Anthony Lyveden Part 56

"I'm--I'm sorry, my sweet.... It's--I think it's just because ... I love you so much." With an effort he mastered his lips. "And I'm so very sorry, dear, I kissed you like that--the day I went down. I dreamed about it. I dreamed you came to me, and I apologized." With her heart in her mouth, Valerie smoothed his brow. "And you were--so very sweet. You said"--he hesitated--"you spoke so very handsomely."

"I'm so glad, darling."

"And, oh, Valerie,"--he was himself again now--"I've had such a wonderful dream. I've been waiting for you, my darling, before I spoke of it."

"What did you dream, lad?"

"I dreamed that I'd left the b.u.mbles--I had given notice, you know--and gone, in answer to an advertis.e.m.e.nt, to a place in the Cotswolds. It's all so real, so vivid, that it's almost impossible to appreciate that it's all a dream. I can remember every detail of the journey--I had Patch with me--down to the faces of my fellow-pa.s.sengers. A woman with a baby got out at Oxford and left a parcel behind. And I ran after her with it. I can see her scared face now, poor soul, when I touched her on the shoulder...."

The story of the last four months came pelting. Anthony fairly opened his heart. At first, listening to the bare truth told with the confident navete of disbelief, Valerie felt as though she were cheating the blind. After a little, this sense of shabbiness was suddenly supplanted by a perfect torment of apprehension lest Anthony should detect her hypocrisy. Presently, before her breathless interest in the narrative, the girl's uneasiness slipped unremarked away, and, when the door opened and the gentle nurse appeared to part them, she was following the ingenuous recital with unaffected eagerness.

Valerie nodded her acquiescence in the unspoken order, and the nurse withdrew. As the former rose to her feet--

"Ah, must you go, my lady?"

"Till this evening, dear lad."

Anthony sighed fretfully.

"And I've wasted all our precious time with my old dream. I've hardly spoken of you, and there's so much I want to know."

"We've plenty of time, darling. Think of it. Once we never knew when--if, even, we should ever see one another again. Now ... Oh, Anthony, we're very rich."

"I am," said Anthony, smiling. "And when you say you are--why, then I feel like a king."

Valerie flung up her head. An instant, and she was singing....

"_If I were a queen, What would I do?

I'd make you a king And I'd wait upon you-- If I were a queen._"

Never melody knew such tenderness. Poor Anthony could not trust himself to speak....

Valerie stooped and laid a soft cheek against his. Then she pressed his hand to her lips.

The next moment she was gone.

When Sir Willoughby Sperm learned of his patient's progress, he struck the words "Major Lyveden" out of his diary. The action cost him exactly one hundred guineas, and the secretary by his side bit her lip.

To keep that Sat.u.r.day free for his visit to Hampshire, she had refused nine appointments. But, if he was a bad business man, Sperm was a good doctor. Anthony was out of the wood. Very well. Considering the nature of the peril with which the wood had been quick, the less the fugitive saw of strange doctors, the better for him. To insist upon the gravity of his late disorder was most undesirable. Besides, if at this juncture a specialist's visit to Bell Hammer could serve any useful purpose, Heron was the man to pay it. It was he who had walked and talked with Lyveden when the latter's brain had been sick. So he alone of the doctors could compare Philip drunk with Philip sober.

Happily no such comparison was necessary. Had it been vital, it could not have been made. For the patient to renew the acquaintance of the artist he had met at Gramarye--and that in the person of a distinguished brain specialist--would hardly have conduced to his health of mind. Indeed, from the moment that Anthony had reached Bell Hammer in safety, so far as the inmates of that house were concerned, the very name of Dr. Heron was, by his own advice, religiously forgotten as though the man had never been. It was natural, however, that one who had done so much to arrest the disorder should care to hear how Anthony was faring. By a mutual arrangement the cherubic Dr.

Gilpin wrote to the former faithfully three times a week.

Similar, though less frequent, reports were regularly rendered to Mr.

Justice Molehill.

One of these latter I will set out, for it was a wise man that wrote it, and the matter is to the point. I would, sirs, that I could show you the handwriting, so fine and easy to read.

_Bell Hammer, nr. Brooch, Hants.

April 11th, 1921._

_DEAR SIR GILES,_

_Major Lyveden continues mercifully to make good progress._

_I saw him myself yesterday for the first time, and must make haste to confess that I am overjoyed. When I say this, you will understand that he is not only the stranger whom we are helping to the acquisition of a great fortune, but the man whom my niece is delighting to honour.

Lyveden is a man of great personal charm and fine character, and I am sure that he will administer his heritage wisely and faithfully, and that he will make Valerie a proud and happy woman. I am glad to say, too, that your memory of his appearance is as true as your judgment.

