. If it weren't for thedifficulty of dividing into chapters, I'd write my own day-dreams, and nodoubt have a big sale. But publishers have an absurd prejudice in favourof chapters, and even headings, which means an average of thirty titles. Quite brain-racking. A dear friend of mine who wrote, told me she alwaysthought the title the most difficult part of a book. "

She helped herself to a glass of sherry and two sandwiches as sheconcluded her speech. 

"And did you really have a pleasant evening?" said Trix, politelyinterrogative. 

Mrs. Arbuthnot surveyed her sandwich reflectively. 

"Well, dearest, on the whole, yes. But unfortunately Mrs. Townsend wasthere. An excellent Bridge player, and I am always pleased to see hermyself, but some people are so odd in their manner towards her. Quiteembarrassing really, in fact awkward at times. Absurd, too, with so gooda player. And though her father was a grocer it was in the wholesaleline, which is different from the retail. Besides, she married well, anddoesn't drop her aitches. "

Trix's chin went up. "I hate class distinctions being made so horriblyobvious, " said she with fine scorn. 

Mrs. Arbuthnot looked thoughtful. 

"Well, dearest, in Mrs. Townsend's case, perhaps. But not always. Iremember a girl I knew married a farmer. Most foolish. "

"But why, if he was nice?" demanded Trix, exceedingly firmly. 

"Oh, but dearest, " ejaculated Mrs. Arbuthnot, "it was so unsuitable. Hewasn't even a gentleman farmer. He had been a labourer. "

"He might have been a nice labourer, " contended Trix. 

Mrs. Arbuthnot sighed. "In himself, possibly. But it wouldn't do. Theirritation afterwards. We are told to avoid occasions of sin, and itwould not be avoiding occasions of ill-temper if you married a man likethat. Beer and muddy boots, to say nothing of inferior tobacco. Theglamour passed, though for my part I cannot see how there ever would beany glamour, probably infatuation, the boots--you know the kind, dearest, great nails and smelling of leather--the beer and the tobacco would be soterribly obvious. No, dearest, it doesn't do. "

Trix was silent. After all wasn't she again arguing on a point regardingwhich she had had no real experience? Pia had tried the experiment, anddeclared it didn't work; and that, in the case of a man who _was_ ofgentle birth, though posing as a labourer. In her own mind she felt itought to work, --of course under certain circumstances. It was not thebirth, but the mind that mattered. And, if there were the right kind ofmind, there most certainly would not be the boots, the beer, and thetobacco. Trix was perfectly sure there wouldn't be. But it evidently wasno atom of good trying to explain to other people what she meant, becausethey entirely failed to understand, and she was not certain that shecould explain very well to herself even what she did mean. 

It was not in the least that she had ever had the smallest desire to runcounter to these conventions in any really important way, but she didhate hard and fast rules. Why should people lay down laws, as rigid asthe laws of the Medes and Persians on matters that did not involve actualquestions of right and wrong! There were enough of those to observe, without inventing others which were not in the least necessary. 

It was all horribly muddling, and rather depressing, she decided. Shefinished her sandwich and glass of sherry, swallowing a little lump inher throat at the same time. Then she spoke. 

"Aunt Lilla, " she said impulsively, "I want to go down to Woodleigh. "

Mrs. Arbuthnot looked up. 

"Woodleigh, dearest. You were there only a little time ago, weren'tyou?"

"It was in August, " said Trix. "And, anyhow, I want to go again. Youdon't mind, do you?"

Mrs. Arbuthnot took another sandwich. 

"That's the fifth, " she said. "Disgraceful, but all the fault of Bridge. Why, of course not, if you want to go. But what made you think of itto-night?"

Trix leant back in her chair. "I had a letter from Miss Tibbutt, " shesaid. 

Mrs. Arbuthnot laid down her sandwich. She regarded Trix with anxious andalmost reproachful eyes. 

"Oh, my dearest, nothing wrong I hope? So inconsiderate of me to talk ofBridge. I saw a letter in your hand, but no black edge. Unless there is ablack edge, one does not readily imagine bad news. Not like telegrams. They send my heart to my mouth, and generally nothing but a Bridgepostponement. So trivial. But it is the colour of the envelope, and thepossibility. Ill news flies apace, and telegrams the quickest mode ofcommunicating it. Except the telephone. And that is expensive at anydistance. " Mrs. Arbuthnot paused, and took up her sandwich once more. 

"Oh, no, " responded Trix, answering the first sentence of the speech. Experience, long experience had taught her to seize upon the firsthalf-dozen words of her aunt's discourses, and cling to them, allowingthe remainder to float harmlessly into thin air. Later there might be thenecessity to clutch at a few more, but generally the first half-dozensufficed. "Oh, no; no bad news. But Miss Tibbutt is not quite satisfiedabout Pia. "

That was true, at all events. 

Mrs. Arbuthnot made a little clicking sound with her tongue, expressiveof sympathy. 

"Oh, my dearest, I know that term 'not quite satisfied. ' So vague. It maymean nothing, or it may mean a good deal. And we always think it means agood deal, when it is probably only influenza. Depressing, but not at allserious if taken in time. And ammoniated quinine the best thing possible. Not bitter, either, if taken in capsule form. But I quite feel with you, and go-by all means if you wish. And take eucalyptus, with you to avoidcatching it yourself. So infectious, they say, but not to be shirked ifone is needed. I would never stand in the light of duty. The corporalworks of mercy, inconvenient at times, and I have never been to see aprisoner in my life, but perhaps easier than the spiritual, except thethree last. You always run the risk of interference with the first of thespiritual, so wiser to leave them entirely to priests. When do you wantto go, dearest?"

Trix came to herself with a little start. She had lost the thread of Mrs. Arbuthnot's discourse. 

"The day after to-morrow, I think, " she said, reflectively. "I can wireto-morrow and get a reply. "

Mrs. Arbuthnot got up. 

"Then that's settled. Don't look anxious, dearest, because there isprobably no cause for it. Though I know how easy it is to give advice, and how difficult to take it, even when it is oneself. Though perhapsthat is really harder, being often half-hearted. And now we will go tobed, and things will look brighter in the morning, especially if it isfine. And the glass going up as I came through the hall. Quite time itdid. I always had sympathy with the boy in the poem--Jane and AnneTaylor, wasn't it?--who smashed the glass in the holidays because itwouldn't go up. It always seems as if it were its fault. Though I knowit's foolish to think so. And there is the clock striking one, and Ishall eat more sandwiches if I stay, so let us put out the light, and goto bed. "

CHAPTER XXX

A QUESTION OF IMPORTANCE

It had been chance pure and simple which happened to take Doctor Hilaryto Woodleigh on the day the Duchessa received Trix's telegram, but itcannot be equally said that it was chance which took him to Exeter on thefollowing day, and which made him travel down again to Kingsleigh by thefour o'clock train. Also it was certainly not chance which induced him tobe on the platform at least a quarter of an hour before the train was dueat the station, ready to keep a careful lookout on all the passengers init. 

 * * * * *

Trix had had an uneasy journey from London. She had re-read MissTibbutt's letter at least a dozen times. At first she had allowed herselfto be almost unreasonably depressed by it; afterwards she had been almostmore unreasonably depressed because she had allowed herself to bedepressed in the first instance. Quite possibly it was all a storm in atea-cup, and this man had nothing whatever to do with Pia's unhappiness. Of course the chance meeting and the overheard conversation had fitted inso neatly as to make Miss Tibbutt think it had, and she had easilycommunicated the same idea to Trix. But quite probably it had nothingmore to do with it than her own surmise regarding Doctor Hilary had had. And that had proved entirely erroneous, though at the time it hadappeared the most sane of conclusions. Also Miss Tibbutt might quiteconceivably be wrong as to Pia's being now unhappy at all, whatever shehad seemed to be in the summer. 

Trix's visit began to appear to her somewhat in the light of a wild-goosechase. Anyhow she had not given Pia the smallest hint as to why she wascoming. Naturally she could not possibly have done that. She had still toinvent some tangible excuse for her sudden desire to visit Woodleighagain. Sick of London greyness would be quite good enough, thoughcertainly not entirely true. But possibly a slight deviation from truthwould be excusable under the circumstances. And she _was_ sick of Londongreyness. The fog yesterday had got on her nerves altogether, thoughquite probably it would not have done so if it had not been for MissTibbutt's letter, which had made her feel so horribly restless. But thenthere was no need to say why the fog had got on her nerves. 

Yes; the fog would be excuse enough. And it was not an atom of goodworrying herself as to whether Miss Tibbutt had been right or wrongregarding the idea communicated in her letter. If she were right it madeTrix unhappy to think about it, and if she were wrong it made Trix crossto think she _had_ thought about it. So the wisest course was not tothink about it at all. But the difficulty was not to think about it. 

Trix knew perfectly well that absurd little things had this power ofdepressing her, and she wished they had not. She knew, also, that otherquite little things had the power of cheering her in equal proportion, and she wished that one of these other things would happen now. But thatwas not particularly likely. 

The depression had been at its lowest ebb as they ran into Bath. It was, however, slightly on the mend by the time Trix reached Exeter, though shewas still feeling that her journey had probably, if not certainly, been apiece of pure foolishness on her part. 

The carriage she was in was up in the front of the train. She was thesole occupant thereof. She now put up something akin to a prayer that shemight remain in undisturbed possession. Apparently, however, the prayerwas not to be granted. A tall figure, masculine in character, suddenlyblocked the light from the window. Trix heaved a small sigh of patientresignation. 

"Good afternoon, Miss Devereux, " said a voice. 

Trix looked up. Her resignation took to itself wings and fled. 

"Doctor Hilary!" she exclaimed. 

Doctor Hilary heaved his big form into the carriage, and turned to take atea-basket from a porter just behind him. First tipping the said porter, he put the basket carefully on the seat. 

"I've been on the lookout for you, " he remarked calmly. 

"Oh, " said Trix, a trifle surprised. 

Doctor Hilary sat down, keeping, however, one eye towards the platform. 

