Читать книгу Anthony Lyveden - Yates Dornford - Страница 4

Major Anthony Lyveden, D.S.O., was waiting.

For the second time in three minutes he glanced anxiously at his wrist and then thrust his hand impatiently into a pocket. When you have worn a wristwatch constantly for nearly six years, Time alone can accustom you to its absence. And at the present moment Major Lyveden's watch was being fitted with a new strap. The pawnbroker to whom he had sold it that morning for twenty-two shillings was no fool.

The ex-officer walked slowly on, glancing into the windows of shops. He wanted to know the time badly. Amid the shifting press of foot-passengers a little white dog stuck to his heels resolutely. The sudden sight of a clock-maker's on the opposite side of the thoroughfare proved magnetic. Pausing on the kerb to pick up the Sealyham, Lyveden crossed the street without more ado. …

Twenty-one minutes past three.

Slowly he put down the terrier and turned eastward. It was clear that he was expecting something or somebody.

It was a hot June day, and out of the welter of din and rumble the cool plash of falling water came to his straining ears refreshingly. At once he considered the dog and, thankful for the distraction, stepped beneath the portico of a provision store and indicated the marble basin with a gesture of invitation.

"Have a drink, old chap," he said kindly. "Look. Nice cool water for

Patch." And, with that, he stooped and dabbled his fingers in the pool.

Thus encouraged the little white dog advanced and lapped gratefully. …

"Derby Result! Derby Result!"

The hoarse cry rang out above the metallic roar of the traffic.

Lyveden caught his breath sharply and then stepped out of the shelter of the portico on to the crowded pavement. He was able to buy a paper almost immediately.

Eagerly he turned it about, to read the blurred words. …

For a moment he stood staring, oblivious of all the world. Then he folded the sheet carefully, whistled to Patch, and strode off westward with the step of a man who has a certain objective. At any rate, the suspense was over.

A later edition of an evening paper showed Major Anthony Lyveden that the horse which was carrying all that he had in the world had lost his race by a head.

* * * * *

By rights Anthony should have been born about the seventh of March. A hunting accident to his father, however, ushered him into the middle of the coldest January ever remembered, and that with such scant ceremony that his lady mother only survived her husband by six and a half hours. When debts, funeral and testamentary expenses had been deducted from his father's bank balance, the sum of twenty-three pounds nine shillings was all that was left, and this, with the threat of royalties from one or two books, represented the baby's fortune. Jonathan Roach, bachelor, had risen to the occasion and taken his sister's child.

Beyond remembering that he did handsomely by his nephew, bred him as became his family, sent him to Harrow and Oxford, and procured him a commission in the Royal Regiment of Artillery before most of the boy's compeers had posted their applications to the War Office, with the living Jonathan Roach we are no further concerned.

The old gentleman's will shall speak for itself and the man who made it.

THIS IS THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT of me, Jonathan Roach, of 75 Princes Gardens, in the County of London, Esquire. I give, devise, and bequeath all my real and personal estate of every description unto my nephew Anthony Lyveden absolutely, provided that and so soon as my said nephew shall receive the honour of Knighthood or some higher dignity. …

Anthony received the news while the guns, which he was temporarily commanding, were hammering at the gates of Gaza. He read the letter carefully twice. Then he stuffed it into a cross-pocket and straightway burst into song. That the air he selected was a music-hall ditty was typical of the man.

Curiously enough, it was the same number that he was whistling under his breath as he strode into Hyde Park this June afternoon.

Patch, who had never been out of London, thought the world of the Parks. After the barren pavements, for him the great greenswards made up a Land of Promise more than fulfilled. The magic carpet of the grass, stuffed with a million scents, was his Elysium. A bookworm made free of the Bodleian could not have been more exultant. The many trees, too, were more accessible, and there were other dogs to frolic with, and traffic, apparently, was not allowed.

When he had walked well into the Park, Lyveden made for a solitary chair and sat himself down in the sun. For a while he remained wrapped in meditation, abstractedly watching the terrier stray to and fro, nosing the adjacent turf with the assiduity of a fond connoisseur.

For nine long months the ex-officer had sought employment, indoor or outdoor, congenial or uncongenial. The quest was vain. Once he had broached the matter haltingly to an influential acquaintance. The latter's reception of his distress had been so startlingly obnoxious that he would have died rather than repeat the venture. Then Smith of Dale's, Old Bond Street—Smith, who had cut his hair since he was a boy, and was his fast friend—had told him of Blue Moon.

There is more racing chatter to be heard at the great hairdressers' than almost anywhere else outside a race-course. Some of it is worth hearing, most of it is valueless. The difficulty, as elsewhere, is to sift the wheat from the chaff.

