Anthony Lyveden Part 44

"Well, Chipping Norton--myself. I was going to kneel down in the mud and refuse to get up. I was going to wear that blue face-cloth that we both hate. I'd got it all worked out. But, from what you tell me, there's apparently nothing for me to kneel for."

"Nothing whatever," said her niece. "He's given me everything, and--I've come empty away," she added miserably.

Lady Touchstone rose and stooped to kiss the girl tenderly.

"Take my advice," she said, "and write to John Forest to-night. And now don't fret. You're a thousand times better off than you were four days ago. For one thing, you know where he is. What's more, he's content to let bygones be bygones. My darling, you've much to be thankful for. And now go and take a hot bath, and try and get a nap before dinner. Poor child, you must be dead tired."

With a sudden movement Valerie threw her arms about her aunt's neck.

"I don't know why you're so good to me," she said.

Then she kissed her swiftly and, getting upon her feet, pa.s.sed up the broad stairs.

For a moment Lady Touchstone stood looking after her niece. Then she put a hand to her head and sank into a chair. She was profoundly worried. If any girl other than Valerie had come to her with such an account, she would have been less troubled. But Valerie was so very clear-headed. True, her love had got away with her, and she had had the very deuce of a fall. But she was up again now, and nothing like that would ever happen again. Her judgment was back in its seat as firm as ever. And when she said that something was wrong with Anthony, that he seemed to hear things, that there was "the queerest light in his eyes," Lady Touchstone knew that it was perfectly true. What was worse, she was entirely satisfied that these things meant brain trouble. For three months after his wife had died, Valerie's own father had been under surveillance for precisely similar symptoms. She remembered them fearfully. And this Major Lyveden was so reminiscent of poor Oliver. His voice, his manner, the very way his hair grew about his temples, reminded her strangely of her dead brother. It was not surprising that she attributed Anthony's condition to a somewhat similar cause. What troubled her most was her conscience. She had set her heart upon the match, and she was now uncertain whether it was not her clear duty to try to call it off.

After a little she rose and crossed to a table. Taking a sheet of notepaper, she began to write.

_DEAR WILLOUGHBY,_

_I think it probable that within a few days your secretary will make an appointment for you to see a Miss Valerie French. This is my niece.

She does not know we are friends. When she tells you her tale, you need make no allowance for hysteria. Believe every word she says. She will not exaggerate. And please remember this. It is most desirable that she should marry the man about whom she will consult you. But it is still more desirable that she should not marry a madman._

_Yours always sincerely, HARRIET TOUCHSTONE._

Then she selected an envelope and addressed it to

_Sir Willoughby Sperm, Bart., 55 Upper Brook Street, Mayfair._

After a nightmare three days, work at Gramarye was again in full swing.

Anthony's succession to Winchester had been accepted without a murmur.

If the men displayed any feeling, it was that of relief. When he had told them that nothing whatever would be changed, shown them his Power of Attorney, explained that he was a steward sworn to continue the work till--till his employer should have recovered, they had stared upon the ground like schoolboys and stammeringly requested an a.s.surance that things would go just the same. Rea.s.sured, they had nodded approval and exchanged gratulatory glances. Then they had gone about their business.

Anthony's task was less simple. Apart from his compliance with the Law--a painful and embarra.s.sing ordeal, which Mr. Plowman fussily stage-managed, dressing every detail with such importance that the layman's wonder melted gradually to a profound contempt--there was much to be learned. That all was in beautiful order saved the situation.

And a letter, addressed to him in Winchester's bold handwriting, proved a master-key to the mysteries of income and outgoings.

_... There's three hundred on deposit at the Bank. That's to cover the immediate expense of putting me away. Now look at Sheet 7. That's last year's balance-sheet. That'll show you I was well within my income. All the same, expenses will have to be cut--to provide for me.

The wages must stand, and so must the "Horses and Stalling" (Book 2).

Don't part with the roan. There'll be times when you'll have to go to Town, as I did, for odd accessories. "Tools and Materials" (Book 3) will have to suffer, but we're well set up now, so you ought to pull through...._

There was an invitation, too, to live at the mansion, which Anthony did not accept. Twice a week he would visit the office and work there faithfully, but he could not bring himself to live in the house.

Apart from the manner in which the blow had been dealt him, he felt the loss of his employer most bitterly. He found the tragedy even more piteous than terrible. That so rude an axe should have been laid so untimely to the root of so glorious a tree filled him with sorrow.