"Yes, " he continued, still calmly. "The Duchessa happened to tell meyesterday that you were coming, and as I happened to be in Exeter to-dayI thought we might as well do this bit of the journey together. "

"I see, " said Trix. 

Doctor Hilary looked up. "You don't mind, do you?" he asked quickly. 

"Mind!" echoed Trix, "I am quite delighted. I've been so bored, andrather tired, and--yes, I think quite depressed. "

Doctor Hilary looked concerned. 

"You poor little thing, " he said. "And I suppose you have had onesandwich, and no tea. Men turn to food when they're depressed, and womenthink they can't eat. Honestly, there's nothing like a good meal forhelping one to look on the brighter side of things. "

Trix smiled first at him, and then at the tea-basket. 

"Anyhow I'm to be fed now, it seems. "

The train began to move slowly out of the station. Doctor Hilary gavevent to an ill-supressed sigh of relief. The train was non-stop to Brent. He began pulling at the straps of the tea-basket. 

Tea and Doctor Hilary's company had a really marvellous effect on Trix'sspirits. The little pleasant occurrence _had_ happened, and quiteunexpectedly. 

"I'm glad you're coming down to Woodleigh, " said Doctor Hilary presently. "The Duchessa has seemed out of sorts lately, and I fancy your comingwill cheer her. "

"Oh, " said Trix, "you think so, too. " And then she stopped. 

"Who else thinks so?" queried Doctor Hilary. 

"Well, Miss Tibbutt didn't seem quite satisfied about her, " owned Trix. "It was a letter from her made me come. And then I thought perhaps she'dbeen mistaken, and I'd been silly to think there was any need of me, andthat--well, that I'd been a little officious. It's a depressingsensation, " sighed Trix. 

Doctor Hilary laughed. 

"So that was the cause of the depression, " quoth he. 

Trix nodded. "It was rather silly, wasn't it?" she asked. 

"I am not sure, " he said. 

"It was such an idiotic little thing to worry about, " said Trix

Doctor Hilary looked thoughtful. 

"Perhaps. But isn't it just the little things we _do_ worry over? Theyare so small, you know, it's difficult to handle them. It is far easiernot to worry over a thing you can get a real grasp of. "

Trix smiled gratefully. 

"I am so glad you understand, " she said. "I am always doing things onimpulse. I fancy I am indispensable, I suppose, and then all at once Ithink what a little donkey I am to have interfered. It is so easy tothink oneself important to other people's welfare when one isn't a bit. "

"Aren't you?" said Doctor Hilary quietly. 

"Of course not, " replied Trix. There was a hint of indignation in hervoice. "And please don't say I am, or else it will make me feel that youthink I said what I did say just in order that you might contradict me. Like fishing for a compliment, you know. And I didn't mean that in theleast, I didn't truly. "

Doctor Hilary smiled, a queer little smile. 

"I know you didn't mean that. But all the same I am going to contradictyou. "

Trix looked up. "Oh well, " she began, laughing and half resignedly. Andthen something in Doctor Hilary's face made her stop suddenly, her heartbeating at a mad pace. 

"You have become very important in my life, " he said quietly. "I did notrealize how important, till you went away. "

Trix was silent. 

"I am not very good at making pretty speeches, " said Doctor Hilarysteadily, "but I hope you understand exactly what I mean. You have becomeso important to my welfare that I should find it exceedingly difficult togo on living without you. I suppose I should do it somehow if I must, butprobably I should make a very poor job of it. " He stopped. 

Trix gave a sudden little intake of her breath. For a moment there was adead silence. Then:--

"Will you always feed me when I am depressed?" she asked. And there was alittle quiver half of laughter, half of tears, in her voice. 

CHAPTER XXXI

MIDNIGHT REFLECTIONS

"Yes, Tibby angel, you were quite right. "

It was the sixth time Trix had made the same remark in the last halfhour, and she had made it each time with the same attentive deliberationas if the words were being only once spoken, though she knew she wouldprobably have to say them at least six times more. 

She was sitting in front of her bedroom fire clad in a bluedressing-gown. Miss Tibbutt was sitting in an armchair opposite to her. She had come into the room presumably for two minutes only, to see thatTrix had all she wanted, but after she had fluttered for full ten minutesfrom dressing-table to bed, and back to dressing-table again, talking allthe time, Trix had firmly pushed her into an armchair. 

Miss Tibbutt took off her spectacles, and polished them slowly. 

"And what is to be done, Trix dear?"

Trix looked thoughtful. 

"I really don't know just at the moment. You see, though we are prettycertain, we are not quite certain. I know I thought last August that Piawas in love with someone, and now you say you are certain it is this man, and of course, as you say--" Trix hesitated a moment, feeling slightlyhypocritical, --"it does seem odd when he is only a gardener, and onewonders how she could have met him, and all that. But, you know, you arenot _quite_ certain that you are right; or, even supposing that you are, that Pia will want any interference on our part. We must just wait a dayor two and think matters over. "

Miss Tibbutt sighed. 

"But you _do_ think I was right to let you know?" she asked. 

And a seventh time Trix replied with careful deliberation, "Yes, Tibby angel, you were quite right. "

"You see, " said Miss Tibbutt, "I thought--" And she related exactly whatshe had thought, all over again. 

Trix listened exceedingly patiently. She did not even know she was beingpatient. She only knew the enormous relief it was to Miss Tibbutt torepeat herself. With each repetition the thought which had choked hermind, so to speak, for the last five days, was further cleared from herbrain. It was quite possible that Miss Tibbutt might sleep a very greatdeal better that night than she had done lately. 

At last she stopped speaking, and looked towards the clock. 

"My dear, I had no idea it was so late. You must be tired after yourjourney, and here have I been thinking only of myself again, and of myown anxiety, and not of you at all. I am not going to keep you up amoment longer. And if I am late for breakfast, please tell Pia I havegone to Mass. The walk won't hurt me, and telling our dear Lord all aboutit will be the best way to help Pia. So good night, dear. And you arereally not looking very tired in spite of your journey, and my havingkept you up so late. "

Trix went with her to the door, and then returned to her chair by thefire. She was not in the least sleepy, and bed would do quite well enoughlater. Just now she wanted to think. There were two distinct trends ofthought in which she wished to indulge; the one certainly contained causefor a little anxiety, the other was quite extraordinarily delicious. Shemust take the anxious trend first. 

She had been considering matters exceedingly earnestly all the while MissTibbutt had been talking to her, and she had come to one very definiteconclusion. She felt perfectly certain now, that it _would_ ease thesituation considerably if Pia knew who this Michael Field really was. Ithad come to her in an illuminating flash, that the same reason which hadcaused him to hide his identity, was responsible for his odd behaviourtowards Pia. Now, of course, if Pia could see some even possible reasonand excuse for the oddness of his behaviour, it must be a great comfortto her. But the question was, could she--Trix--tell her? Would not thetelling probably involve her in the untruth her soul loathed? Or, if shewas firm not to tell lies, would it not somehow involve a breaking of herpromise to Nicholas? Again she saw, or thought she saw, all the questionswhich must ensue if she said where she had met the man; and if she didnot say where she had met him, it would probably mean saying somethingwhich, virtually speaking at least, would not be true. If only she hadnot met him in the grounds of Chorley Old Hall. 

It was the same old problem which had presented itself to her mind twicealready, and the same possible over-scrupulosity was perplexing her now. However, she must stop thinking about it for to-night. She had come to anend of these thoughts so far as she could muster them into shape, and itwas not the least particle of use going over them again. Her brain wouldrun round like a squirrel in a cage, if she did. And Tibby was not withher to open the cage door, as she had opened it for Tibby. Besides, therewas the other trend now. 

She settled herself back among the cushions, and gazed at the dancingflames. It was all so wonderful, so gorgeously unexpected, and yet it wasone of those things which just had to be. She was so sure of that, itmade the happening doubly sweet. It was exactly as if she had beenwalking all her life through a quiet wood, a wood where the sunshineflickered through the trees overhead just sufficiently to make her feelquite certain of the existence of the sunshine, and then suddenly she hadcome out into its full warmth and beauty to behold a perfect landscape. And she knew that no single other path could have led her to this place, also that there could be no other prospect as beautiful for her. 

"When did you first know?" she had asked him. The question millions ofwomen have asked in their time, and that will be asked by millions more. 

"I think, " he had answered smiling, "it was the very first moment youcame into the room, looking like a woodland elf in your green frock. Anyhow I am quite certain it was when you were--shall we say a triflesnubbed in the moonlight. "

"Ah, poor Pia, " said Trix. 

And then they had told each other countless little trivial things, thingsof no earthly importance to any one but their two selves, things renderedsweet, not so much by the words, as by the tone in which they werespoken. It had been the old, old story, the story which began in all itsfirst beauty in the Garden of Eden, before the devil had entered thereinwith his wiles, a story which even now ofttimes holds much of thatage-old wonderful beauty. And the stuffy, fusty railway carriage had notin the least diminished the joy of the telling. 

Trix smiled to herself, a soft little radiant smile. 

To-morrow she must tell Pia. She gave a little sigh. It would seem almostcruel to let her know of their happiness. 

For Trix's own happiness to be without flaw, it was invariably necessarythat others should be in practically the same state of bliss. 

CHAPTER XXXII

SUNLIGHT AND HAPPINESS

Sleep, they say, brings counsel. Most certainly it brought counsel toTrix, and really such simple counsel she marvelled that she had notthought of it before. 

After all, the question as to whether she should or should not discloseAntony Gray's identity to Pia, and thereby run the risk either of untruthor of breaking a promise, was purely a question of conscience. Now, in aquestion of conscience, if you cannot decide for yourself, it is alwayssafe to consult a priest. She would therefore walk over to Byestry afterbreakfast--after she had told Pia her own particular and wonderfulnews--and consult Father Dormer. It would be quite easy to explainmatters to him without mentioning names. 