According to Smith, Blue Moon was being kept extremely quiet. Certainly the horse was little mentioned. Lyveden had never heard his name. And thirty-three to one was a long price. …

Lyveden pricked up his ears, and Smith became frightened. He was genuinely attached to his young customer, and knew that he was in low water. He begged him not to be rash. …

After some careful calculations, which he made upon a sheet of club note-paper, Lyveden came to the conclusion that thirty-three birds in the bush were better than one in the hand. Reckoning a bird at one hundred pounds and Lyveden's available assets at the same number of guineas, who is to say he was wrong?

At twenty minutes to five on the eve of the Derby, Lyveden handed a protesting Smith one hundred and one pounds, to be invested on Blue Moon—"to win only." The odd note was to bring Smith his reward.

A big bookmaker whom Smith was shaving as usual, at a quarter-past six, accepted the commission, pocketed the notes with a sigh, and gave the master-barber forty to one.

Four thousand pounds—in the bush.

That his thirty-three nebulous birds had become forty before they took flight, Anthony never knew. A man whose sole assets are a Sealyham, a very few clothes, and twenty-two shillings and sixpence, does not, as a rule, go to Dale's.

"Young fellow, come here."

Patch came gaily, and Lyveden set him upon his knee.

"Listen," he said. "Once upon a time there was a fool, who came back from the War. It was extremely foolish, but then, you see, Patch, he was a fool. Well, after a while he began to feel very lonely. He'd no relations, and what friends he'd had in the old days had disappeared. So he got him a dog—this fool, a little white scrap of a dog with a black patch." The terrier recognized his name and made a dab at the firm chin. "Steady! Well, yes—you're right. It was a great move. For the little white dog was really a fairy prince in disguise—such a pretty disguise—and straightway led the fool into Paradise. Indeed, they were so happy together, the fool and the dog, that, though no work came along, nothing mattered. You see, it was a fool's paradise. That was natural. The result was that one day the fool lifted up his eyes, and there was a great big finger-post, pointing the way they were going. And it said WAY OUT. The dog couldn't read, so it didn't worry him; but the fool could, and fear smote upon his heart. In fact, he got desperate, poor fool. Of course, if he'd had any sense, he'd 've walked slower than ever or even tried to turn round. Instead of that, he ran. Think of it, Patch. Ran." The emotion of his speech was infectious, and the terrier began to pant. "Was there ever quite such a fool? And before they knew where they were, the two were without the gates. And there"—the voice became strained, and Lyveden hesitated—"there were … two paths … going different ways. And by each path was a notice-board. And one said NO DOGS ALLOWED. And the other said NO FOOLS ALLOWED. And there were only the two paths. Patch … going different ways. … "

The approach of a peripatetic tax-collector brought the allegory to an end.

Anthony paid for his occupation of the chair in silence, and the

collector plodded off at a tangent in the direction of his next quarry.

This appearing to be an old lady, he presently altered his course.

With a caution bred of experience, he would approach her from behind.

A convenient clock struck four, and Lyveden rose to his feet. …

Two hours later he descended the area steps of a mansion in Lancaster

Gate.

The change in his appearance was quite remarkable. The grey suit, soft hat, golf collar and brown shoes, which he had worn in the afternoon, had been put off. In their stead Lyveden was wearing a bowler hat, black boots, a single collar, which stood up uncomfortably all the way round his neck, and a dark blue suit. The latter was clean and had been carefully brushed, but it was manifestly old. Besides, it was obvious that the man who made them had meant the trousers to be worn turned up. Their owner's present disregard of such intention argued his humble respectability.

Arrived at the foot of the steps, Anthony thrust a relieving finger between his throat and the collar for the last time, raised his eyes to heaven, and rang the bell.

After a moment or two the door was opened by a fair-haired girl in a print dress. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her hands and arms dripping.

"Afternoon, miss," said Lyveden. He was determined to do the thing properly. "Your lady still wanting a footman?"

The girl stared at him. Then—

"I dunno," she said. "Better come in, an' I'll see."

Anthony thanked her and entered. She shut the door and flung down the passage and out of sight. A second later a momentary burst of chatter suggested that she had opened the door of the servants' hall.

For a minute or two nothing happened, and Lyveden stood in the passage with his hat in his hand, wondering whether his engagement was to rest with the butler. Then a door opened and closed, and a girl dressed as a parlour-maid appeared upon the scene. She was walking slowly, and seemed to be endeavouring to extricate something from the depths of her mouth.

"Come in answer to the ad.?" she queried.

"That's right," said Lyveden.

"Oh." She leaned against the wall and regarded a wet forefinger. "Got a bone in me gum," she added abstractedly.

Anthony wondered whether he was expected to offer assistance, but, deciding to risk a breach of etiquette, assumed a look of anxiety instead.

"How rotten!" he murmured.

