Anthony Lyveden Part 20

Who the new-comer might be, he had no time to speculate, for, without being unlocked, the door was pushed open. Mr. Morgan marked the phenomenon, and his hair rose. Then a man stepped inside and stood still....

Mr. Morgan held his breath until his lungs were bursting and his head swam, but the man never moved.

The fact was that Anthony was staring at the same shaft of light which had attracted Betty's attention. This, however, was no longer appearing upon the landing, but in the hall, which, with the exception of that corner which contained the crouching ex-footman, it was doing much to illuminate. From this it would appear that the arresting beam, so far from emanating from the moon, was none other than Mr. Morgan's evil genius, following him about wherever he went. It was, in fact, his torch, which in his confusion he had thrust glowing into his pocket _the wrong way up_. That one end must protrude, he knew, for the brand was longer than the pocket was deep. He had, of course, no idea at all that it was advertising his presence and slightest movement so very faithfully....

It became impossible for Mr. Morgan any longer to restrain his breath.

He therefore expelled it as gently as he possibly could, inhaling a fresh supply with the same caution, and wondering dully whether it was to be his last. The suspense was unbearable.

Anthony, of course, was perfectly satisfied that the light was thrown by a torch. The source of the latter, however, was shrouded, not only in mystery, but in a darkness which the very light of the beam served to intensify. He continued to stand still.

There never was such a case.

Anthony, who knew the value of waiting, was prepared to stay still indefinitely. Mr. Morgan was afraid to do anything else. Clearly, if they were not to remain where they were until dawn, there was need of a _deus ex machina_.

He arrived then and there in the shape of a little white dog with a black patch. He was extremely wet, and there were burrs in his coat and mud upon his beard. His tail was up, however, and his gait as sprightly as ever.

As if it was upon his account that the door had been set open at this unlawful hour, he entered boldly, pa.s.sed by Anthony in the gloom, and then stood still like his master, staring at the mysterious beam. But not for long. For Patch, curiosity was made to be satisfied. Stepping warily, he moved forward to investigate....

When first Mr. Morgan realized that something was smelling him from behind, he made ready to die. Then, so tenacious is the hold we mortals have upon life, he gave an unearthly shriek and sprang from his bended knees for the drawing-room doorway....

When Mr. b.u.mble and his chauffeur, the one in his night attire and the other in a vest and a pair of dress trousers, appeared upon the scene, Anthony was kneeling upon Mr. Morgan, who was lying face downwards upon the drawing-hearth and dealing as fluently as a sheep-skin rug would permit with Anthony's birth, life, death and future existence. As for Patch, his services no longer required, he was rolling upon the sofa in an absurd endeavour to remove the burrs from his coat.

All of which, gentlemen, must undeniably go to show that the master who suffers his servants to go a-junketing will have his reward; that a woman knows better than a man what course he should shape; and that there is much virtue in hunting, even though it keep the hunter afoot till four of the morning.

CHAPTER IV

THE GOLDEN BOWL

With Monseigneur Forest, other than in his capacity of uncle and counsellor to Miss Valerie French, we are not concerned. It is necessary, however, to record that the dignitary was no fool. He was, in fact, a very wise man, able to understand most men and women better than they understood themselves. With such understanding, naturally enough, went a rare kindness of heart; the addition to these things of a fine sense of humour argued a certain favouritism on the part of a Providence which bestows upon ninety-and-nine mortals but one virtue apiece, and to the hundredth but two. Monseigneur Forest was, I suppose, a man in a million.

A letter of some importance, which his niece had sent him, reached him in Rome ere October was old.

_DEAR UNCLE JOHN,_

_I want to see and talk to you very badly, but I can't leave England just now. I suppose you guess what is coming. I can see you smile.

