Anthony Lyveden Part 9

"P'r'aps their _Who's Who's_ out of date," he said.

The other shook his head.

"It's the deecay of menners, mate," he said sorrowfully, turning to resume the sorting operation upon which he was engaged.

The letter bore the postmark of a village in Hertfordshire, and proved to be a communication from the Dogs' Home at which Patch was lodged.

_DEAR SIR,_

_I am sorry to inform you that your Sealyham has contracted distemper.

There is at present no reason to think that he will be seriously ill, and, the veterinary surgeon is quite satisfied with his condition._

_Yours faithfully,_ _N. DAWES,_ _Supt._

Anthony stared at the sheet as it had been a death-warrant. It must be remembered that Patch was all that he had in the world.

The second footman, who had been perusing a postcard addressed to the Marchioness, placed the missive upon the top of his mistress's letters and fell to whistling softly between his teeth. When he glanced round to see Anthony so still, he stopped his fluting in the midst of a bar.

"Wot's up, mate?" he said eagerly. "'Ad some bad noos?"

Anthony folded the sheet and put a hand to his head.

"My little dog's ill," he said. "He's down in the country, and--it's rather worrying."

The other looked at him curiously. Then--

"That's the worst o' dawgs," he said sagely. "Yer goes an' gets fon'

of 'em, an' then they gets run over, or dies, or somethin'. Cats is the same. My sister's little gurl 'ad a kitten with one eye. Thort the world o' that cat, she did. 'Adn't got no use fer dolls nor nothin'. 'Moses,' she called it. One day a bull-terrier does it in."

He paused dramatically, raising his eyes to heaven with an air of reminiscent resignation which spoke volumes. "Me sister thort the kid'd go aout of 'er mine. In the en' they 'ad to send 'er away."

Anthony listened to the anecdote with what politeness he could, hoping desperately that time would prove its irrelevance.

"Poor little girl," he said quietly.

"But she got over it orright, mate. Same as wot you will. You see.

'Sides," he added, with the gesture of one who adduces a still stronger argument, "'e ain't dead yet. Don't you meet trouble 'alf-way, mate.

It ain't good enough."

For this philosophy there was much to be said, and Anthony did his best to practise it. When he had sent a telegram, asking to be informed daily of his dog's progress, and advised by wire or telephone if there was any danger, he felt more comfortable. The day, however, dragged heavily....

Happily Lord Pomfret made few demands upon his patience. For all that, his lordship had formed a new habit, which Anthony--partly because he was preoccupied, partly because he had but two eyes--failed to observe.

This was a pity, for while it was not a pretty habit, it happened to concern Anthony pretty closely. The trick was this. So often as he and Lyveden were in the same room, his lordship's watery eyes would follow the footman wheresoever he moved.

It may be urged that a cat may look at a king. True.

But if a cat were detected in the act of looking at a king as Lord Pomfret Fresne had come to look at Anthony Lyveden, it is safe to predict not only that the animal would be afforded no further opportunity of inspecting his majesty, but that in about two minutes he would, like poor Moses, be put to sleep with his fathers.

By the same post which so discomfited Anthony, came to Miss Valerie French two letters, one at least of which must be set out.

_c/o Joseph b.u.mble, Esq., The Shrubbery, Hawthorne._

_DEAR VAL,_

_Send your pal along. The b.u.mbles will jump at him. As for us, if our present colleague wasn't under notice to leave, we should be. Of course he can have his dog here. Haven't I got Jose? And if a parlour-maid can keep one, d'autant plus a footman. Pending the dismissal of the colleague referred to, Anne and I have to do more than we should, and are a little bored with Life. George has the best time with the car, but we make him help in the house. When are you coming to Bell Hammer? George and I were there on Sunday, and it looks topping._

_Love from us all, BETTY._

The other dispatch was from Printing House Square. Its envelope, being opened, was found to contain three other envelopes, each bearing the same superscription, viz., "Box Y779, c/o _The Times_."

Valerie opened them eagerly.

They were, all three, applications for the post of a gentleman-footman.

After satisfying herself that no one of these was signed by Lyveden, Valerie tossed them aside unread. Then she propped herself on her elbow and poured out a cup of tea.

That Fate buffets her favourites is sometimes true. Here we catch the baggage red-handed. With one cold relentless palm she threatens to take from Anthony, who hath not, even that which he hath: with the other she is strewing blossoms upon what is to be his path. With her right hand she robs the beggar, with the left she prepares for him a bed of roses.

The lady of Anthony's heart loved him. It is no good beating about the bush. Pity may be akin to Love, but Interest is the boy's first cousin. Whether her heart had leaped, when she saw him, is not for me to say. She looked upon him, saw that he was good, made up her mind--and that was settled. The fact that she immediately turned her back upon him has nothing to do with the question, but may, if you please, be construed as confirming her plight.

Had the round world been ten thousand years younger, when she and Anthony looked the one upon the other in the garden of _The Leather Bottel_, he would have put his arms about her, and she would have suffered him, and there in the shadow of the little inn this tale would have come to an end. That it did not so end then and there is the fault partly of a crop of conventions, which have in so many years increased out of all belief and now stand bristling between Impulse and Action, and partly of the contrariness of women, which is, we know, very ancient, but not so old as all that. It is these two marplots, which you must bless or curse, gentlemen, as the fancy takes you.

Valerie French, then, was trying to bring Lyveden into smooth water.

She had already earmarked a congenial billet at The Shrubbery, Hawthorne. The difficulty was to make Anthony apply for the post.

Since Mrs. b.u.mble could hardly be advised to ask a footman to quit the service of the Marquess of Banff, Valerie, who was determined to remain incognito, had recourse to the Press. Her advertis.e.m.e.nt for a gentleman-footman appeared daily.

When my lady had drunk her tea, she turned to the telephone. After a little delay, she was connected to the Dogs' Home in Hertfordshire.

Presently the superintendent spoke....

'Miss French's Irish terrier was not too grand. He was coughing a little. There was no real cause for anxiety, but he was not out of the wood.'

"I'll be down this afternoon," said Valerie.

She was as good as her word.

And since, to her grief, the little brown dog was nothing bettered, but rather grew worse, she visited him the next day also and the day after that.

And so it happened that she was at the Home on Friday, when Patch's condition gave rise to such uneasiness as presently decided the superintendent to telephone to his master. Indeed, the fair-haired girl had discussed with Valerie the advisability of so doing.

"Mr. Lyveden's a busy man, I fancy, and we hate worrying people. But he's simply devoted to the dog, and he's pretty bad."

"I think," said Valerie slowly, "I think he ought to be told."