The girl looked at him curiously. Then—

"'Addock, too," she said. "An' that's easy, reelly, as fish goes. But there, I ain't got much use for any fish, 'cept salmon. Shall I say you're 'ere?"

"Yes, please, miss. I've no appointment."

"You're the firs', any way," was the comforting reply.

She left him standing.

The inspection to which during her absence Lyveden was subjected was only less trying than the open secrecy with which it was conducted. Heads were thrust into the passage to be withdrawn amid a paroxysm of giggling. Somebody was pushed into full view to retire precipitately amid an explosion of mirth. Preceded by stifled expressions of encouragement, a pert-looking lady's maid strolled leisurely past the newcomer, opened the back door, closed it, and returned as haughtily as she had gone. She was applauded ridiculously. …

Anthony swore under his breath.

At last the parlour-maid reappeared, finger in mouth.

"Somethin' crool, this bone is," she vouchsafed. "Come on."

Anthony followed her gratefully upstairs and presently into a small withdrawing room upon the first floor.

From an expensively hideous couch Mrs. Slumper regarded the fruit of her advertisement.

She was a large vulgar-looking woman of about fifty summers. Whosesoever the hair of her head, it was most elaborately dressed and contained five combs. Anthony counted them. She was enclosed in a dress which was at once highly fashionable and painfully unbecoming, and the pearls which rose and fell upon her tremendous bosom were almost too good to be true. From beneath the short skirt a pair of ponderous legs terminated in all the anguish of patent-leather shoes. Anthony bowed.

"'Oo 'ave you bin with?" said Mrs. Slumper.

"If you take me, madam, this will be my first place."

Mrs. Slumper choked with emotion.

"Firs' place!" she cried. "Want ter try yer 'and on me?" She looked round savagely. "Where's me lorenets?" she added furiously.

Much as a victim-to-be might hand his dispatcher the knife, Anthony plucked the eye-glasses from beneath a cushion and put them into her hand.

His action took the wind out of her sails. Anthony saw this, and hastened to press his advantage.

"I know it's unusual, madam, but I'm quite willing to leave at the end of a week without wages, if you're not satisfied."

Mrs. Slumper grunted with astonishment.

"Wot wages joo ask?"

"Seventy-two pounds a year, madam, and—er—all found. And one afternoon a week," he added boldly.

Mrs. Slumper blinked at him curiously.

"You don' look ser bad," she said grudgingly. "An' I'm sick an' tired of tryin' for a footman, or I'd see yer further. 'Owever. … " She looked up sharply. "Will yer put that in writin' abaout the week?"

"Certainly, madam." And, with that, Lyveden stepped to a bureau and wrote his undertaking upon a sheet of note-paper. He was about to affix his signature, when it occurred to him that footmen do not write at their mistresses' bureaus except privily or by invitation. He flushed furiously. There was, however, no help for it now. The thing was done. Desperately he signed his name. He handed the paper to the lady humbly enough.

Mrs. Slumper sighed.

"In course," she said, "we 'ave things very well done. The butler's aout naow, or I'd 'ave 'im up. But you'll 'ave ter wait, an' open the door, an' clean the boots, an' come aout on the car. I've got some noo livery—never bin worn yet—did ought ter fit you a treat. An'—'ow soon kin yer come?" she demanded suddenly.

"To-morrow evening, madam."

"Or-right."

Anthony bowed himself out.

If the parlour-maid had not been on the landing, he would have leaned against the wall and covered his face.

The girl glanced at the door he had just closed.

"Ain't she a little dream?"

Anthony grinned.

"Might be worse," he ventured, endeavouring to steer between the respective sandbanks of disloyalty and odium. "I've got the place," he added ingenuously.

The girl stared at him.

That Anthony did not appreciate why she had remained upon the landing was to her incredible.

"I 'eard," she said loftily.

Anthony felt crushed.

At his suggestion she let him out of the front door.

"See yer to-morrow," she cried.

"That's right, miss."

Anthony passed down the steps and walked quickly away. Before he had covered a hundred paces, he stopped and turned up his trousers. The sartorial forfeit to respectability had served its turn.

When Mr. Hopkins, the butler, returned a little unsteadily at a quarter to ten to learn that his mistress had engaged a "proper toff" as his footman, he was profoundly moved.

* * * * *

A visit to the West End offices of Dogs' Country Homes, Ltd., which he made the next morning, satisfied Anthony that, by putting Patch in their charge, he was doing the best he could. There was a vacancy at the Hertfordshire branch, less than forty minutes from town, and he arranged to lodge the terrier there the same afternoon. For the sum of a guinea a week the little dog would be fed and housed and exercised. A veterinary surgeon was attached to the staff, which was carefully supervised. Patch would be groomed every day and bathed weekly. Visitors were welcomed, and owners often called to see their dogs and take them out for a walk. It was quite customary.

Lyveden emerged from the office a little comforted.

He spent a busy morning.