Trix began formulating her query in her mind as she dressed. By the timethis process was completed, however, she had come to the conclusion thatshe was not altogether sure whether it would be so easy. She foundherself getting wound up into rather extraordinary knots. Well, anyhowshe would explain somehow, and no doubt words would come when she wasactually confronted with him. Besides, it was never the smallest usearranging conversations beforehand, like a French conversation book, because people never gave the right answers to your questions, and neverput the questions to which you had the answers ready. 

Trix crossed slowly to the window. There had been a frost in the night, and the lower part of the window-pane was covered with magic fern fronds, while lawn and shrubs were clothed with a light white veil. 

Suddenly the sun came up behind the distant hills, a glowing ball offire, sending forth his ruddy beams till they struck clean through thewindow, turning the fern fronds to ruby jewels, and making of the frostveil without a web of diamonds. 

"That, " breathed Trix softly, "is what happened to us yesterday. "

And she knelt down quite suddenly by the window. 

 * * * * *

The breakfast hour at the Manor House was, ordinarily speaking, mostpunctually at nine o'clock, but owing, doubtless, to some slight hitch inthe lower regions, the gong that morning did not sound till a quarterpast the hour. This delay gave Miss Tibbutt time to put in an appearancenot more than two minutes late, and saved any necessary explanationregarding her early walk to Byestry. As it was really on Pia's accountthat she had gone to Mass, she wished to avoid mentioning that she hadbeen. Of course Pia could not possibly have guessed the real motive, butMiss Tibbutt had a feeling, which reason told her to be quite foolish, that in some odd way she might guess. And she did not want her to guess. 

"What is the plan of campaign to-day?" asked the Duchessa, as theyassembled in the morning room after breakfast. 

Trix examined an ornament on the mantelpiece with rather studied care. 

"I was thinking of walking over to Byestry, this morning, " she remarked. 

"All right, " agreed the Duchessa, "and after lunch we will have the car. It is cold, but too good a day to be wasted. "

Trix had a moment's anxiety. 

"We shan't be late for tea?" she queried. 

"I don't think so, " responded Pia. "The days are too short now. Butwhy?"

Trix put down the ornament she was examining. 

"Doctor Hilary is coming to tea, " she announced carelessly, though sheknew perfectly well that the colour was rising in her cheeks. 

Pia looked at her. 

"Trix!" she said. 

"Yes, darling, " nodded Trix, "just that. "

"Oh, my Trix!" cried Pia delighted, putting her arms round her. 

Miss Tibbutt looked a trifle bewildered. 

"What is it?" she demanded

Pia laughed. 

"These two, " she said, "Trix and Doctor Hilary. I told you, you remember, and said there _were_ trains, though I never dreamed they would beutilized quite so literally. Of course it _was_ yesterday?"

"Yes, " nodded Trix again. And then with a huge sigh, "Oh, Pia, I am sohappy. "

Pia turned her round towards Miss Tibbutt. 

"Tibby, look at her face, and then she tells us she is happy, as thoughit were necessary to advertise the fact to our slow intelligences. "

Trix laughed, though the tears were in her eyes. Laughter and tears areamazingly close together at times. 

"And is it quite necessary to walk to Byestry this morning?" teased Pia. "He will probably be on his rounds, you know. "

Again Trix laughed, this time without the tears. 

"I am not proposing to sit in his pocket, " she remarked. "He did nothappen to suggest that I should, and it certainly never occurred to me tosuggest it. "

CHAPTER XXXIII

TRIX SEEKS ADVICE

Trix walked along the road from Woodleigh to Byestry in infinitely toohappy a state of mind to think consistently of any one thing. She did noteven think precisely definitely of the man who had caused this happiness. She knew only that the happiness was there. 

The hoar frost still lay thickly on the hedges and the grass by theroadside. The frost finger had outlined the twigs, the blades of grass, the veins of dried leaves with the delicate precision nature alone canachieve. At one spot a tiny rivulet, arrested by the ice-king in itscourse from a field and down a bank, hung in long glistening icicles fromjutting stones and frozen earth. Now and again her own footfall strucksharp and metallic on the hard road. The sky was cloudless, a clear, coldblue. A robin trilled its sweet, sad song to her from a frosted bough. 

It was all amazingly like a frosted Christmas card, thought Trix, thoseChristmas cards her soul had adored in her childish days, and yet which, oddly enough, always brought with them a sentimental touch of sadness. Many things had brought this odd happy sadness to Trix as a child, --thesound of church bells across water, fire-light gleaming in the darknessfrom the uncurtained windows of some house, the moon shining on snow, asolitary tree backgrounded by a grey sky, or a flight of rooks atsunset. 

It was a quarter to eleven or thereabouts when she reached Byestry, andshe made her way at once to the little white-washed, thatched presbytery, separated from the road by a small front garden. 

Trix walked up the path, and rang the bell. Father Dormer was at home, sohis housekeeper announced, and she was shown into a small square roomwith a round table in the centre, and a vase of bronze chrysanthemums onthe table. 

Trix sat down and began to try and arrange her ideas. She was by nowperfectly well aware that they were not only rather difficult to arrange, but would be infinitely more difficult to express. She sighed once ortwice rather heavily, gazing thoughtfully at the bronze chrysanthemumsthe while, as if seeking inspiration from their feathery brown faces. Andthen the door opened and Father Dormer came in in his cassock, which healways wore in the morning. 

"It is an unexpected pleasure to see you, Miss Devereux, " he said. "Please sit down again. "

Trix sat down, and so did Father Dormer. 

"I only arrived yesterday, " said Trix, "and I came over to see you thismorning because I wanted to ask you something rather particular. " Trixwas feeling just a little nervous, she was also feeling that if she didnot open the subject immediately, it was quite possible that she mightleave the presbytery without having done so, despite all her preconceivedintentions. 

"Yes, " smiled Father Dormer. He was perfectly well aware that she wasfeeling a trifle nervous. 

"Well, " said Trix, "it isn't going to be quite easy to explain, because Ican't mention names. But as it is a thing I can't make up my mindabout, --about the right or wrong of doing it, I mean, --I thought I'd askyour advice. "

"That is always at your service, " he assured her as she stopped. 

Trix heaved a little sigh. She leant forward in her chair, and rested herhands on the table. 

"Well then, Father, it's like this. I know something about someone whichanother person doesn't know, and I think it is rather important that theyshould know it. The first person doesn't know I know it, and mightn'tquite like it if they knew I knew it. Also I am pretty sure that theydon't want any one else to know it. But under the circumstances I thinkI'm justified in telling the second person, because it isn't a thing likea scandal, or anything like that. But the difficulty is, that in tellingthe second person about the first person, I may either have to tell lies, or disclose a secret about a third person, and that is a secret I havepromised not to tell. Do you think I ought to take the risk?"

Father Dormer listened attentively. 

"Do you mind saying it again, " he asked politely as she ended. There wasjust the faintest possible twinkle in his eyes. 

Trix laughed outright. 

"Oh, Father, don't try to be polite, " she urged. "I know it is themuddliest kind of explanation that ever existed. Can't you suggest someway of making it clearer?"

"Supposing, " he said, "you call the first person A, the second B, and thethird one C. And let me know first exactly your position towards A. "

"All right, " agreed Trix cheerfully. "And even supposing you guess thetiniest bit what I am talking about, you won't let yourself guess, willyou?"

Father Dormer assured her that he would not. He certainly felt she needhave no smallest anxiety on that score, having in view her own method ofexplanation, but he tactfully refrained from saying so. 

"Well, " began Trix again, and rather slowly, "A has a secret. He doesn'tknow I know it, and I found it out quite by accident. He hasn't said itis a secret, but I know it is, because nobody else knows about it. Well, B knows A, but doesn't know A's secret, and because she doesn't know A'ssecret she is unhappy about A's conduct, whereas if she knew the secret Iam pretty sure she wouldn't be so unhappy. And A need never know B doesknow, even if I tell her. And I feel sure from A's point of view it wouldnot matter telling B, while it _would_ be a good thing for B to know. But, in order to tell her, I may have to let her know how I learnt A'ssecret, and in doing that I should possibly have to tell lies, or let herknow C's secret, which I promised not to tell. Because it was in meetingA that I found it out. Of course I may not have to do either, but thereis the risk. Do you think I can take it? And is the matter quite clearnow?"

Father Dormer smiled. 

"I think I have grasped it, " he said. "Well, in the first place, it isn'ta matter of life and death, is it?"

"Oh no, " said Trix. 

"Then if I were you, I wouldn't take any risk about telling lies. "

"No, " said Trix relieved, "I thought I had better not. But then there isC's secret. "

"Let us take A's secret first, " suggested Father Dormer. "You feel quitesure it is important to let B know it, and that you are justified indisclosing it?"

Trix reflected. 

"I feel quite sure it is important B should know, " she said. "And I feelpretty sure I am justified in disclosing it. At first I thought perhaps Iought not to do so. But I know B won't tell any one else, so it can'tmatter her knowing as well as me. No; I am sure it can't, " ended Trixdecidedly. 

"Then, " said Father Dormer, "your best plan will be to ask C to releaseyou from your promise. "

Trix started. 

"Oh, but--" she began. She shook her head. "I don't believe he would everrelease me, " she said. 

"You could ask him, anyhow, " said Father Dormer. 

"Yes, I could, " replied Trix doubtfully. 

"Try that first, " he suggested. "It is the simplest plan. "

"Yes, " said Trix still doubtfully. 

Of course it sounded the simplest plan to Father Dormer, but then he hadnot the remotest idea of what the secret was, nor whom it concerned. 

"You see, " said Trix thoughtfully, "he knows A's secret too; at least, Ifeel sure he does. "

"Perhaps, " smiled Father Dormer, "it is not quite such a secret as youimagine. "

"Oh, yes, it is, " nodded Trix. "It is the most complicated affair thatever was, and the most extraordinary. Nobody would believe it if theydidn't know. " She sighed. 