That the tree should have heard the step of the woodman on his way to the felling, haunted his memory.

So far, however, as Lyveden's health of mind was concerned, itself grievously inopportune, the catastrophe could not have happened at a more opportune moment. Trading upon the heels of his encounter with Valerie, it made a terrific counter-irritant to the violent inflammation which that meeting had set up. Yet if the back of the sickness was broken, disorder and corrective, alike so drastic, were bound seriously to lower the patient's tone. His splendid physical condition supported its brother Mind and saw him well of his faintness, but the two red days left their mark. Looking back upon them later, Anthony found them made of the stuff of which dreams are woven--bitter, monstrous dreams, wherein the impossible must be performed lest a worse thing befall and a malignant eye peers beneath stones which even Misery herself would leave unturned. How he had parted with Valerie he was uncertain. He could not remember her going. Of her coming he knew nothing at all. She had appeared and, he supposed, disappeared. Of Winchester's attack upon him, and the subsequent chase, his memory was clearer. How he had escaped, however, at the foot of the brier-clad slope, he could not conceive. He could have sworn that for the last thirty paces the man was not three feet behind....

He was thankful to get back to work, and plainly immensely relieved to find that, during his absence, the others had made such progress with the paling that the scene of his employer's seizure had been left well behind.

A week had elapsed since that cloud-burst, and, as before, Lyveden was finishing his lunch, when he noticed that Stokes, the second carpenter, had not returned. The fellow had gone to his quarters, to fetch some implement, nearly an hour before. When another half-hour had gone by, Anthony, in some impatience, dispatched Blake for the tool. Twenty minutes later the latter returned, chisel in hand, but with no news of his mate. When it was five o'clock and there was still no sign of Stokes, Anthony struck work and ordered an organized search. It seemed rather hopeless, but, on the whole, the best thing to do. The man was missing. If possible, more zealous than any, it was unthinkable that he was playing truant. He could not have been spirited away. Anthony supposed gloomily that he had met with a mishap. There was, indeed, no other solution.

It was getting quite dark when they found him down in a little dell upon a patch of greensward. Considering that he was a joiner, and not a s.e.xton, he had made remarkable progress with a very creditable grave, which, he explained, was to receive the dead with which the woods were distributed. He added that it was a disgrace to leave so many corpses lying about, and pointed out that he had removed his boots for fear of treading upon them.

When they sought to humour him, he became suspicious and violent, and there was quite a struggle before he was overpowered.

CHAPTER VIII

THE POWER OF THE DOG

The accident was inevitable.

Everybody present, except the driver of the green taxi, saw that. And he was so fearful lest the driver of the red omnibus should lose one withering participle of the apostrophe he had provoked, that he could not be bothered with the exigencies of traffic and the Rule of the Road.

Everybody, including Mr. Justice Molehill, shouted impotently; a small page, on his way to the postoffice, stood agonizedly upon one leg; and a moment later there was a splintering crash, the blue taxi shed a cabin-trunk and a suit-case on to the pavement, and then, after a paralyzing moment of indecision, came heavily to rest against the panels of its aggressor.

Now, his lordship had no desire to become embroiled in a dispute which might easily beget a subpoena. Still, because of his elevation to the Bench, he had not resigned the fellowship of Man, and, since he was the nearest individual to the blue taxi, he stepped to it quickly and opened the door.

A man of about sixty years emerged gratefully. His ca.s.sock and the purple about his hat argued him a prelate of the Catholic Church.

"Thank you so much ... No, I'm not hurt at all. I sat still because----"

"Good heavens!" cried the Judge. "I know you." The other peered at him in the half-light. "My name's Molehill. We met at Rome--over a deathbed will."

The prelate started. Then recollection came twinkling into his gentle eyes.

"Of course," he said, putting out his hand. "I remember perfectly.

Before the War. How very strange that----"

"It's Fate," said the Judge excitedly. "Or Providence. For the last three months I've been racking my brain for your name, so that I could get into----".

"Forest," said the other.

Sir Giles Molehill slapped himself upon the thigh.

"That's right!" he cried. "Forest! John Forest!"

The presence of a rapidly increasing crowd and four constables at once discountenanced any further ebullition of glee, and emphasized the discretion of withdrawal.

The Judge thought rapidly.

"Look here," he continued, "my club's just over there." He nodded across the street. "If you'll wait a moment, I'll fetch the commissionaire. He can take charge of your luggage, and then, if you'll come in and have some tea with me, I shall be delighted."

"You're very good," said the other.