Anthony Lyveden Part 4

Lord and squire went for a wonderful walk. The woodland and meadows of Hertfordshire fairly beggared the Parks....

Tea at a tiny inn sunk in a dell through which a sleepy lane trickled between high banks--tea in the pocket garden under sweet-smelling limes, where stocks stood orderly and honeysuckle sprawled over the brick-nogging, brought back old days of happy fellowship, just to outshine their memory.

From the cool of the house came on a sudden the click of metal and the swift whirr of wheels. Somewhere a clock was in labour--an old, old timepiece, to whom the telling of the hours was a grave matter. A moment later a thin old voice piped out the birth of a new period.

Five o'clock.

Peacefully Lyveden expelled a cloud of smoke. He need not be moving for another quarter of an hour. Upon the warm red bricks at his feet Patch lay dozing after his dish of weak tea.

"Could you give it me in the garden?"

The fresh clear voice floated out of the doorway just in front of my lady herself. Arrived there, she stood for a moment looking pleasedly round. It is doubtful whether the old woodwork had ever before framed such a picture.

There was nothing remarkable about the dress, except her wearing of it.

There is a grace of carriage that will make purple of sackcloth.

Still, the gown was well cut of fawn-coloured stuff, which her stockings and shoes matched. Her face was generous--proud, too, yet tender and very beautiful. The soft rose of her cheeks, the misty blue of her eyes stood there for gentleness, the curve of the red lips for pride. Wisdom sat in her temples under the thick dark hair. Strength herself had moulded the exquisite chin. And a rogue of a dimple was there to mock the lot of them--the print of the delicate finger of Laughter herself, set in a baby's cheek twenty-five years before. A tiny watch upon a silk strap served to enhance the slenderness of a white wrist. Against the dark cloud of hair, which they were setting straight, the pointed fingers stood out like living statuary. Lifted elbows gave you the graceful line of her figure: the short skirt, ankles to match the wrists....

Looking upon her, Lyveden forgot the world. He may be forgiven, for she was a sight for sore eyes.

Having set her hair to her liking she put on her hat, pulling it down with a fine careless confidence such as no manner of mirror could give.

She had not seen Lyveden when Patch, counting her Irish terrier an intruder, took him suddenly by the throat....

In an instant the place was Bedlam.

My lady hovered about the combatants, one hand to her breast, the other s.n.a.t.c.hing frantically at her favourite's tail: Lyveden leapt to his feet and, cramming his pipe into a pocket, flung himself forward: the mistress of the inn and her maid crowded each other in the doorway, emitting cries of distress: and the now ravening flurry of brown and white raged snarling and whirling upon the brick pavement with all the finished frightfulness of the _haute ecole_.

Arrived at close quarters, Anthony cast a look round. Then he picked up the pair anyhow and swung them into the water-b.u.t.t two paces away.

For a moment the contents boiled, seething as if possessed. Then, with a fearful convulsion, the waves parted and the water gave up its prey.

Two choking, gasping, spluttering heads appeared simultaneously: with one accord four striving paws clawed desperately at the rim of the b.u.t.t. The fight was off.

Intelligently the girl stepped up on to a convenient bench, and Anthony lifted the Irish terrier out of his watery peril. As was to be expected, he shook himself inconsiderately, and Anthony, who was not on the bench, was generously bedewed. Then Patch was hauled out by the scruff of his neck.... So far as could be seen, neither of the dogs was one penny the worse. There had been much cry, but little wool.

Lyveden turned to my lady and raised his hat.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said. "My dog was entirely to blame."

"D'you mind controlling him now?" she said coldly.

Lyveden called Patch, and the Sealyham trotted up, shaking the water out of his ears as he came. Wet as he was, the man picked him up and put him under his arm.

"I hope your dog isn't hurt," he said quietly. "I'm very sorry."

The girl did not deign to answer, but, stepping down from her perch, summoned her terrier and strolled down the little greensward with her chin in the air.

