Читать книгу Anthony Lyveden - Yates Dornford - Страница 8

By extracting a promise that I would write to you you did me a good turn, for, while my first report was rendered, from a sense of duty, I am making this one with a sense of relief—a somewhat scandalous admission. Of course a really good footman would keep his mouth shut. But then I am but an indifferent lackey.

To say that I left my first place would be untrue. In fact, the place left me—rather tragically, as it happened: which reminds me that I must withdraw anything which I have written to you in disparagement of my late master. The poor man had worries I did not know of, and behaved to me very handsomely at the last, remembering that I might have troubles, when he could not think straight, so sore were his own.

For a week, then, I became a country gentleman, living with my dog at a little inn where no ways met. By the end of that time I had got me another place.

Yes, sir, I am in the service of the Marquess of Banff, sir. There are times when I go powdered. I have even hobnobbed with the scarlet livery of Royalty. I am, I assure you, a very deuce of a fellow.

With the Marquess, who resembles an irritable baboon, I have little to do. The marchioness—a strong woman is also, mercifully, too much engaged upon works of supererogation, which, in a rich bass, she styles "her manifold duties," to observe my existence. Lord Pomfret Fresne, however, a gilded youth with three thousand a year, finds me extremely useful. I bet for him, I make appointments for him to have his hair trimmed, I retain stalls for him, and occasionally I admit him to the house at an unlawful hour. In fact, he is a confounded nuisance. He is impertinent, grossly ignorant, and a niggard. Moreover, Toby, he hath an eye whose like I have seen before—once. Then it was set in the head of a remount which, after it had broken a shoeing-smith's leg, was cast for vice at Kantara in 1917.

"Lyveden," says he one day, "you're a gentleman, aren't you?"

It seemed easiest to say "Yes."

"Why?" says his lordship.

"It's a family failing," said I.

"How beastly! You mean, like drink?"

"Exactly, my lord. We never mention it."

"No, don't," says he. "My mother's very hot on that sort of thing. Hullo!" He peers into a gold cigarette-case. "I had four pounds in here. I'll swear I had."

Considering that I had found the case in the library, and had restored it to him five minutes before, his ejaculation was not in the best of taste. His lordship, however, must whet his point upon the grindstone of insult.

"You're not hard up, are you?" says he.

"I can pay my way, my lord."

"Well, I know there was four pounds there, because—— No. Wait a minute. It's all right. I remember I put it in my coat. Which reminds me—I want a couple of stalls at Daly's. You might ring up and get them. How much is the pit?"

"I'm not quite sure, my lord. It used to be half-a-crown."

"Half-a-crown!" cries he. "I thought it was a shilling."

"That's the gallery, my lord."

"Oh, yes. Well, I can't afford the pit, Lyveden, but you can go to the gallery if you like," and he produces a shilling.

I shake my head.

"I'm much obliged to your lordship, but I seldom go out."

"Right-o," he says, with ill-concealed relief. "Don't forget those stalls."

It is pathetic, Toby, but it is true. And when I was at Harrow, his eldest brother, who is one of the best, was my fag.

When I say that, compared with the butler, Respectability itself seems raffish, you will understand. He is a monument, massive, meaningless, and about as useful as a fan in a cyclone. Yet the household revolves about him. He came in, I fancy, with the spittoon. …

And now I will show you that the cassock of the confessor has indeed fallen upon you.

Listen. I have been disdained—given the cold shoulder. Such a beautiful shoulder, Toby. Such a shoulder as Artemis presented to Actaeon. But there was good reason for that. It fell on this wise. I sat in a garden and mufti and looked at an aged doorway, thinking how fair a frame it would make. And when next I looked, lo! there was the picture, all warm and smiling, her little white hands about her dark, dark hair. I was overwhelmed. I would have slain dragons, levelled castles, broken the backs of knights for her sake. But before I was given the chance, I was given the shoulder. Now mark how a malicious Fate maketh a mock of me. But three days later I run full tilt into my lady, I, the same Anthony Lyveden—but with my livery on. In case that should not be enough, I presently return to the inn, to learn that I have missed her by forty-eight hours. Veux-tu m'en croire?

