Anthony Lyveden Part 11

"Very good, my lord," he said huskily.

Ten minutes later he was out of the house.

Along the road of Life goes bowling the coach of Destiny, and we poor pa.s.sengers inside know neither whither we are being borne nor how long shall be our journey. Now and again the horses are pulled up, the door is opened, that grim guard Fate calls out a name, and one of us climbs pitifully forth, to pa.s.s with faltering steps into a sable hostelry.

We that are left behind peer after him curiously.... Then the door is slammed, with a lurch the coach is off again on its eternal wayfaring, and we poor pa.s.sengers inside sit betwixt hope and fear, wondering vainly what the next mile of road will bring to each of us.

Climb up upon the box-seat, gentlemen, if you will see what is to become of Anthony: so I am with you, you will not be sent packing.

Look how he is being borne unwitting over the Bridge of Care, into the Valley of Love, by Thicket Perilous, clean through the Waters of Anger to where the white road curls over that grey upland, and we can see it no more. As well for Anthony that he has not our knowledge. The next league or so will play the deuce with his emotions....

One last look, gentlemen. Can you see that cypress there, tall by the wayside, down in the Valley of Love? We will descend there, by your leave, for the driver will pull up his horses and the coach will stop.

A dog has to be set down--a little dog, gentlemen, with rough hair and as soft brown eyes as ever you saw....

Anthony covered the distance between the station and the Dogs' Home at a good round pace. In fact, he was somewhat out of breath when a maid admitted him to the house and, leaving him in the hall, went in search of the superintendent.

As the fair-haired girl made her appearance, his heart began to beat furiously.

"How's my little dog?" he said jerkily.

The girl looked grave.

"I'm afraid he's pretty bad, Mr. Lyveden. He's naturally very strong, and we hope that'll pull him through. We ought to know one way or the other within twelve hours."

"I see," said Anthony dully. "When I didn't hear, I hoped----"

"Didn't you get my telephone message?"

Anthony shook his head.

"When did you ring up?"

"Yesterday. I spoke to somebody--a man, and asked him to tell you. I don't know who it was."

Anthony went very white.

"I fancy I do," he said grimly, and drew in a quick breath. "And now may I see my dog?"

The fair-haired girl led the way to the hospital.

The building, which stood by itself, was as fresh and cool as a dairy, and a faint clean smell of sanitary fluid rose from its tiled floor.

In the hall were a table and a watchman's chair. Half a dozen rooms led out of the hall. The girl went straight to the door of one of these, turned the handle gently, and the next moment they were in the little chamber. This was full of light and air, for the French windows, which gave on to a broad veranda, were wide open. Upon the garden beyond the sun was shining gloriously.

By the side of the great square basket set in a corner Anthony fell on his knees.

"Why, Patch ..."

The little sc.r.a.p tried gamely to leap for his master, but his strength failed him, and he fell sideways on to the pine shavings. Lyveden gathered him gently into his arms and let him lick his face.

"Did you think I was never coming, Patch? Did you think I'd forgotten my little dog? My poor little fellow ... my little boy...."

The laboured breathing slipped into a cough, and Lyveden laid the terrier back on the shavings. There he got to his feet and coughed desperately. The exertion seemed to exhaust him, for, when the fit was over, he lay down where he stood, keeping his eyes upon Anthony and now and again moving his little tail.

The fair-haired girl, who had gone, reappeared, followed by the grey-headed kennel-man bearing a deck-chair.

"I expect you'll like to stay with him for a bit," she said pleasantly.

Anthony thanked her, and she left him alone.

For Patch's sake, Anthony sat very still.

Considering that he had been afoot since half-past five, it is not surprising that after a little s.p.a.ce he fell asleep.

Queer idiotic fancies bestrode his dreams: what was impossible came naturally to pa.s.s: earth became wonderland, and no one wondered. Patch and Miss French lay in sick beds upon respective mantelpieces: Lord Pomfret had come to mend the telephone, and his tool-bag was full of roses--the scent of them filled the room. Anthony himself was forging a two-pound note upon a page of Bradshaw, and was terribly afraid that it would not pa.s.s muster: something weighty depended on this, and all the time the scent of the roses was hindering his efforts: it came between him and the paper, so that he could not see: he brushed it away angrily, but it came back....

He awoke suddenly, for no reason.

Patch was lying very still, breathing more easily. His eye met Anthony's, and the tip of a red tongue came into view.

The faintest suggestion of perfume was in the air. This was so slight and fleeting that Anthony, after a little, charged it to his imagination and thought no more of it.

Presently he rose and, setting his hat on the chair, where Patch could see it and so expect his return, strolled out on to the veranda.

From the depths of an easy-chair Valerie French lifted her eyes from _The Times_ and smiled very charmingly.

"I'm glad you've come out," she said. "I think it's a mistake to sit there too long at a time."

That Lyveden felt perfectly at ease with her, and neither started nor spoke constrainedly, is worthy of note. It is, in fact, the best possible evidence that his belief in their affinity was well founded.

"You're quite right," he said. "After all, the great thing is to be on the spot. I'm afraid this means that your dog is ill."

Valerie looked away.

"He's worse than Patch," she said slowly.

"I'm awfully sorry."

As he spoke, Anthony remembered how the dogs had met in the drive a week ago. That, then, was how Patch had come by the sickness. Her dog had infected him.

Valerie looked up suddenly.

"I'm afraid I was awfully rude at the inn that day," she said quietly.

"It was rotten of me."

"No, it wasn't," said Lyveden quickly. "You were startled and upset and----"

"I've said all that to myself--several times. But it won't wash. It was just rotten, and I'm very sorry."

Had she been other than my lady, Anthony would have felt like a beggar whose feet a queen was washing. As it was, he felt like a king.