Antony Gray-Gardener Part 14

Father Dormer looked after him. There was a puzzled look in his eye.

Antony came out of the church and into the sunlight. He called to Josephus, who was busy with the investigation of a distant smithy, and turned up the street, walking rather quickly.

CHAPTER XIV

HONOR VINCIT

His brain was working rapidly, the while he felt a curious leaden sensation at his heart. He had never even contemplated the possibility of the d.u.c.h.essa living in the neighbourhood, though he now marvelled why he had never happened to question her as to the exact locality of Woodleigh.

Of course he knew, and a.s.sured himself that he knew, that the chances were all against any probability of their meeting. How was it likely they should meet, seeing that she was a _grande dame_, and he merely an under-gardener at the Hall? Of course it was not probable. Nevertheless there was just the faintest chance. He couldn't deny that remote chance.

And if they did meet, and she should recognize him?--There was the question.

Explanation would be impossible in view of his promise. And what would she think? Wouldn't it be conceivable, nay, wouldn't it be natural that she should be indignant at the thought that she had admitted to her friendship a man, who, to her eyes, would appear one of inferior birth?

Wouldn't his behaviour on the _Fort Salisbury_ appear to her in the light of a fraud? Wouldn't his letter appear to her as a piece of preposterous presumption on his part? How could it be expected that she should see beneath the surface of things as they seemed to be, and solve the riddle of appearances? It was such an inconceivable situation, such an altogether unheard of situation, laughable too, if it weren't for the vague possibility of the--to him--tragedy he now saw involved in it. It was this, this vague sense of tragedy, that was causing that leaden sensation at his heart.

He tried to tell himself that he was being morbid, that he ran no possible risk of coming face to face with the d.u.c.h.essa, in spite of the fact that the Manor House Woodleigh lay but two miles distant. But the a.s.surances he heaped upon his soul, went a remarkably small way towards cheering it.

And yet, through the leadenness upon his soul, through that vague, almost indefinable sense of tragedy at hand, ran a curious little note of exultation. Though he had no smallest desire for her to set eyes on him, might not he set eyes on her? And yet, if he did, would the joy in the sight be worth the dull ache, the horrible sense of isolation in the knowledge that word with her was forbidden.

He realized now, for the first time in its fullest measure, what her advent into his life meant to him. Bodily separation for a year had been possible to contemplate. Even should it extend to a lifetime, he would still have three golden weeks of memory to his comfort. But should mental separation fall upon him, should it ever be his lot to read anger in her eyes, he felt that his very soul would die. Even memory would be lost to him, by reason of the unbearable pain it would hold. And then, with the characteristics of a man accustomed to face possibilities, to confront contingencies and emergencies beforehand, he saw himself face to face with a temptation. Should the emergency he contemplated arise, was there not a simple solution of it? She was quick-witted, she might quite conceivably guess at the existence of some riddle. Would not the tiniest hint suffice for her? The merest possible inflection of his voice?

He had reached his cottage by now. He went in and shut the door.

He sat down on the oak settle, staring at the little cas.e.m.e.nt window opposite to him, without seeing it. It appeared to him that there were voices talking within his brain or soul,--he didn't know which,--while he himself was answering one of them--the loudest.

The loudest voice spoke quite cheerfully, and was full of common sense.

It urged him to abandon the consideration of the whole matter for the present; it told him that the probability of his meeting the d.u.c.h.essa was so extraordinarily remote, that it was not worth while torturing his mind with considerations of what line of action he would take should the emergency arise. Should it do so, he could act then as his conscience prompted.

He found himself replying to this voice, speaking almost stubbornly. He had got to fight the matter out now, he declared. He had got to decide absolutely definitely what course of action he intended to pursue, should the emergency he feared arise. He was not going to leave matters to chance and be surprised into saying or doing something he might either way afterwards regret. He knew the danger of not making up his mind beforehand. To which the loud voice responded with something like a sneer, telling him to have it his own way. And then it remained mockingly silent, while another and more insidious voice began to speak.

The insidious voice told him quite gently that this emergency might indeed arise; it pointed out to him the quite conceivable events that might occur from it; it a.s.sured him that it had no possible desire that he should break his promise in any way. He was not to dream of giving any explanation to the d.u.c.h.essa, but that he would owe it to himself, _and to her_, to give her the faintest hint that at a future date he _could_ give her an explanation. That was all. There would be no breaking of his promise. She could not possibly even guess at what that explanation might be. She would merely realize that _something_ underlay the present appearances.

The proposition sounded perfectly reasonable, perfectly just. His own common sense told him that there could be no harm in it. It was the rightful solution of the difficulty, arrived at by silencing that first loud voice,--the voice which had clearly wished him to abandon all consideration of the matter, that he might be surprised into giving a full explanation of the situation.

Antony drew a long breath of relief.

After all, he had been torturing himself needlessly. She herself had spoken of trust. Should that trust totter for an instant, would not the faintest possible hint be sufficient to re-establish it on a firm basis?

With the thought, the little square of cas.e.m.e.nt window came back once more to his vision. He saw through it an old-fashioned rose bush of crimson roses in the garden; he heard a bird twitter, and call to its mate. The abnormal had vanished, reduced itself once more to plain wholesome common sense. And then suddenly, and without warning, a sentence flashed through his brain.

Antony sat up, clenching his hands furiously between his knees. It was absurd, preposterous. There was no smallest occasion to take those words in such a desperately literal sense.

"In short, he will do all in his power to give the impression that he is simply and solely Michael Field, working-man, and under-gardener at Chorley Old Hall."