Beneath the unfair strain my poor vocabulary broke down. Indeed, I soon had no alternative but to repeat myself, thus violating what I know to be one of your most sacred rules.

Assez, j'en finis.

You are so distant and it will be so long before this letter reaches you, that it requires an effort steadily to regard you as a confidant. Already that impression of you is fainter than it was when I picked up my pen. A reply from you, Toby, would do much to revive it—would, in fact, turn into substance the shadow with which I am, rather desperately, cheating my common-sense.

A toi, mon beau, ANTHONY LYVEDEN.

Having addressed this letter to Australia, Lyveden made the best of an enamelled basin and a mirror, which was not quite so good as one which, once upon a time, his servant had purchased in Port Said for five piastres. Then he put on his very expensive plum-coloured coat and descended twelve flights of stairs.

Five minutes later he opened the front door, confessed to an irreverent gentleman in blue and yellow that "Ole Flat-Feet" was at home, and, after conducting them to the first floor, ushered "The Honourable Mrs. George Wrangle, Miss Wrangle, Miss Sarah Wrangle" into the presence itself. With a contempt for tradition, the Marchioness not only extended to each of the ladies her large right hand, but withheld no one of its fingers.

The identity of the guests was then communicated to the butler, whose supervision of the service of tea depended upon the visitor's position in the table of precedence. That of Mrs. Wrangle, apparently, fell dismally short of the standard which the great man imposed, for, upon hearing her name, he stared indignantly upon a cat which was cleaning itself upon the hearth of his parlour, and then resumed the perusal of the Morning Advertiser in contemptuous silence.

Without more ado, Anthony repaired to the pantry. Five minutes later he and the second footman took up the tea.

"Is Lord Pomfret in?" said the Marchioness.

"I will see, my lady," said Lyveden.

"Desire him to come in to tea."

"Very good, my lady."

Lord Pomfret had just returned from a luncheon-party, and was preparing to attend a thé dansant. His mother's command was abusively received. At length—

"Tell her I'm out, Lyveden."

Anthony hesitated.

"Her ladyship was very definite, my lord."

"D'you hear what I say?"

"Very good, my lord."

The scepticism with which his mistress received Anthony's report was distressingly obvious. Also the faces of Mrs. and Miss Wrangle fell noticeably. Indeed, the bell which summoned Lyveden to speed their departure rang but a few minutes later.

As they descended the stairs, Lord Pomfret emerged from the library, cramming cigarettes into his case with the dishevelling manipulation of the belated swain.

The encounter was not a success.

Reason suggested to Mrs. Wrangle that the episode could be far more effectively dealt with if and when the offender became her son-in-law. Impulse, however, clamoured for immediate and appropriate action. Between the two stools her display of emotion fell flat. As for Pomfret, the knowledge that he had just induced the lady's footman to go for a taxi did not contribute to his peace of mind, and his manners became conspicuously devoid of that easy grace which should have gone with his title.

After the mechanical issue and acknowledgment of a few ghastly pleasantries, Lord Pomfret muttered something about "hearing his mother calling" and fled with precipitate irrelevance in the direction of the back stairs, leaving Mrs. Wrangle speechless with indignation and bitterly repenting her recent indecision. She swept past Anthony as if she were leaving a charnel-house. Her daughters, who took after their father, walked as though they were being expelled. …

When their mother found herself confronted with the choice of leaving without her footman or awaiting that gentleman's successful return from the mission upon which he had been dispatched, it required their united diplomacy to deter her from there and then returning to lay the outrageous facts before Lady Banff.

Mrs. Wrangle's complaint, however, was posted that evening.