You're quite right. I've fallen in love._

_Listen. I was out with poor little Joe in the country, and went to an inn for tea. And there was a man in the garden. I didn't know he was there till his dog and Joe started sc.r.a.pping, and then he ran up to separate them. The moment I saw him--I don't know how to tell you. I just felt floored.... Then--instinctively, I suppose, for I hardly knew what I was doing--I tried to cover up this feeling. I was furious with him for knocking me out. Can you ever understand? And I was pretty rude. He took it wonderfully and just apologized--Heaven knows what for--and cleared out. The moment he was gone, I could have torn my hair. I actually went again to the inn, to try and find him, though what I should have done if I had I don't know...._

_Then I saw him again--not to speak to--as I was coming away from the Opera. Now hold on to something--tight! He was in livery--a footman's livery._

_Yes. It made me jump, mentally, for the moment. Of course, I'd never dreamed of that. And then I realized that he must be down on his luck, and I felt so sorry for him I could have cried. As a matter of fact, I did cry. And then, all of a sudden, I knew that I loved him._

_We met properly a week or two later by accident--on his part. You must forgive me. If you knew him, you would. And now we know one another properly, and he's in service quite close to Bell Hammer, with George and Betty Alison--didn't you meet them at Christmas? Lost all their money, and went out as chauffeur and parlourmaid. Anne, George's sister, is there, too. And he came to dinner the other night, and Aunt Harriet likes him, and we're--well, great friends._

_And I don't know what to do. You see, he's terribly proud and honourable, and, to him, being a footman matters very much indeed. Of course it doesn't really matter in the least, but he would never look at it that way. And all my money, instead of making everything possible, as it might, only makes things worse._

_What is to be done?_

_I can't blame him. Indeed, I'd hate him to feel any other way, and yet.... If only the positions were reversed. Then it would be too easy. As things are, it's a deadlock. And I love him so, Uncle John.

I suppose you couldn't possibly come. I have a feeling that you would straighten things out._

_Your loving niece, VALERIE._

_P.S.--I'm so terribly afraid he'll disappear or something. He's like that._

Monseigneur Forest read the letter with a grave smile. Then he read it again very carefully, looking to see if there was anything unwritten between the lines. Only once did he raise his eyes from the note-paper. This he did meditatively. Before returning to the letter, he went farther and raised his eyebrows....

The cause of this elevation is worthy of note. It was, in fact, none other than the reference to Anne--and yet not so much the reference itself as the manner in which this was made. The prelate, you will remember, was no fool.

For that matter, he was not a G.o.d, either. Consequently, the counsel which he presently offered his niece had to be communicated by the material channel of the "common or garden" post, and was, in fact, nearing Modane when Valerie rounded the edge of a belt of Scotch firs in Hampshire to come upon Anthony Lyveden regarding an old finger-post in some perplexity.

As my lady came up, Lyveden uncovered and pointed to a weather-beaten arm, upon which the words FRANCE 4 MILES were still discernible.

"Can you help me?" he said.

Valerie smiled.

"I think so. This is a very old post--over a hundred years old. You know Hawthorne?"

"I ought to."

"Well, once upon a time the village was called France. But during the Napoleonic wars the name was changed. For obvious reasons."

"And they forgot to alter this?" said Anthony, nodding at the cracked grey wood.

Valerie shook her head.

"No one would do the work. You know they used to bury suicides at the cross-roads? Well, one was buried here. That was when--when the post was set up...."

A little shiver accompanied her words.

"I see," said Anthony. "The body was staked, wasn't it? What a barbarous old world it was! I don't wonder they were afraid of the place."

"It's supposed to have been an old usurer who came from these parts and had ruined all sorts of people in his time."

"And why did he kill himself?" said Anthony.

"I forget. There was some mystery about it. I remember an old, old shepherd telling me some of the tale, when I was a little girl, and my nurse came up in the middle and scolded him and s.n.a.t.c.hed me away."

"Quite right, too," said Anthony. "And if she was here now, History would probably repeat itself." With a sweep of his arm he indicated the country-side. "Was this your nursery?"

Valerie nodded.