In short, he is a splendid specimen of manhood._

_There is, of course, no doubt at all that he is our man, i.e. the only nephew of the late Jonathan Roach. Boldly advancing out of my province, I begged leave to ask him a question or two, to which the most exacting of opponents could not in decency have objected. His replies made me ashamed of the doubts which I never--even officially--harboured._

_Of the nature of his brain trouble and of his escape I have already told you. Enough that that wondrous bridge which an Omnipotent Providence threw across the river, while we stood gaping upon the other bank, stands fixed as any rock. As often as he will revisit Gramarye, the patient treads it with a firm, confident step. I do not matter--besides, I must soon return to Rome--but, by my advice, Valerie and those who are and are to be about him are schooling themselves to use this same strange bridge. Future safety, I contend, lies in making it a thoroughfare. So only approached, Gramarye will indeed become 'such stuff as dreams are made on,' and the four months he spent there be 'rounded with a sleep,' for ever._

_I have told Major Lyveden the story of the lost will, and of your close interest, to which alone he owes his fortune. His great desire is to thank you personally. My own remissness he forgave in undeservedly generous terms._

_I expect to leave for Italy early next week, and while I shall write again before that, I shall hope, if you are then in London, to visit you on my way._

_Believe me, Yours very truly, JOHN FOREST._

The prelate was not the man to exaggerate. Anthony's recovery went on amain. His state of independence had, as we know, been broached by Lady Touchstone: it was becoming that the true extent of his fortune should be disclosed by Monseigneur Forest himself.

The sick man received the news with some emotion.

He felt as though suddenly a wand had been set in his hand--a wand beneath whose careless touch the shifting flux of wishes must set and crystallize. For more than eighteen months he had "thought in pennies." Henceforth it would be unnecessary to think at all. The spectre of Ways and Means was laid for ever. Often, when his purse had been lightest--when he had been forced to eat sparingly of the cheapest food--he had been used to remember an old fragment of Virgil that he had learned as a boy. _Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit_. Times without number he had been glad of the tag. And now it had served its turn.... Looking back upon his penury, he could not wish that he had been spared those lean, ill-favoured days. And when, because of these, Monseigneur Forest reviled himself, Lyveden refused to listen, declaring that the experience had been invaluable, and must surely stand the camel in good stead when the time came for him to negotiate the needle's eye. For a prelate to withstand such a contention was more than difficult.... Yet if the patient spoke to the point, it was by accident. His thoughts were elsewhere. Childishly excited, he was wanting to use his wand. Ridiculously enough, his romping brain could not furnish a wish to be converted.... Suddenly an idea came to him.

His dog, his little faithful dog, had gone in need of a collar for over nine months....

Patch!

Mercifully the terrier was dumb. Otherwise the prelate's "Bridge of Providence" must have returned unto the air whence it came. As it was, the dog was brought to the sick-room twice every day. The tenderness with which he treated Anthony was wonderful to see. Naturally boisterous, the efforts with which he mastered the frenzy these interviews provoked, were manifest. He knew that Lyveden had been dangerously ill. He knew that he was mending. The twofold consideration set the flame of his devotion flaring. Yet, when he visited his master, the jet must be reduced to a pilot.... The marvel is the dog did not burst. Instead, placed within reach, he would set a quivering foot upon the bed and lick the caressing hand with a touch that would not have broken a bubble. Presently, whimpering with excitement, he would post about the chamber, seeking an object to present to his lord. Of such, the choice which the room afforded was straitly limited, and when for the second time he had selected one of the k.n.o.bs of a chest of drawers, endeavouring to detach this by dint of biting it off, the fresh-faced nurse was advised of his intention, and a log of wood was procured to be kept in a corner. Thereafter twice a day the billet was brought reverently to the-bedside.

Poor Patch! It was the best his dull wit could devise.

Oh, Patch, could you but see how idle and clumsy is your act, you would hang your small head. Could you perceive the vanity of repet.i.tion, your bright brown eyes would fill with tears. Could you be told whence comes the gift which you give Anthony, your little tail would be clapped between your legs.... Yet have I heard tell of a ram caught in a thicket by his horns; of altar steps worn thin by the observance of the same offices; of spikenard that might have been sold and given to the poor....

Sirs, this poor sc.r.a.p of a dog errs in good company.

The April days slipped by, smiling, or shrill, or tearful, as the mood took them.

A letter which Valerie had received from Peter Every, written and posted at Girdle upon the last day of March, had set her mind at rest about Anthony's stewardship of Gramarye. Apart from the action of the Law, that book had been closed as gently and firmly as mortal man could close it. By the removal of the steward, neither men nor beasts engaged there had been left one penny the worse. The former, indeed, were well out of a bad business. Incidentally, they would very soon be well out of Anthony's way. Never had money been so advantageously spent. Valerie had written to Every a letter of heartfelt thanks.

By the courtesy of the b.u.mbles, their chauffeur came to Bell Hammer two or three times a week. He did not always see his late colleague, but Alison was no fool, and points were constantly arising upon which Valerie was glad of his advice. It was he who went through Anthony's wardrobe with the utmost care, saying which of the garments he had seen before and which had been acquired since their owner's departure from Hawthorne. The latter were carefully destroyed. Lyveden's few personal effects were subjected to a similar scrutiny and partial destruction. Nothing was left to chance. If George was uncertain, Betty and Anne were sent for. If no one could be sure, whatever it was, the article in question went to the furnace. Never was the high-road of convalescence more faithfully reconnoitred.

Less actively, Lady Touchstone and Forest contributed according to their means. These were substantial. The electric personality of the one, the gentle charm of the other, were better than physic. The one stimulated; the other composed. A twinkling hour of Lady Touchstone's company was like a gla.s.s of champagne. A talk with the Monseigneur rivalled the quality of old Madeira. Wisely administered, the wine built up the wasted tissues of the mind. The latter's digestion being sound, Lyveden throve upon the diet. His brain put on weight daily.

So far as his body was concerned, no one had any anxiety at all.