By the time it arrived, Lord Pomfret had prepared his defence. This he conducted so skilfully that the Marchioness, who believed in red justice, sent for Lyveden and told him two things. The first was that in future, when she sent him for anyone, he would be good enough to look for them before returning to say they were out. The second was that when he was told to fetch a cab, he would be good enough to do so, instead of persuading other people's servants to do his work. Lord Pomfret, who was present at the arraignment, supported his mother dutifully. Anthony said nothing at all. Four and a half years in the Army had left their mark.

* * * * *

If Lyveden was a Conservative, so was his dog. For the two there was only one walk in all Hertfordshire, and that, after six fair miles, brought them thirsty or wet, as the weather might order, to the shade or shelter of The Leather Bottel. This was, in fact, Anthony's country house. Here for one glorious week the two had shared the same bed. Heaven only knew when such a prolonged visit would be repeated. It had cost two whole pounds, and, do what he would, Anthony could save very little out of his wages. Of his six pounds a month the Dogs' Home took four precious guineas. Then there were railway fares at three shillings a time—twelve shillings a month. Teas, clothes, and a little—a very little—tobacco had to be paid for. It was a tight fit.

With his back to a beech tree, Lyveden thought upon these things. The weather, perhaps, invited Melancholy.

Without the wood a sudden shower was falling down from heaven, drenching anew wet pastures, thinning the mud upon brown lanes, poppling upon the washed highway. Dainty scale-armour of a million leaves protected Anthony. Ere this was penetrated, the fusillade would have stopped.

It was more than a month now since he had seen the lady. At the moment he supposed gloomily that she had gone out of his life. Considering what his life was, it was just as well. (Melancholy smiled to herself, sighed sympathetically, and laid her dark head upon Anthony's shoulder.) His thoughts flew over the blowing country to Eaton Square. The squalor of his bedroom rose up before him. The walls were peeling, and upon one there was a vast brown stain. The floor was bare. The cracked American cloth upon the chest of drawers made this a washstand. The fact that the ensemble had lost a foot made it unsteady. True, some one had placed a Bradshaw under the bereaved corner, but the piece listed heavily. The Bradshaw, by the way, was out of date. In fact, its value as a guide to intending passengers had expired on the thirty-first of October, 1902. That looked as if the chest were an antique. Three of the china knobs, however, which served as handles were unhappily missing. Then there was a flap beneath the window which, when raised, arrested the progress of such smuts as failed to clear it in their descent to the boards. (Melancholy smothered a laugh and laid a wet cheek against her victim's.) The smuts were devilish—the terror by night, the arrow that flieth by day. Anthony believed in fresh air. Also he believed in cleanliness. His twofold faith cost his convenience dear. He had begged a dust-sheet from the housekeeper with which to cover his bed during the day, and regularly, before retiring, shook an ounce of soot out of his window. The bed, by the way, was overhung by the wall, which, for some reason best known to those who built it, deserted the perpendicular for an angle of forty-five, three inches from Anthony's nose. The candlestick had seen merrier days: that there might be no doubt about the matter, it said as much, announcing in so many words that it was "A Present from Margate." …

Scaramouche Melancholy fairly squirmed with delight. Then she turned upon Anthony eyes swimming with tenderness, put up consoling lips. … The entrance of Polichinelle, however, cudgel and all, in the shape of a little white dog, dragging a bough with him, spoiled her game. Harlequin Sun, too, flashed out of hiding—before his cue, really, for the shower was not spent.

Scaramouche fled with a snarl.

At Polichinelle's obvious request, Anthony seized the spare end of the bough, and the two tugged with a will—an agreeable tourney, which was always eventually settled in the lists of Frolic itself. And, whiles they strove, Harlequin danced in and out the trees, with magic touch of bat making the mizzle shimmer and the meadows gleam, and finally, with rare exuberance, breaking his precious colours overhead, to say the masque was over and bid the racing winds hustle away the fretful scenery and clear the stage of sky for his possession.

Master and dog made their way to the inn jubilantly enough.