Father Dormer watched her. He saw that she evidently did consider it acomplicated situation, though, in spite of her rather complicatedexplanation it had appeared quite simple to him. At all events, thesolution had. It had not even--as soon as he had grasped the question shehad come to ask--appeared to involve much difficulty of answering. It wasquite obvious she ought not to run the risk of telling lies (he couldguess that her honesty would make it exceedingly difficult for her toevade any awkward questions without telling them), mainly because it wasnever right to tell lies, but also because the smallest whiteone--so-called--would appear extremely black to Trix. 

"Is that settled now?" he asked. 

"Oh, yes, " said Trix. She looked at her watch. "I've two hours; I hadbetter do it at once. " Then she stopped suddenly. "Oh, Father!" sheexclaimed. 

"Well?" he queried. 

"You didn't guess, did you?"

"How could I?" he asked smiling. 

"Oh, because saying that told you that C lived here. "

He laughed. "My dear child, when you arrive at Woodleigh one day, and askme a rather complicated question the next, it is perfectly obvious it isone which has to be settled in this neighbourhood, and at once. I couldhardly imagine you have travelled down here on purpose to consult me; orthat, if it were a question to be settled in town, you would not waittill your return to consult some other priest on the subject. "

Trix smiled. 

"I never thought of that, " she owned. "But, of course, it is quiteobvious. Only I am so afraid of breaking my promise. "

She had risen to her feet by now. He held out his hand. 

"I would not worry about that, if I were you. You have not broken it inthe smallest degree. But now go and get leave to break it, if you can, and set your mind at rest. "

CHAPTER XXXIV

AN AMAZING SUGGESTION

The avenue and garden were quite deserted as Trix approached Chorley OldHall. The lawn was one great sheet of unbroken whiteness, flanked byfrosted yew hedges, and very desolate. 

She passed quickly along the terrace towards the front door, feelingalmost as if spying eyes were watching her from behind the curtainedwindows. She took hold of the hanging iron bell-handle and pulled it, itscoldness striking through her glove with an icy chill. She heard itsclang in some far-off region, yet oddly loud in the dead silence. Involuntarily she shivered, partly with the cold, and partly with asudden sense of nervousness. 

A second or two passed. Trix stared hard at the brass knocker on thedoor, trying to still the nervousness which possessed her. There came asound of steps in the hall, and the door was opened. 

"Can I see Mr. Danver?" asked Trix. 

Jessop stared, visibly startled. 

"It is all right, " said Trix quickly. "Don't you remember I had tea herelast August?"

Jessop's face relaxed, but he looked a trifle dubious. 

"I don't think--" he began. 

Trix raised her chin. 

"Go and ask him, " she said with slight authority. "I will wait in thehall. "

Jessop departed, to return after a minute. 

"Will you come this way, please, Madam. "

 * * * * *

Nicholas Danver looked at her as she entered, an odd expression on hisface. 

He might never have moved from his chair since the day she had last seenhim, thought Trix. The only difference in the surroundings was acrackling wood fire now burning on the big hearth. 

"Well, Miss Devereux, " he said, holding out his hand. 

"You don't mind my having come?" queried Trix. "No one saw me. "

A slight look of relief passed over Nicholas's face. 

"I think I am glad you've come, " he said. "Sit down, please. "

Trix sat down. Her hands were tightly clasped within her muff. She wasstill beating back that quite unaccountable nervousness. 

"You had a particular reason for coming to see me?" suggested Nicholas. 

Trix nodded. 

"Yes; I am in rather a difficulty. You are the only person who can helpme. "

Nicholas laughed shortly. 

"It is an odd experience to be told that I can be of service to any one, "he said. "What is it?"

Trix drew a long breath. 

"Mr. Danver, I want you to release me from my promise. "

Nicholas's eyes narrowed suddenly. A little gleam, like the spark fromiron striking flint, flashed from them. 

"What do you mean?" he asked coldly. 

Trix's heart chilled at the tone. 

"I must try and explain, " she said. "In the first place, of course youknow who your under-gardener really is?"

Nicholas stared at her. 

"May I ask what that has got to do with you?"

"Well, I know too, you see, " said Trix, feeling her heart beginning tobeat still more quickly. 

"How do you know? What questions have you been asking?"

Trix flushed. 

"I haven't asked any questions, " she said quickly. "I saw him the day Icame here before. I knew his face then, but I couldn't remember who hewas. Afterwards I remembered I used to play with him when I was achild. "

"Well?" queried Nicholas briefly. 

"Well, " echoed Trix desperately, "I want to be able to tell someone he isAntony Gray, and not Michael Field. It is really very important that theyshould know, important for their happiness. But if I tell, they may wantto know where I saw him, and ask questions which might lead to my eitherhaving to tell lies or betray your secret. If it becomes necessary, may Ibetray your secret? Will you release me from my promise?"

Nicholas's hand clenched tightly on the arm of his chair. 

"Most certainly not, " he replied shortly. 

The tone was utterly final. Trix felt the old childish fear of himsurging over her. It was quite different from the nervousness she hadjust been experiencing, and, oddly enough, it gave her a kind ofdesperate courage. She had no intention of accepting his refusal withouta struggle. 

"I wouldn't tell unless it became absolutely necessary, " she urged. 

"It never can be absolutely necessary, " he retorted. "It would be no moredishonourable to tell a lie than break a promise. "

Trix went scarlet. 

"I never had the smallest intention of doing either, " she replied. "If Ihad, I need not have troubled to come up here and ask you to release mefrom my promise. "

Nicholas drummed his fingers on a small table near him. 

"Well, you've had my answer, " he said. 

His voice was perfectly adamantine. Trix felt as if she were up against apiece of rock. She knew it was useless to pursue the subject further, yetfor Pia's sake she tried again. 

"Mr. Danver, why do you want everyone to think you're dead?" There wassomething almost childish in the way she put the question. 

Nicholas laughed. 

"Partly, my dear young lady, for my own amusement, but largely for ascheme I have on hand. "

Trix leant forward. 

"Is the scheme really important?" she queried, her eyes on his face. 

"I don't know, " he replied, watching her. "But my amusement is. "

"Amusement, " said Trix slowly. 

"Yes, my amusement, " he repeated mockingly. "I've had none for fifteenyears. For fifteen years I have lived here like a log, alone, solitary. Now I've got a little amusement in pretending to be dead. "

Trix shook her head. It sounded quite mad. Then she remembered DoctorHilary's words to her when she had met him at the gates of Chorley OldHall last August. He knew it was mad, but it was saving Nicholas frombeing atrophied, so he had said. To Trix's mind at least a dozen moresatisfactory ways might have been found to accomplish that end. But everyman to his own taste. Also it was quite possible that a brain which hadbeen atrophied, or practically atrophied for fifteen years, was notparticularly capable of conceiving anything more enlivening. 

"But you needn't have been a log for fifteen years, " she said suddenly. 

"Needn't I?" he retorted. "Look at me. " He made a gesture towards hishelpless legs. 

"I wasn't thinking of your body, " said Trix calmly. "I was thinking ofyour mind. "

Nicholas's face hardened. 

"And so was I, " he replied, "when I preferred to sit here like a log, rather than face the prying sympathy of my fellow-humans. "

"Oh!" said Trix softly, a light of illumination breaking in upon her. "But, Mr. Danver, sympathy isn't always prying. "

"Bah!" he retorted. "Prying or not, I didn't want it. Staring eyes, condoling words, and mockery in their hearts! 'He got what he deservedfor his madness, ' they'd have said. "

Trix leant forward, putting her hands on the table. 

"Mr. Danver, " she said thoughtfully, "if you were a younger man, or Iwere an older woman, I'd say you were--well, quite remarkably foolish. "

Nicholas chuckled. He liked this. 

"You might forget our respective ages for a few moments, " he suggested, "that is, if you have anything enlivening to say. "

"I don't know about it being enlivening, " remarked Trix calmly, "but Ihave got quite a good deal to say. "

"Say it then, " chuckled Nicholas. 

Trix drew a deep breath. 

"Mr. Danver, did you ever care for any one?"

Nicholas's eyes blazed suddenly. 

"What the devil--" he began. "I beg your pardon. I gave you leave tospeak. "

Trix waved her hand. 

"I was talking about men, " she said, "men pals. Were there any you evercared about?"

Nicholas laughed shortly. 

"Your father, my dear young lady, and Richard Gray, father of the man whohas led to this interesting discussion. "

"They were really your friends?" queried Trix. 

"The best fellows that ever stepped, " said Nicholas with unwontedenthusiasm. 

Trix nodded. Her eyes were shining. She was thinking of her aunt'sdisclosure regarding this Richard Gray. 

"And I suppose, " she said coolly, "you rejoiced when Richard Gray losthis money? You laughed at him for a fool?"

Nicholas stared at her. 

"What on earth do you mean?" he asked. "I never knew he had lost money. Iwould have given my right hand to help him if I had known. "

"He did lose money, " said Trix. "But that's beside the point. You'd havehelped him if you could? You wouldn't have jeered at him?"

"What do you take me for?" asked Nicholas half angrily. 

Trix looked very straight at him. 

"Only what you take others for, Mr. Danver. "

There was a dead silence. 

"Listen, " said Trix suddenly. "You would have been generous to him, because you cared for him. Do you really think you are the only generousfriend?"

Nicholas looked at her. There was a gleam of laughter in his eyes. 

"It strikes me you are a very shrewd young woman, " he said. 

"It's only logical common sense, " declared Trix stoutly. 

Once more there fell a silence, a silence in which Nicholas was watchingthe girl opposite to him. 

"Mr. Danver, will you tell me exactly what amusement you found in allthis? What originated the idea in your mind?" Her voice was pleading. 

For a moment Nicholas was silent. 

"Yes, " he said suddenly, "I will tell you. "

It was not a long story, and to Trix it was oddly pathetic. It was themixture partly of regret, partly the desire of justice to be administeredto his property after his death, and partly the queer mad love of prankswhich had been the keynote of his nature, and which had stirred againwithin the half-dead body. He told it all very simply, baldly almost, andyet he could not quite hide a certain queer wistfulness underlying it, the wistfulness of pride which has built barriers too strong for it, andyet from which it longs to escape. 