Deliberately he went to his club. There he wrote to the secretary, resigning his membership. When he had sealed the letter, he looked about him. The comfort—the luxury of it all was very tasty, very appealing. He regretted that he had not used it more often. There was a time when he had thought the place dull. Blasphemy! In his hungry eyes the house became a temple—its members, votaries, sworn to go sleepily about their offices—its rooms, upholstered shrines, chapels of ease. …

The door opened and a footman came in.

The silver dream shivered into a million flinders.

After the generous atmosphere of Pall Mall, the reek of the "old clothes" shop was more offensive than usual. The six pounds ten, however, was worth fighting for. Then some cheap hosiery had to be purchased—more collars of the bearing-rein type, some stiff shirts, made-up white ties, pinchbeck studs and cufflinks. As he emerged from the shop, Anthony found himself wondering whether he need have been so harsh with himself about the collars. After all, it was an age of Socialism. Why should a footman be choked? He was as good as Mrs. Slumper—easily. And she wasn't choked. She was squeezed, though, and pinched. …

He lodged his baggage—suit-case and hold-all—at the cloakroom, and took Patch to lunch.

It was by no means the first time that the Sealyham's lunch had been the more expensive of the two. Often and often he had fed well to the embarrassment of his master's stomach. To-day he was to have liver—his favourite dish. Upon this Lyveden was resolved.

The pair visited five restaurants and two public-houses in quest of liver. At the eighth venture they were successful. At the sign of The Crooked Billet liver and bacon was the dish of the day. So much a blurred menu was proclaiming from its enormous brass frame. Before the two were half-way upstairs, the terrier's excitement confirmed its tale.

Of the two portions, Patch consumed the liver and Anthony the bacon. This was rather salt, but the zest with which the Sealyham ate furnished a relish which no money could buy.

Then came a ghastly train journey. Mercifully Patch could not understand. …

A mile and a half from the station, the Dogs' Home stood in a pleasant place under the lee of a wood. Fair meadows ringed it about, and in the bright sunshine the red-brick house and out-buildings looked cheerful and promising.

Slowly the two passed up the well-kept drive.

With his little white dog in his arms, Anthony Lyveden was shown everything. A jolly fair-haired girl—the superintendent—conducted him everywhere. The dogs—all sizes and shapes—welcomed her coming. Of Patch she made a great deal.

"You must be very proud of him," she said to Anthony.

"I am. And—we're great friends. I hope he won't fret much."

"A little at first, probably. You'll be coming to see him?"

"Once a week, always," said Lyveden. "Oftener if I can."

Presently they returned to the office, where Anthony paid four guineas and received a receipt. Patch was entered in a big book, together with his age and description. Another column received his owner's name and address. The girl hesitated.

"We like," she said, "to have the telephone number, in case of accidents."

"I'll send it to you to-night."

The entry was blotted, and the girl rose. The formalities were at an end.

Lyveden picked up his hat.

Patch greeted the familiar signal joyously. Clearly the call was over. It had been a good visit—the best they had ever paid. No other place they had been to was full of dogs. Yet to be out and about with his master was better still. He leapt up and down, rejoicing.

Anthony caught him from one of his bounds, held the white scrap very close and let him lick his nose. Then he bade him be a good dog and handed him to the girl. She received him tenderly.

"I'm very much obliged to you," he said. "Good day. I'll let myself out. It—it'll be better."

One more caress, and he passed out into the hall—blindly. There had been a look in the bright brown eyes that tore his heart.

For a moment Patch fought desperately. Then he heard a door opened and listened intently. A draught swept, and the door closed heavily. With a sudden wrench he was out of the girl's arms and across the shadowy hall. For a moment he stood sniffing, his nose clapped to the sill of the front door. Then he lifted up his voice and wept bitterly.

* * * * *

In the long mirror, half-way up the front staircase, Major Anthony

Lyveden, D.S.O., surveyed himself stealthily.

"Not much the matter with the kit," he said grudgingly.

That was largely because there was nothing the matter with the man.

Six feet one in his socks, deep-chested and admirably proportioned, Lyveden cut a fine figure. His thick dark hair was short and carefully brushed, and his lean face was brown with the play of wind and rain and sun. Such features as his broad forehead, aquiline nose, and strong well-shaped mouth, would have distinguished any countenance. Yet the whole of it was shapely and clean-cut, and there was a quiet fearlessness about the keen grey eyes that set you thinking. As a footman he looked magnificent. But he would have killed any master stone dead. Royalty itself could not have borne such a comparison.

As we have seen, the strain of the last fortnight, culminating in Blue Moon's failure and his parting with Patch, had played the deuce with his temperament. The man had gone all to pieces. That, now that a week had gone by, he was himself again, the following letter will show. It will serve also as a record, and so, gentlemen, spare both of us.