As he devoured his tea, Lyveden thought again of the girl—more cheerfully. Indeed, he made bold to decide that she was interested in him. That such interest sprang from the loins of Curiosity he admitted readily. Its origin did not matter; the trouble was to keep it alive.

It is obvious that he himself was more than interested. He was, I suppose, in love. At the moment when he had looked upon her for the first time his heart had leaped. Instantly the man knew that he had seen his maid. He had no doubt of it at all, but was quite positive. If a million Archangels had appeared and with one voice told him that he was wrong, he would have shaken his head with a smile. His heart had leaped, and there was an end of it. He just knew. In view of the prospective failure of so many Archangels, it is not surprising that my lady herself, whatever she did, would not be able to erase this impression. Consequently though she had behaved to his face with a manner which it was a Quixotic courtesy to style "disdain," Anthony never wavered. For a second of time he had seen beyond the veil—at least, his heart had—and, now that he knew what it hid, all reinforcement of that veil was out of date. My lady might line it with oak, with brass, with masonry miles thick—and all her labour would be in vain. All the same, Anthony hoped devoutly that she would do nothing of the kind. …

With a sigh he drank to their next meeting.

Then he called the terrier and set him upon his knee.

"My fellow," said he, "listen. In these very precincts you committed an aggravated assault upon an Irish terrier. I don't blame you. He probably deserved it. But—he belongs to the lady—my lady, Patch, the only lady in the world. And she didn't like it, my boy. She didn't like it at all. So remember, if ever we meet her again, you mustn't fight. I don't want to be hard on you, but you mustn't. Of course, if you could show him a little courtesy—indicate a scent which will repay investigation, or something—I should be exalted. But I don't press that. A strictly non-committal attitude will serve. But aggression—no. Patch, I trust you. I know it's difficult for you to understand, but you'll be a good dog and try, won't you? For my sake, Patch?"

Whether the Sealyham in fact appreciated the nature and gravity of the request is a matter which cannot be decided upon this side of the grave. The fact remains that when, upon entering the grounds of the Dogs' Home some thirty-five minutes later, he encountered that very Irish terrier, looking rather sorry for himself and attached to the end of a long lead, he walked straight up to him and bestowed upon him as generous a greeting as his nostrils and tail could convey.

Anthony could hardly believe his eyes. …

At the other end of the lead was a kennelman, who spoke quickly and to the point.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I wouldn't let 'im talk to 'im. 'E's not very grand—this little dog ain't. I think it's only a chill, but we've hisolated 'im, in case … "

Patch was summoned peremptorily, to come running wide-eyed. Happily in his sight his master could do no wrong; otherwise it is possible that he might have thought himself hardly used and love's labour lost indeed.

Anthony passed into the hall, thinking furiously. With Patch under his arm, he spoke to the fair-haired girl in charge of the office.

"I've seen a dog out there that I recognize—an Irish terrier. He's not very well, your man said. May I know whose he is?"

"Oh, yes. He belongs to Miss French—Miss Valerie French. He's a nice little dog, isn't he?"

If Anthony Lyveden had reflected, it would have occurred to him that his informant had been, as they say, "very quick in the uptake." The truth was that less than a week ago Miss Valerie French had recognized Patch and had asked the same girl for the name of his owner.

"He's a beauty," said Anthony. "Does she keep him here all the time?"

"When she's in London," said the girl. "I expect you've seen her.

She's very often down."

Anthony nodded.

"I think I must have," he said.

Then he made much of Patch and handed him over.

"See you next week, little Patch. Next Saturday. Only a week from to-day. Good-bye, little fellow."

He ruffled the tousled head with a last caress, smiled at the puzzled brown eyes, and turned away. …

There was no sweet sorrow about these partings. They were purely abominable.

At the very hour that Lyveden walked heavily down the wet lanes on his way to the station, Valerie French, who was to dine early and go to the play, was sitting before her dressing-table in an apricot kimono.