"I thought Antony Gray could have a taste of living as one of thepeople, " he ended. "Perhaps it would make him a better master than I hadbeen. And then the scheme took shape. "

"I see, " said Trix slowly and thoughtfully. 

"Well?" queried Nicholas. 

Trix looked up at him. Her lips were smiling, but there were tears in hereyes. 

"I understand, " she said. "Perhaps I understand ever so much better thanyou think. But--but has it been worth it?"

Nicholas looked towards the fire. 

"After the first planning, I don't honestly know that it has, " he said. "A thing falls flat with no one to share it with you. And Hilary neverreally approved. "

Again there was a silence, and again the odd pathos, the childishness ofthe whole thing stirred Trix's heart. She said she understood, and shedid understand more profoundly than Nicholas could possibly haveconceived. In the few seconds of silence which followed, she reviewedthose solitary years in an amazingly quick mental process. She saw firstthe pride which had built the barrier, and then the slow stagnationbehind it. She realized the two sentences which had penetrated thebarrier (he had been perfectly candid in his story) without being able todestroy it, and then the faint stirrings of life within the almoststagnant mind. And the result had been this perfectly mad scheme, --thethought of a foolish boy conceived and carried out by the obstinate mindof a man; a scheme childish, foolish, mad, and of value only in so far asit had roused to faint life the mind of the lonely man who had conceivedit. 

And now he had tired of it. It had become to him as valueless as a flimsytoy; and yet he clung to it rather than leave himself with empty hands. Without it, he had absolutely nothing to interest him, --a past on whichit hurt him to dwell by reason of its contrast with the present; apresent as lonely almost as that of a prisoner in solitary confinement;and a future which to him was a mere blank, a grey nothingness. 

Trix shivered involuntarily. 

"And the fact remains, that I am dead, " said Nicholas with a grim smile. 

Trix turned suddenly towards him. 

"Unless you have a sort of resurrection, " she said. 

Nicholas stared. 

"Listen, " said Trix. 

CHAPTER XXXV

TRIX TRIUMPHANT

It was more than an hour before Trix departed, exultant, rejoicing. 

Nicholas sat staring at the chair she had just vacated. He had beenbewitched, utterly bewitched, and he knew it. Her vitality, herinsistence had carried him with her despite himself, --that and an oddunder-current of something he could not entirely explain. He might havecalled it faith, only it was not faith as he had been accustomed to thinkof it, when he thought at all. It was so infinitely more alive andpersonal. And yet she had only once touched on what he would have termedreligion. 

"You've wandered entirely from the object of your visit, " he had remarkedat one point in the conversation, "and I can't for the life of me see whyyou are taking this extraordinary interest in what you consider mywelfare. What on earth can it matter to any one else, how I choose tolive my life?"

"Ah, but it does matter, " she had answered earnestly, "it matters quitesupremely. I know we often pretend to ourselves that it doesn't in theleast matter how we live our lives so long as we don't commit actual sin;but we can't isolate ourselves from others without loss to them and toourselves. "

"How about monks and nuns, who shut themselves up, and never see theirfellow-creatures at all?" he had retorted, greatly pleased with himselffor the retort. 

Trix had opened eyes of wonder. 

"The contemplative orders! Why, Mr. Danver, they're the cog-wheels of thewhole machinery. They only keep their bodies apart that their minds maybe more free. Nobody has the good of mankind so much at heart as acontemplative. They are keeping the machinery going by prayer the wholetime. "

The utter conviction in her words was unmistakable. For an odd flashingmoment he had had something like a mental vision of an irresistible forcepouring forth from those closed houses, a force like the force of a greatriver, carrying all things with it, and with healing virtue in itswaters. The thought was utterly foreign to him. But it had been there. 

"I am not much of a believer in prayer, " he had said dryly. He hadexpected her to ask if he had ever tried it. She had not done so. 

"Most of us do it so badly, " she had said with a little sigh, "but theydon't. " And then she had flashed a glance of amusement at him. "Did youever hear of the story of the old lady who said she was going to pray onenight with entire faith that the hill beyond her garden might be removed?In the morning she found it still there. 'I knew it would be!' said theold lady triumphantly. "

Nicholas joined in her laugh, but somewhat grimly. 

"We're all like that, " he said. 

Trix shook her head. 

"Not all, mercifully; but a good many. " And then she had returned to herformer charge. 

Well, she had ended by bewitching him, and the queer thing was he wasquite glad of the bewitchment. Now and again he pulled himself up with ajerk and a muttered word or two of irritation; but it was all a pretence, and he knew it. There was an odd excitement pulsing at his heart; despitehis age and crippled state, he was feeling boyishly, absurdly young. Forthe first time for fifteen years he was looking forward to the morrowwith pleasure. 

He began to consider his programme. It was entirely simple. First therewas Antony Gray to be interviewed. She had insisted on that. It was dueto him to be given an entire, full, and detailed account of the wholebusiness, so she had decreed. Nicholas shrugged his shoulders at thethought. There was just a question in his mind as to how the young manmight regard the matter. Secondly, there was to be a tea-party in thelibrary, at which Trix, the Duchessa, Miss Tibbutt, Antony, and DoctorHilary were to be present. After that--well, events might take their owncourse. The villagers get to hear? Let them. Any amount of gossip? Ofcourse, what did he expect? Anyhow he'd be a benefactor to mankind ingiving poor, dull little Byestry something more interesting to talk aboutthan the latest baby's first tooth, or the last injustice of Mr. Curtis. Yes; she meant it. Mr. Curtis was unjust, and the sooner Mr. Danver gotrid of him and put Antony Gray in his place the better it would be foreveryone concerned. And if he wanted a really dramatic moment he hadbetter have Mr. Curtis up, and inform him that his services were nolonger needed, and introduce him to the new agent at the same time. Trixonly wished she could be present at the interview, but Mr. Danver wouldhave to describe it to her in the minutest detail. 

It is not at all certain that the thought of this interview, suggestedbefore Trix had wrung the final promise from him, did not go a remarkablylong way towards extracting that promise. The idea appealed to Nicholas. In the first place there would be the agent's profound amazement at thefact that Nicholas was not lying, as he had supposed, in the tomb of hisancestors; in the second place there would be his discomfiture inrealizing that Nicholas had been entirely aware of his own movements, andthe small act of petty spite towards Job Grantley and Antony; and in thethird place there would be his amazement and discomfiture combined whenhe found that Nicholas was not the doddering old ass he had taken himfor, but a man prepared to take matters into his own hands, and put astop once and for all to a long system of tyranny. 

"Yes sir, a man, and not the crippled fool you have taken me for, "Nicholas heard himself saying. He chuckled at the thought. 

And then he sat upright. What need to wait till the morrow for thatinterview? It was barely lunch time. A message to Antony requesting hispresence at two o'clock, another to Mr. Curtis requesting his an hourlater, and the game could be begun immediately. 

Once more Nicholas chuckled. Then he pressed the electric button attachedto the arm of his chair. 

 * * * * *

For once, and once only, in the long course of his butlership did theplacid and unmoved calm of his manner entirely desert Jessop. Theoccasion was the present one. 

He was in the pantry cleaning silver, when the whirr of the electric belljust above his head broke the silence. He put down the spoon he waspolishing, discarded his green baize apron, donned his coat, and made hisdignified way to the library. 

Nicholas looked up at his entrance. 

Accustomed to note every slightest variance in his master's moods, Jessopwas at once aware of something unusual in his bearing. There was an odd, suppressed excitement; the nonchalance of his manner was unquestionablyassumed. 

"Ah, Jessop, I rang. "

"Yessir, " said Jessop, imperturbably, as who should say, "Naturally, since I have answered the summons. "

Nicholas cleared his throat. 

"Er--Jessop, you can bring Michael Field here at two o'clock thisafternoon, when he returns from his dinner. You can also let Mr. Curtisknow that he is to be here at three o'clock. You had better go to Byestryand give the message yourself. If he wishes to know by whose orders, youneed mention no names, but merely say that orders have been given you tothat effect. I fancy curiosity will bring him, even if he resents thenon-mention of actual authority. "

Jessop stared, actually stared, a prolonged, amazed survey of hismaster's face. 

"You are seeing them, sir!" he gasped. 

For a moment testiness swung to the fore at the question. Then theamazement on Jessop's face unloosed his sense of humour. 

"Yes, " said Nicholas quietly. 

"But--" began Jessop. His mind was in a chaos. The order was so utterlyunexpected. There were at least a million things he wished to point out, but the only one on which his brain would focus was the fact that ifthese men saw Nicholas, they would no longer imagine him to be dead. Andyet that fact was so obvious, it was evident it must have occurred toNicholas's own mind. 

"Don't try to think, " remarked Nicholas grimly, "merely obey orders. "

The words pricked, restoring Jessop's balance. He drew himself to rigidattention, the mask suddenly resumed. 

"Very good, sir, " and Jessop left the room. 

"What the blue blazes!" he muttered, as he returned, almost stumbling, towards the pantry. 

The expression had belonged to the youthful Nicholas. Jessop borrowed itonly at moments of the severest stress. It was borrowed now. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

AN OLD MAN TELLS HIS STORY

Antony did not in the least understand Jessop's request to follow him tothe library, when he returned from his midday meal. He imagined thatthere was some job which required doing, and that Jessop was regardinghim in the light of a handy man. Anyhow Antony followed himgood-humouredly enough, and not without a certain degree of curiosity. The big, silent house had always exercised an odd fascination over him, and he had more than once had a strong desire to set foot within itswalls. He experienced an almost unconscious excitement in complying withthe order. 

He followed Jessop up the steps, and through the big door. Facing himwere wide shallow oak stairs, uncovered and polished. Great Turkish rugslay on the hall floor; two huge palms in big Oriental pots stood ateither side of the stairs; hunting crops and antlers adorned the walls. Jessop opened a door on the right. Almost before Antony had realized whatwas happening, the butler had withdrawn and closed the door behind him. 

