Anthony Lyveden Part 23

With a sorrowful look at his opponents, George proceeded laboriously to ama.s.s three tricks.

With the game went the rubber, and by mutual consent the party broke up. It was half-past nine, and all had duties to do. Anne went singing to fill Mrs. b.u.mble's hot-water bottle, and Betty to heat the milk which it was her mistress's practice to consume at bed-time. Mr.

b.u.mble, as became his s.e.x, favoured something more substantial, and light refreshment in the shape of a ham sandwich and a bottle of beer before retiring suited him admirably. In Anthony he had a conscientious victualler. The sandwich was invariably fresh, the bottle of beer untasted, the gla.s.s clean. Mr. b.u.mble had marked these qualities and hugged himself.

This night, when Anthony entered the dressing-room, his master was sitting coatless upon a chair.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Lyveden, "I hope you've not been waiting."

"No, no," was the cheery reply. "Not your fault, me boy. I'm early.

There now! Maria!" Mrs. b.u.mble appeared in her doorway in a red dressing-gown. "Look at that there tray, me dear. Ain't it a treat?"

"Deluscious!" said Mrs. b.u.mble.

"The very look," continued Mr. b.u.mble, "o' that sanwidge makes me that 'ungry you wouldden believe."

"May I cut you another one, sir?" said Anthony.

"'Ark at the boy," said his employer. "Wants ter kill me with kindness. Why, I could eat sixty, I could. But one's too many, reelly, at my time o' life."

"Joo drink beer, Tony?" inquired Mrs. b.u.mble.

"Yes, madam."

"Then go an' 'ave a nice bottle," she said, beaming.

"Thank you very much, madam."

"Yes, an' give George one," said Mr. b.u.mble, not to be outdone in generosity.

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't mention it," was the agreeable reply.

Anthony bade them "Good night" and left them breathing good-will.

As he descended the stairs, the particular verity of the adage which Valerie had quoted upon a memorable afternoon nearly three weeks ago appealed to him forcibly. "Better is a dinner of herbs where love is."

Certainly he was leading the humble life. Born and educated to administer, if not to rule, here was he fetching and carrying, a hewer of ham and a drawer of corks. He wondered if there were any other footmen who were also Companions of the Distinguished Service Order.

That there were no other footmen who were so comfortably housed, he was sure. And Patch was in clover. Anthony reflected that he had much to be thankful for. A dinner of herbs was infinitely better than none at all. He was, you observe, unconsciously converting the proverb to his own use. Stalled oxen, with or without hatred, were not nowadays in his line. He had quite forgotten what they were like, and cared as little. Indeed, but for Valerie, his Ambition would have been dead.

Even now it lay very sick. High stomachs are easily upset. But a nodding acquaintance with Hunger will make Ambition turn her face to the wall.

The duty of George Alison at nine-thirty was to take the dogs for a run. When he returned this evening to find Anthony in the act of setting two bottles of beer upon the table, he lifted up his voice and thanked Heaven that he had at least one friend.

"Thirteen perishing months," he concluded, "have I been in this house, and this is the first time I've ever had an extra rum ration. And that with my own flesh and blood, to say nothing of a lawful wife, running round the b.u.mbles from morning till night. I admit that on two several occasions your predecessor produced to me my master's liquor, but his ribald reception of my inquiry whether such production was authorized left me no alternative but to refuse to consume it."

"What's that?" said Betty, bustling into the room. "I recognized the tone of abuse, but I couldn't hear the words."

"My love," said George, "I was but remarking that beer is thicker than water. And now will you take my boots off before you clean them? Or clean them first and take them off afterwards?"

Betty Alison seated herself upon the table and raised her husband's gla.s.s to her lips.

"I looks," she said, "towards you."

When she set it down, the gla.s.s was half empty.

After a moment's silence--

"You've--you've left some," said her husband in a shaking voice.

"I know," she said. "That's because I can't drink any more. I hate beer." She slipped off the table with a yawn. "And now I'm going to bed. Don't let him sit up, Anthony. The car's ordered for nine, and he's got to get a new tire on."

"Where are we going?" said Lyveden.

"First meet of the season," said George. "I forgot to tell you.

Buck's Folly, the b.u.mbles think, but they're not certain. Deuce of a job for me, I tell you. Everybody drives anywhere and anyhow. You're backed into, you're always being called on to stop your engine, you're expected to be able to turn in a six-foot lane and to manoeuvre on a marsh as if it was wood pavement. To do any good, you want something between a gyroscope and a Tank. A car's useless."

"Stacks of people, obviously," said Anthony.

"Unfortunately, yes. Hardened as I am, I'm not looking forward to that side. I suppose you hunted--in the old days."

Anthony nodded.

"At Oxford, and sometimes with the Blackmore Vale. My uncle had a house in Dorset."

"Ah! We used to do a bit with the Pytchley before--before the War."

For a moment n.o.body spoke.

One and all they had stumbled into the closet of Memory. Pictures of dead days stared at them--days when they had come and gone as they pleased, before there had been a new earth and, seemingly, a new heaven. Old sounds rang in their wistful ears, forgotten scents came floating out of the darkness.... The closet grew into a gallery....

"Good night," said Betty quietly. "Don't sit up late."

She slipped out of the room.

It was a tired face that George Alison raised to Anthony.

"Thank your stars," he said jerkily, "that you aren't married. I don't matter. I don't mean I like service, but I'm well enough off. But Bet--poor Bet. Think what her life should be, and then look at what it is. And her father's worth half a million. He cut her off when she married me. I had enough for two then, so it didn't much matter. But now.... She's wonderful--perfectly marvellous, but--it's hard to see her hands getting rough, man. Very hard. Her hands...."

Anthony crossed the room and touched him upon the shoulder.

"If I were married," he said, "I should feel just the same. And then there'd be two fools instead of one. My dear fellow, if Betty regretted her bargain, then she'd need your sympathy. As it is, so long as she's got you, d'you think she cares whether she wears sables or an ap.r.o.n?"

"But you saw how she dried up just now."

"Shall I tell you why?" said Anthony.

"Why?"

"Because to-morrow morning you're going to a meet in blue, and she's sorry it can't be pink."