The evening sun stared into her bedroom mercilessly and found no fault in it. It was a broad low room, full of soft colours and the warm glow of highly polished wood. Walls, curtains, and carpet were all of powder-blue; an old rose fabric covered what seats there were; an apple-green coverlet filled up the symphony. That taper elegance which modern craftsmanship can give mahogany was most apparent, lending the usual suite unusual comeliness. A great pier-glass flashed in a corner, upon a little table beside a deep chair a bowl of roses sweetened the London air, above the well-found bed dangled an ivory switch.

If the chamber was fair, so was my lady.

Looking upon her beauty, as she sat at the glass, Valerie French might have felt very proud. But, if we pry into her mind, it will be seen that her thoughts were otherwise occupied. Indeed, the fixing of her hair—usually so simple a matter—was making her knit her brow. The fact that the soft dark tresses had been washed that morning made them unruly. In vain the pointed fingers strove to secure and order them to their mistress's liking. …

At length, with a sigh, she brought her hands to her lap.

Then she made a mouth at the reflection of her labours.

"I look like his Sealyham," she said.

* * * * *

It was on Monday morning that Lord Pomfret suggested to Lyveden the propriety of putting a pound each way on Slip Along.

"I don't suppose the swine's any good," said his lordship moodily. "But he'll probably start at twenty, so I may as well have a dart. I forget who told me about him."

"Very good, my lord," said Anthony.

To receive this commission, he had been summoned from the drawing-room, whose floor he was engaged in leathering to the requisite degree of lustre. He had had to remove an apron, turn down his sleeves, and put on his plum-coloured coat. So soon as his lordship, who was yet at breakfast, released him, he would reverse the procedure and return to his floor.

Lord Pomfret peered muttering into his cigarette case. Then he plucked out a ten-shilling note and flicked it across the tablecloth.

"That's all I appear to have," he said sulkily. "I'll have to owe you the thirty shillings."

Anthony braced himself.

"I'm afraid I haven't any money at all, my lord."

The other looked up sharply.

"What? … Oh, nonsense, Lyveden."

Anthony said nothing. He was not anxious to repeat the lie, but he was determined not to lend to Lord Pomfret. That the loan would lose itself was much too probable, and the construction of his slender resources would not stand such a strain.

"Of course you've got thirty shillings. But you don't like parting." Lord Pomfret laughed rather nastily. "I'll pay you back, man, if that's your trouble."

"I haven't the money, my lord."

The youth stared at Anthony furiously. Then—

"Oh, go to hell!" he said thickly.

Anthony picked up the note and placed it beside his lordship. Then he left the room and returned to his work.

Lord Pomfret was exceedingly wrath. In fact, he brooded over the incident. This augured ill for Anthony. The cold fact that in due season—to be precise, at eleven minutes to four that same afternoon—Slip Along won his race easily did not improve matters. That he started at thirty-three to one was still less digestible. …

When his lordship read the news at half-past five, he broke into a cold sweat. Then he bit savagely at the nail of his favourite thumb. Considering that, so recently as that morning, he had reluctantly decided that that toothsome entremet must be allowed to go unmolested for at least a week, his action was indicative of an emotion which knew no rules. That he made no mention of the matter to Anthony, was the ugliest omen of all.

Two days later the second footman called Anthony, who was crossing the hall.

It was a fine July morning, and the famous square was full of sunlight and clear-cut shadows and the soft swish of leaves. All this could be marked from the hall, for the front door stood wide open, and a fresh cool breeze came floating into the mansion, to flirt with the high and mighty curtains upon the landing, jostle the stately palms, and ruffle up the pompous atmosphere with gay irreverence. The air itself would have told you the hour. The intermittent knocks of a retreating postman declared the time even more accurately.

"'Ere's a letter fer you, mate," said the second footman. "'A. Lyveden, Esquire,' it says, all bald-like. No C.M.G., no B.F., no nothin'. I should 'ave a raow abaout this."

Anthony came grinning.

"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.