Antony half turned in amazement towards the door. 

"Ahem!"

With a start Antony turned back into the room. It was not empty, as hehad imagined it to be. A white-haired, black-eyed man was sitting in abig oak chair, his colourless hands resting on the arms. 

"Well?" said the man. 

Memory surged over Antony in a flood. Alteration there unquestionably wasin the crippled form before him, but the black piercing eyes wereunchanged. The suddenness of his surprise made his brain reel. He put outhis hand towards the back of a chair to steady himself. 

"So you know me, Antony Gray, " came the mocking old voice. 

"Nicholas Danver, " Antony heard himself saying, though he hardly realizedhe was speaking the words. 

"Exactly, " smiled Nicholas, "not dead, but very much alive, though not--"he glanced down at his helpless legs, --"precisely what you might termkicking. "

Antony drew a deep breath. What in the name of wonder did this astoundingdrama portend?

"Sit down, " said Nicholas shortly, pointing to a chair. "I have a gooddeal to say to you. You would be tired of standing before I have done. "

Antony sat down. The Arabian Nights entertainment sensation he hadformerly experienced in the offices of Messrs. Parsons and Glieve, rushedupon him with an even fuller force; yet here the lighter and almosthumorous note was lacking. Something tinged with resentment had taken itsplace. He felt himself to have been trapped, befooled, though he had notyet fully grasped the manner of the befooling. 

"I was a friend of your father, " said Nicholas abruptly. 

The story would not be told exactly as he had told it to Trix, though thedifference in the telling would be largely unconscious. It would dealmore with the surface of things, and less with the inner trend ofthought, the telling of which had been drawn from him by her unspokensympathy. 

"I know, " said Antony quietly, in answer to the remark. 

"Also I met you once, " said Nicholas, a little reminiscent smile dawningin his eyes. It had an oddly softening effect upon his rather carvenface. For the moment he looked almost youthful. 

"I remember, " replied Antony gravely. 

"Do you?" said Nicholas, the smile finding its way to his lips. "What adetermined youngster you were! 'I've got to. I've begun!'" Nicholas threwback his head with a laugh. "It appealed to me, did that sentiment. I sawthe bulldog grip in it. But there was no viciousness in the statement. Jove! you weren't even angry. You were as cool as a cucumber in yourmind, though your cheeks were crimson with the effort. You succeeded, too. I had forgotten the whole business till last March. Then it cameback to me. I've got to tell you the story to explain matters. It is onlyfair that you should know the ins and outs of this business. I have nodoubt it seems pretty queer to you?" Nicholas paused. 

"I confess I am somewhat at a loss regarding it, " returned Antony dryly. 

"Not over-pleased, " muttered Nicholas inwardly. Aloud he said, "I've nodoubt you will think it all a sort of fool show, and I am by no meanssure that I don't regard it in something that fashion myself now. However--" Nicholas cleared his throat. "Since my accident on the huntingfield I have seen no one. I had no desire to have a lot of gossippingwomen and old fool men around. I hate their cackle. I left the managementof the estate to Standing, my agent. When he left--he got the offer of apost on Lord Sinclair's estate--Spencer Curtis took his place. He had toreport to me, and I saw that he kept things going all right. He was notan easy man to the tenants, but I did not particularly want a softling, you understand. Last March one of the tenants--Job Grantley, you knowhim--sneaked up here. It had been a vile day. He was in difficulties asto his rent, and Curtis was putting the pressure on. He had a fancy forsqueezing those who couldn't retaliate, I suppose. Dirty hound!"

Antony made a little sound indicative of entire assent. He was becominginterested in the recital. 

"I learnt a little more about him, " went on Nicholas smilingthoughtfully, "though he never guessed I made any enquiries. That waslater. At the moment Job Grantley's tale was enough for me, --that, andsomething else he chanced to say. After he had gone I sat thinking, firstof past days, then of the future. A distant cousin was heir to theproperty, a fellow to whom Curtis would have been a man after his ownheart. I'd never had what you might precisely term a feeling of bosomfriendship towards William Gateley. Oddly enough, you came into my mindat the moment. I remembered the whole scene on the moorland. I could notget away from the memory. Then the thought flashed into my mind to makeyou my heir. It seemed absurd, but it remained a fixture, nevertheless. The main thoroughly reasonable objection was that I knew exceedinglylittle about you. The child is not always father to the man. Fate takes ahand in the after moulding at times. Yet if it were not you it would beGateley. That, at all events, was my decision. Then I conceived thenotion of making you live as one of the labourers on the estate, in shortof giving you some first-hand knowledge of a labourer's method of living, and incidentally of the tenderness of Curtis. Do you follow me?"

Antony nodded, an odd smile on his lips. He remembered his ownconjecture, suggested by Mr. Albert George's discourse. The education wasabsolutely unnecessary. 

"I fancied, " went on Nicholas, "that it might teach you to be moreconsiderate if you had any tendencies in an opposite direction. But--" hepaused a moment, then smiled grimly, --"well, you may as well have thetruth even if it is slightly unpalatable, and you can remember that I didnot know you as a man. I was not sure of you. If you had known I was uphere, and you had got an inkling of the game I was playing, what was toprevent you from playing your own game for the year, I argued, in factpretending to a sympathy with the tenants which you did not feel. I havenever had the highest opinion of human nature. On that account Iconceived the idea of dying. It was easily carried out. The folk aroundwere amazingly gullible; the report spread like wild-fire, --through thevillage, that is to say. I don't for a moment suppose it went much beyondit. The solicitors were in our confidence, and no obituary noticeappeared in the papers. The villagers were not likely to notice theomission. Gateley is in Australia. Yes; it was easy enough to manage. ButI see the weakness in the business now. You might quite well haveimagined Hilary to be the watch-dog, and have played your game to him, and if I'd died suddenly before the year was up, and you had disclosedyour true hand, matters would not have been as I had intended them to be. It was a mad idea, I have no doubt, though on the whole I am not surethat it wasn't its very madness that most appealed to me. " He stopped. 

"And what, " said Antony, "is to be the outcome of this confidence now?"There was a certain stiffness in the question. The odd feeling ofresentment was returning. He suddenly saw the whole business as a stupidchild's game, a game in which he had given his word of honour with nosmallest advantage to any single human being, and with quite enormousdisadvantages to himself. 

"The main outcome, " said Nicholas, "is that I wish to offer you--AntonyGray--the post of agent on my estate for the remainder of my lifetime. Atmy death the will I have already drawn up holds good. The year'sprobation for you therein mentioned is not likely to be long exceeded, even if it is exceeded at all. At least such is Doctor Hilary'sopinion. "

There was a silence. Nicholas was watching Antony from under his shaggyeyebrows. The man was actually hesitating, debating! What in the name ofwonder did the hesitation mean? Surely the offer of the post of agent wasinfinitely preferable to that of under-gardener? If the latter had beenaccepted, why on earth should there be hesitation regarding the former?So marvelled Nicholas, having, of course, no clue to the inner workingsof Antony's mind. And even if he had had, the workings would haveappeared to him illogical and unreasonable. It is truly not fully certainwhether Antony understood them himself. He only knew that whereas itwould be possible, though difficult, for him to remain in theneighbourhood of the Duchessa as Michael Field, gardener, to remain asAntony Gray, gentleman, appeared to him to be impossible; thoughprecisely why it should be, he could not well have explained to himself. 

"I should prefer to decline the offer, " replied Antony quietly. 

Nicholas's face fell. He was blankly disappointed, as blanklydisappointed as a child at the sudden frustration of some cherishedscheme. In twenty minutes Spencer Curtis, agent, would be blandlyentering the library, and there would be no _coup de théâtre_, such asNicholas had pictured, to confront him. 

"May I ask the reason for your refusal?" questioned Nicholas, his utterdisappointment lending a flat hardness to his voice. 

Antony shrugged his shoulders. 

"Merely that I prefer to refuse, " he answered. 

Nicholas's mouth set in grim lines. His temper, never a very equablecommodity, got the better of his diplomacy. 

"It is always possible for me to alter my will, " he remarked suavely. 

Antony flashed round on him. 

"For God's sake alter it, then, " he cried. "The most fool thing I everdid in my life was to fall in with your mad scheme. Write to yoursolicitors at once. " He made for the door. 

"Stop, " said Nicholas. 

Antony halted on the threshold. He was furious at the situation. 

"I have no intention of altering my will, " said Nicholas, "I should likeyou clearly to understand that. I intend to abide by my part of thecontract whether you do or do not now see fit to abide by your own. "

Antony hesitated. The statement had taken him somewhat by surprise. 

"What do you mean?" he demanded. 

"Precisely what I say, " retorted Nicholas. "I have made you my heir, andI have no intention of revoking that decision. You agreed to work for mefor a year. You can break your contract if you choose. I shall not breakmine. "

"I can refuse the inheritance, " said Antony. 

Nicholas laughed. "If you choose to shirk responsibility and see thetenants remain the victims of Curtis's tenderness, you can do so. Youhave had experience of his ideas of fair play, and let me tell you thatyour experience has been of a remarkably mild order. "

"You can choose another agent, " said Antony shortly. 

"I can, " said Nicholas, with emphasis on the first word. "But I fancyWilliam Gateley will find a twin to Curtis on my demise if you refuse theinheritance. "

Once more Antony hesitated. 

"Find another heir, then, " he announced after a moment. 

Nicholas shook his head. "You hardly encourage me to do so. My presentfailure appears so palpable, I am not very likely to make a secondattempt in that direction. "

Again there was a silence. Antony moved further back into the room. 

"You rather force my hand, " he said coldly. 

"You mean you accept the inheritance?" asked Nicholas eagerly. Hiseagerness was almost too blatant. 

"I will accept it, " replied Antony dispassionately, "and will see justicedone to your tenants. It will not be incumbent on me to make personal useof your money. "

Nicholas let that pass. 