The words rang as clearly in his brain as if there were someone in the room speaking them aloud. Once more the window vanished. There were no voices speaking now; there was only a curious and rather horrible silence, in which there was no need for voices.

The faintest little whine from Josephus aroused him. It was long past the dinner hour, and racing the sands is exceedingly hungry work.

Antony's eyes came back from the window. His face was rather white, and his mouth set in a straight line. But there was an oddly triumphant look in his eyes.

"I think a meal will do us both good, old man," he said with a little whimsical smile. And he began getting down plates from the dresser.

CHAPTER XV

IN THE GARDEN

Some fifteen or more years ago, the gardens of Chorley Old Hall were famous for their beauty. They still deserved to be famous, and the reason that they were so no longer, arose merely from the fact that they had become unknown, had sunk into obscurity, since no one but the actual inmates of the Hall, Doctor Hilary, and the gardeners themselves ever set eyes on them.

Yet Golding, being an artist at heart, cared for them for pure love of the work, rather than for any kudos such care might bring him. Had he read poetry with as great diligence as he read works on horticulture, he would possibly have declared his doctrine to be found in the words:--

Work thou for pleasure, paint, or sing or carve The thing thou lovest, though the body starve.

Who works for glory misses oft the goal, Who works for money coins his very soul.

Work for the work's sake, and it may be That these things shall be added unto thee.

Certain it is that the gardens under his care were as beautiful as gardens may be. Where trimness was desirable, they were as neat, as well-ordered, as stately as some old-world lady; where nature was allowed fuller sway, they luxuriated in a very riot of mad colour,--pagan, baccha.n.a.lian almost, yet in completest harmony, despite the freedom permitted.

Before the house, beyond a rose-embowered terrace, a wide lawn, soft as thickest velvet, terminated in two great yews, set far apart, a sundial between them, and backgrounded by the sea and sky. To right and left were flower borders brilliant in colour, against yew hedges. Still farther to the right was the Tangle Garden, where climbing roses, honeysuckle, and clematis roamed over pergolas and old tree stumps at their own sweet will and fancy. Beyond the yew hedge on the left was another garden of yews, and firs, and hollies. A long avenue ran its full length while white marble statues, set on either side, gleamed among the darkness of the trees. The end of the avenue formed a frame for an expanse of billowing moorland, range upon range of hills, melting from purple into pale lavender against the distant sky.

Behind the house was another and smaller lawn, broken in the middle by a great marble basin filled with crystal water, whereon rested the smooth flat leaves of water-lilies, and, in their time, the big white blossoms of the chalice-like flowers themselves. A little fountain sprang from the marble basin, making melodious music as the ascending silver stream fell back once more towards its source. Fantailed pigeons preened themselves on the edge of the basin, and peac.o.c.ks strutted the velvet gra.s.s, spreading gorgeous tails of waking eyes to the sun. Beyond the lawn, and separated from it by an old box hedge, was an orchard, where, in the early spring, ma.s.ses of daffodils danced among the rough gra.s.s, and where, later, the trees were covered with a sheet of snowy blossoms--pear, cherry, plum, and apple. A mellow brick wall enclosed the orchard, a wall beautified by small green ferns, by pink and red valerian, and yellow toadflax. Behind the wall lay the kitchen gardens and gla.s.s houses, which ended in another wall separating them from a wood crowning the heights on which Chorley Old Hall was situated.

Had Antony had a free choice of English gardens in which to work, it is quite conceivable that he had chosen these very ones in which fate, or Nicholas Danver's conditions, had placed him. In an astonishingly short s.p.a.ce of time he was taking as great a pride in them as Golding himself.

It is not to be supposed, however, that, at the outset, Golding was over-pleased to welcome a young man, who had been thrust upon him from the unknown without so much as a by your leave to him. For the first week or so, he eyed the cheerfully self-contained young gardener with something very akin to suspicion, merely allotting to him the heavy and commonplace tasks which Antony had foreseen as his.

Antony made no attempt to impress Golding with the fact that his knowledge of fruit growing, if not of floriculture, was certainly on a level with his own. It was mere chance that brought the fact to light,--the question of a somewhat unusual blight that had appeared on a fruit tree. Antony happened to be in the vicinity of the peach tree when Golding was remarking on it to another gardener. Five minutes later, the second gardener having departed, Antony approached Golding. He respectfully mentioned the nature of the blight, and suggested a remedy.

It led to a conversation, in which Golding's eyes were very considerably opened. He was not a man to continue to indulge in prejudice merely because it had formerly existed in his mind. He realized all at once that he had found a kindred spirit in Antony, and a kind of friendship between the two, having its basis on horticulture, was the result. Not that he showed him the smallest favouritism, however. That would have been altogether outside his sense of the fitness of things.

There were moments when Antony found the situation extraordinarily amusing. Leaning on his spade, he would look up from some freshly turned patch of earth towards the old grey house, a light of humorous laughter in his eyes. Virtually speaking the place was his own already. The months ahead, till he should enter into possession, were but an accidental interlude, in a manner of speaking. He was already planning a little drama in his own mind. He saw himself sauntering into the garden one fine morning, with Josephus at his heels.

"Ah, by the way, Golding," he would say, "I'm thinking we might have a bed of cosmos in the southern corner of the Tangle Garden."

It would do as well as any other remark for a beginning, and he _would_ like a bed of cosmos. He could picture Golding's stare of dignified amazement.

"Are you giving orders?" he could imagine his querying with dry sarcasm.

"If you don't mind," Antony heard himself answering. "Though if you _have_ any objection to the cosmos--" And he would pause.