Anthony bit his lip. Then he turned on his heel and, clapping his hat on his head, tramped into the inn. A moment later he had paid his reckoning and was out on the road. After all, he reflected, Patch wasn't to blame. He had acted according to his lights.

When he was out of sight of the inn, Anthony sat down by the wayside and dried his terrier's ears with his pocket-handkerchief and the utmost care.

The rain was coming down in sheets, and, in spite of the mackintosh which he was wearing above his livery, drops were beginning to make their unpleasant way down Anthony's neck. His feet had been wet for hours. The violence of the language employed by the press of grooms and footmen huddled about him at the doors of the Opera House suggested that their plight was no less evil.

It was a big night, and of "the distinguished audience" Mr. and Mrs.

Slumper were making two. They were inexpressibly bored, but that was beside the point. By occupying two stalls, Mrs. Slumper was sure they were doing the right thing. A box would have been better, of course, but there had been some difficulty, and Slumper, being a weak-kneed fool, had been bluffed into taking the stalls. Mrs. Slumper would like to see the clerk who could bluff her. By dint of concentrating upon her grievance, she had worked herself into a pa.s.sion by the end of the second act....

It continued to rain copiously.

At last flunkeys appeared and set the inner swing-doors wide open. A blasphemous murmur of relief went up from the company of servants.

"Bet yer my gint's fust," squeaked a little bow-legged c.o.c.kney. "'E's a fair winner, 'e is." A pompous prelate appeared in the lobby, walking with an air of having just consecrated the building free of charge, and followed by a nervous-lipped lady and a deacon who looked like a startled owl. "There y'are! Wot 'd I s'y?" he added, turning to scuttle off to his car.

"Ser long, 'Arry!" cried somebody. "See yer at Giro's."

There was an explosion of mirth.

The rain, the discomfort, the waiting--three familiar malefactors--all in a moment discomfited by a sudden guffaw, reminded Lyveden vividly of his service in France. His thoughts ramped back to the old days, when there was work and to spare--work of a kind. Of course, the compet.i.tion was not so keen....

People were coming fast now, and the entrances to the lobby were getting choked. Attendants were bellowing big names, innumerable engines were running, the police were shouting orders, gears were being changed.

"Number a nundred and one!" thundered a voice.

"Right!" cried Anthony, elbowing his way out of the crush.

He made his way quickly to where he had left the car.

The information that his employers were awaiting his services was received by the chauffeur with a volley of invective, which dealt more particularly with Mrs. Slumper's pedigree, but touched lightly upon a whole variety of subjects, including the ultimate destination of all composers and the uses of rain.

It was full five minutes before the limousine was able to be brought close enough to the entrance for Anthony to leave the running-board and advise his master. When it was next in order but two, he stepped on to the pavement and struggled towards the entrance. As he was about to tell an attendant to summon "101," a car slid into position, and the fellow set his hand on the door.

"Forty-six waiting!" he bawled.

A glance at the steps showed the approach of quality--all cloaks and soft hair and slim silk stockings--the attendant threw open the door and Lyveden stood still.

The taller of the two women was the second to enter the car. As she stood waiting, she glanced round quickly. Her eyes met Anthony's, rested a moment of time, and then swept on without a flicker.... A second later the door had slammed upon her high heels.

Lyveden was left to feel the blood come flaming into his face, to wonder whether my lady had known him again, and to stuff the breath of an exquisite perfume into the same reliquary as held the picture of a tall dark figure setting her hair to rights in the mouth of an inn.

Upon the next Sat.u.r.day a particularly smart wedding was to take place.

Anthony, who had seen the announcements, was prepared for the worst.

Sure enough, on Friday afternoon as he was clearing the table of tea--

"I shall want yer to-morrow," said Mrs. Slumper. "I 'ave to go to the weddin' o' that there Finnigan boy. I'm sure I'm sick o' crushes, but 'er ladyship would never fergive me if I diddun show up."

Anthony hesitated with the tray in his hands.