"And for the present?" he asked. 

"Concerning the matter of the contract, " said Antony stiffly, "I wouldpoint out to you that I undertook to work for you for a year as MichaelField, gardener. Well, I will abide by that contract, and prolong it ifnecessary. " He did not say till the day of Nicholas's death. But Nicholasunderstood his meaning. 

"I trust you consider that I am now treating you fairly, " said Antonystill stiffly, and after a slight pause. 

Nicholas bowed his head. 

"Fairly, yes, " he said in an odd, almost pathetic voice, "buthardly--shall we call it--as a friend. "

Antony looked suddenly amazed. 

"What do you mean?" he demanded. 

"I wanted you to help me to get even with Curtis, " he repliedregretfully. His tone was somewhat reminiscent of a rueful schoolboy. 

Despite himself Antony smiled. 

"I ordered him to come here at three o'clock, " went on Nicholas, glancingat the clock which wanted only five minutes of the hour. "I wanted togive him his _congé_, and introduce him to the new agent at the samemoment. He believes firmly in my demise, by the way, which wouldcertainly have added zest to the business. And now--well, it will be apretty flat sort of compromise, that's all. "

Antony laughed aloud. For the life of him he could not help it. And then, as he laughed, he realized in a sudden flash, almost as Trix hadrealized, the odd pathos, the utter loneliness which could find interestin the mad business he--Nicholas--had invented. 

Suddenly Antony spoke. 

"You may as well carry out your original programme, " he said, and almostgood-humouredly annoyed at his own swift change of mood. 

The library door opened. 

"Mr. Spencer Curtis, " announced Jessop on a note of solemn gloom. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE IMPORTANCE OF TRIFLES

It was not till a good many hours later that the anticlimax of the recentsituation struck Trix. Excitement had prevented her from realizing it atfirst. In the excitement of what the thing stood for, she had overlookedthe utter triviality of the thing itself. When, later, the two separatedthemselves in a measure, and she looked at the thing as apart from whatit indicated, the ludicrousness of it struck her with astounding force. 

Nicholas Danver would give a tea-party. 

And it was this, this small commonplace statement, which had kept theDuchessa, Miss Tibbutt, Doctor Hilary, and herself in solemn and amazedconfabulation for at least two hours. It was infinitely more amazing eventhan the whole story of the past months, and Trix had given that infairly detailed fashion, avoiding the Duchessa's eyes, however, whenevershe mentioned Antony's name. Yes; it was what the tiny fact stood forthat had astounded them; though now, with the fact in a measure separatedfrom its meaning, Trix saw the almost absurdity of it. 

Fifteen years of a living death to terminate in a tea-party!

It was an anticlimax which made her almost hysterical to contemplate. Shefelt that the affair ought to have wound up in some great movement, insome dignified action or fine speech, and it had descended to the merelyludicrous, or what, in view of those fifteen years, appeared the merelyludicrous. And she had been the instigator of it, and Doctor Hilary hadcalled it a miracle. Which it truly was. 

And yet, banishing the ludicrous from her mind, it was so entirelysimple. There was not the faintest blare of trumpets, not a whisper evenof an announcing voice, merely the fact that a solitary man would oncemore welcome friends beneath his roof. 

The only real touch of excitement about the business would be when AntonyGray learnt the news, and he and the Duchessa met. And yet even thatsomehow lost its significance before the absorbing yet quiet fact ofNicholas's own resurrection. 

"He is looking forward to it like a child, " Trix had said. 

And Miss Tibbutt had suddenly taken off her spectacles and wiped them. 

"It's an odd little thing to feel choky about, " she had said with a shakylaugh. 

Presently she had left the room. A few moments later Doctor Hilary hadalso taken his leave. Trix and the Duchessa had been left alone. Suddenlythe Duchessa had looked across at Trix. 

"What made you do it?" she had asked. 

Trix understood the question, and the colour had rushed to her face. 

"What made you do it?" the Duchessa had repeated. 

"For you, " Trix had replied in a very small voice. 

"You guessed?" the Duchessa had asked quietly. 

Trix nodded. It _had_ been largely guesswork. There was no need, at themoment at all events, to speak of Miss Tibbutt's share in the matter. That was for Tibby herself to do if she wished. 

The Duchessa had got up from her chair. She had gone quietly over to Trixand kissed her. Then she, too, had left the room. 

Trix stared thoughtfully into the fire. Its light was playing on thesilver-backed brushes on her dressing-table, gleaming on the edges ofgilt frames, and throwing her shadow big and dancing on the wall behindher. The curtains were undrawn, and without the trees stood ghostly andbare against the pale grey sky. There was the dead silence in theatmosphere which tells of frost. 

It was just that, --the oddness of little things, and their immenseimportance in life, and simply because of the influence they have on thehuman soul. It was this that made the fact of Nicholas Danver giving atea-party of such extraordinary importance, though, viewed apart from itsmeaning, it was the most trivial and commonplace thing in the world. 

Trix got up from her chair, and went over to the window. 

Not a twig of the bare trees was stirring. The earth lay quiet in thegrip of the frost king; a faint pink light still lingered in the westernsky. She looked at the rustic seat and the table beneath the lime trees. How amazingly long ago the day seemed when she had sat there with Pia, and heard the little tale of wounded pride. How amazingly long ago thatvery morning seemed, when she had seen the sunlight flood her window-panewith ruby jewels. Even her interview with Father Dormer seemed to belongto another life. It had been another Trix, and not she herself who hadpropounded her difficulty to him, a difficulty so astoundingly simple ofsolution. 

She heaved a little sigh of intense satisfaction, and then she caughtsight of a figure crossing the grass. 

The Duchessa had come out of the house and was going towards the gardengate. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A FOOTSTEP ON THE PATH

Antony was sitting in his cottage. It was quite dusk in the little room, but he had not troubled to light the lamp. A mood of utter depression wasupon him, though for the life of him he could not tell fully what wascausing it. That very fact increased the depression. There was nothingdefinite he could get a grip on, and combat. He was in no worse situationthan he had been in three hours previously, in fact it might beconsidered that he was in an infinitely better one, and yet this mood wasless than three hours old. 

Of course the thought of the Duchessa was at the root of the depression. But why? If he met her again--and all things now considered, the meetingwas even more than probable--what earthly difference would it makewhether he met her in his rôle of Michael Field, gardener, or as AntonyGray, agent? And yet he knew that it would make a difference. Between theDuchessa di Donatello and Michael Field there was fixed a great socialgulf. He himself had assured her of that fact. Keeping that fact in view, he could deceive himself into the belief that it alone would beaccountable for the aloofness of her bearing, for the frigidity of hermanner should they again meet. Oh, he'd pictured the meetings oftenenough; pictured, too, and schooled himself to endure, the aloofness, thefrigidity. 

"I rubbed it well in that I am only a gardener, a mere labourer, " hewould assure his soul, with these imaginary meetings in mind. Of coursehe had known perfectly well that he was deceiving himself, yet even thatknowledge had been better than facing the pain of truth. 

But now the truth had got to be faced. 

There would be the aloofness, sure enough, but there would no longer bethat great social gulf to account for it. The true cause would have to beacknowledged. She scorned him, firstly on account of his fraud, andsecondly because he had wounded her pride by his quiet deliberatesnubbing of her friendship. Whatever justification she might presentlysee for the first offence, it never for an instant occurred to his mindthat she might overlook the second. He had deliberately put a barrierbetween them, and it appeared to him now, as it had appeared at themoment of its placing, utterly and entirely unsurmountable. She would becivil, of course; there would not be the slightest chances of herforgetting her manners, but--his mind swung to the little hotelcourtyard, to the orange trees in green tubs, to the golden sunshine andthe sparkle of the blue water, to the woman then sitting by his side. 

Memory can become a sheer physical pain at times. 

Antony got up from the settle, and moved to the window. Despite the duskwithin the room, there was still a faint reflection of the sunset in thesky, a soft pink glow. 

One thing was certain--nothing, no power on earth, should ever drag himback to Teneriffe again. If only he could control the action of hismemory as easily as he could control the actions of his body. At allevents he'd make a fight for it. And yet, if only--The phrase summed upevery atom of regret for his mad decision, his falling in with thatidiotic plan of Nicholas's. And, after all, had it been so idiotic? Mad, certainly; but wasn't there a certain justification in the madness? Itwas a madness the villagers would unquestionably bless. 

His thoughts turned to the recent interview. It had fully borne out allNicholas's expectations. Bland, self-confident, Curtis had entered thelibrary. Antony had had no faintest notion whom he had expected to seetherein, but most assuredly it was not the two figures who had confrontedhim. Bewilderment had passed over his face, and an odd undernote of fear. It was just possible he had taken Nicholas for a ghost. The reassuranceon that point had set him fairly at his ease. He had been subservient toNicholas, extravagantly amused to learn of the trick that had beenplayed. He had been insolently oblivious of Antony's presence. Antony hadenjoyed the insolence. When he learnt that his services were no longerrequired, he had first appeared slightly discomfited. Then he had pluckedup heart of grace. 

"Going to take matters into your own hands?" he had said to Nicholas. "Excellent, my dear sir, excellent. "

Nicholas had glanced down at the said hands. 

"I think, " he had said slowly, "that they are rather old. No; I haveother plans in view. "

"Yes?" Curtis had queried. 

"I wish to try a new _régime_, " Nicholas had said calmly. "I should liketo introduce you to my new agent. " He had waved his hand towards Antony. 

Black as murder is a well-worn and somewhat trite expression, nevertheless it alone adequately described the old agent's expression. And then, with a palpable effort, he had recovered himself. 

"A really excellent plan, " he had said, with scarcely veiled insolence. "I congratulate you on your new _régime_. They say 'Set a thief to catcha thief'; no doubt 'Set a hind to rule a hind' will prove equallyefficacious. " He had laughed. 

"On the contrary, " Nicholas's voice, suave and calm, had broken in uponthe laugh, "that is the very _régime_ I am now abolishing. 'Set agentleman to rule a hind' is the one I am about to establish, that is whyI have offered the post of agent to Mr. Antony Gray, son of a very oldfriend of mine. "

For one brief instant Curtis had been entirely non-plussed, the cut inthe speech was lost in amazement; then bluster had come to his rescue. 

"So you have had recourse to a system of spying, " he had said with asneer that certainly did not in the least disguise his fury. "PersonallyI have never looked upon it as a gentleman's profession. "

"The question of a gentleman's profession is not one in which I shouldreadily take your advice, Mr. Curtis, " Nicholas had replied, smilinggently. 

Curtis had turned to the door. 

"I did not come here to be insulted, " he had said. 

"Neither, " Nicholas had retorted sternly, "have I paid you to insult mytenants. You have accused me of a system of spying. You yourself bestknow whether such a system was justified by the need. Though I can assureyou that Mr. Gray was no spy. He believed in my death as fully as youdid. "

There had been some further conversation, --remarks it might better betermed. The upshot had been that Curtis was leaving Byestry of his ownaccord on the morrow; Antony took over his new post immediately. 

It had not been till Curtis had left that Nicholas had broached thesubject of the tea-party the following day, and had requested Antony'spresence. The request had been firmly declined, nor could all Nicholas'spersuasions move Antony from his resolution. 

"I am utterly unsociable, " Antony had declared. 

Nicholas smiled grimly. 

"So am I, or, at any rate, so I was till Miss Devereux took me in hand. "

"Miss Devereux!" Antony had echoed. 

"Yes, she's at the bottom of this business, " Nicholas had assured him, "though what further plot she has up her sleeve I don't know. Why, if ithadn't been--" And then, on the very verge of declaring that Antonyhimself had been the real foundation of the whole business, he hadstopped short. Never in his life had Nicholas betrayed a lady's secret orwhat might have been a lady's secret. They were pretty much one and thesame thing as far as his silence on the matter was concerned. 

Well, the long and the short of the whole business was that the tenantsof the Chorley Estate were about to receive fair play, and Nicholas wasabout to emerge from the chrysalis-like existence in which he hadshrouded himself for fifteen years, --an advantage, certainly, in bothinstances. Only so far as Antony's own self was concerned there didn'tseem the least atom of an advantage anywhere. Of course he was fullyaware that he ought to see immense advantages. But he didn't. 

"It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, "says one of the poets. Was it Tennyson? But then that depends verylargely on the manner of the losing. And in this case!

Antony crossed to the dresser and lighted the small lamp. He had just setit in the middle of the table when he heard the click of his garden gate, and a footstep on his little flagged path. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

ON THE OLD FOUNDATION

Antony stood very still by the table. Once before he had heard that samefootfall on his path, --a light resolute step. His face had gone quitewhite beneath its tan. There was a knock on the door. For one briefsecond he paused. Then he crossed the room, and opened the door wide. 

"May I come in?" asked the Duchessa. 

He moved aside, and she came into the room, standing in the lamplight. Hestood near her, words, conventional words, driven from his lips by themad pounding and beating of his heart. 

"Might I sit down?" asked the Duchessa a little breathlessly. And shecrossed to the settle. Her face was in shadow here, but Antony had seenthat it was strangely white. 

Still Antony had not spoken. 

The Duchessa looked up at him. 

"I am nervous, " said she, an odd little tremor in her voice. 

"Nervous!" echoed Antony, surprise lending speech to his tongue. 

"Nervous, " she replied, the odd little tremor still in her voice. "I oweyou an apology, oh, the very deepest apology, and I don't know how tobegin. "

"Don't begin at all, " said Antony hoarsely, sternly almost. 

"Ah, but I must. Think how I spoke to you. You--we had agreed that trustwas the very foundation of friendship, and I destroyed the foundation atthe outset. "

"It was not likely you could understand, " said Antony. 

She caught her breath, a little quick intake. 

"Would you say the same if it had been the other way about? Would _you_have destroyed the foundation?"

Antony was silent. 

"Would you?" she insisted. 

"I--I hope not, " he stammered. 

"And yet you appear to think it reasonable that I should have done so. "

He could not quite understand the tone of her words. 

"I think it reasonable you did not understand, " he declared. "How couldyou? Nobody could have understood. It was the maddest, the mostinconceivable situation. "

"Possibly. Yet if the positions had been reversed, if it had been you whohad failed to understand my actions, would you not still have trusted?"

"Yes, " said Antony, conviction in the syllable. He did not think to askher how it was that she understood now. The simple fact that she didunderstand swept aside, made trivial every other consideration. 

"You mean that a man's trust holds good under any circumstances, whereasa woman's trust will obviously fail before the first difficulty?" shedemanded. 

"I did not mean that, " cried Antony hotly. 

"No?" she queried mockingly. 

"It was not, on my part, a question of _trust_ alone, " said Antonydeliberately. He looked straight at her as he spoke the words. 

The Duchessa dropped her eyes. A crimson colour tinged her cheeks, creptupwards to her forehead. 

There was a dead silence. Then----

"Will you help me to re-build the foundation?" asked the Duchessa. 

"It was never destroyed, " said Antony. 

"Mine was, " she replied steadily. "Will you forgive me?"

"There can be no question of forgiveness, " he replied hoarsely. 

Her face went to white. 

"You refuse?"

"There is nothing to forgive, " he said. 

Again she drew a quick breath. 

"There is, " she said. 

"I think not, " he replied. 

The Duchessa looked towards the fire. 

"Why do you say that?"

"Because, " he replied slowly, "between you and me there can be noquestion of forgiveness. To forgive, one must acknowledge a wrong done toone. I acknowledge none. "

She turned towards him. 

"You cared so little, you felt none?"

"No, " responded Antony, the words leaping to his lips, "I cared so much Ifelt none. "

"Ah, " she breathed, and stopped. "Then you will go back to the oldfooting?" she asked. 

Antony's heart beat furiously. 

"I cannot, " he replied. 

"Why?" she demanded, speaking very low. 

Antony drew a deep breath. 

"Because I love you, " he said quietly. 

Again there was a dead silence. At last Antony spoke quietly. 

"Of course I have no right to tell you that, " he said. "But you may aswell know the whole truth now. It was because of that love that I agreedto this business. I had nothing to offer you. Here was my chance toobtain something. I had no notion then that you lived in thisneighbourhood. When I found out, I was tempted to let you infer thatthere was a mystery, some possible explanation of my conduct. It wouldhave been breaking my contract in the spirit, though not actually in theletter. Well, I didn't break it at all, and of course you did notunderstand. In order to keep my contract I had to deceive you, or at allevents to allow you to believe an untruth. Naturally you scorned mydeceit, as it appeared to you. It was that that mattered of course, notthe social position. I understood that completely. Later, you offered meyour friendship. You were ready to trust without understanding. I couldnot accept your trust. A friendship between us must have led others tosuspect that I was not what I appeared to be. That was to be avoided. Ithad to be avoided. I hurt you then, knowing what I did. " He stopped. 

"I think you hurt yourself too, " she suggested quietly. 

The muscles in Antony's throat contracted. 

"Come here, " said the Duchessa. 

Antony crossed to the hearth. He stood looking down at her. 

"Kneel down, " said the Duchessa. 

Obediently he knelt. 

"You are so blind, " said the Duchessa pathetically, "that you need tolook very close to see things clearly. Look right into my eyes. Can't yousee something there that will heal that hurt?"

A great sob broke from Antony's throat. 

"Ah, don't, dear heart, don't, " cried the Duchessa, drawing his headagainst her breast. 

 * * * * *

"Will the new agent agree to live at the Manor House?" asked theDuchessa, after a long, long interval composed of many silences thoughsome few words. "Will his pride allow him to accept a small materialbenefit for a short time, seeing what a great amount of material benefitwill be his to bestow in the future?"

Antony laughed. 

"I told Mr. Danver I wouldn't use a penny of his money for myself, " hesaid. 

"Oh!" She raised her eyebrows in half comical dismay, which hid, however, a hint of real anxiety. Would his pride accept where it did not bestow inlike kind? For other reason than this the bestowal would signify not atall. 

"You mind?" he asked smiling. 

She looked straight at him. 

"Not the smallest atom, " she declared, utterly relieved, since there wasno shadow of false pride in the laughing eyes which met her own. 

"Ah, but, " said Antony slowly, and very, very deliberately, "I never saidI would not use it for my wife. "

EPILOGUE

An old man was sitting in the library of the big grey house. A shadedreading-lamp stood on a small table near his elbow. Its light was thrownon an open book lying near it, and on the carved arms of the oak chair inwhich the man was sitting. It shone clearly on his bloodless old hands, on his parchment-like face and white hair. A log fire was burning in agreat open hearth on his right. For the rest, the room was a place ofshadows, deepening to gloom in the distant corners, a gloom emphasized bythe one small circle of brilliant light, and the red glow of the fire. Book-cases reached from floor to ceiling the whole length of two walls, and between the thickly curtained windows of the third. In the fourthwall was the fireplace and the door. 

There was no sound to break the silence. The figure in the oak chair satmotionless. He might have been carved out of stone, for any sign of lifehe gave. He looked like stone, --white and black marble very finelysculptured, --white marble in head and hands, black marble in the piercingeyes, the long satin dressing-gown, the oak of the big chair. Even hiseyes seemed stone-like, motionless, and fixed thoughtfully on space. 

The big room was very still. An hour ago it had been full of voices andlaughter, amazed questions, and half-mocking explanations. 

Later the front door had banged. There had been the sound of steps on thefrosty drive, receding in the distance. Then silence. 

Nicholas's eyes turned towards the middle window of the three, surveyingthe heavy hanging curtain. 

A whimsical smile lighted up his grim old mouth. 

"After all, it wasn't a wasted year, " he said aloud. 

Then he turned and looked round the empty room. It seemed curiouslydeserted now. 

"And the year is not yet ended, " he added. He was amazed at the pleasurethe thought gave him. 

THE END.