Anthony Lyveden Part 48

It was the following Sunday morning that, after considerable hesitation, Lyveden issued an order which he could well have spared.

The instruction was addressed to the younger of his two carters, and was touching the man and the dog-cart and a seven-mile drive. In a word, it had become expedient that Major Anthony Lyveden should go up to Town.

His employer had warned him that periodical visits to London would be found indispensable. For all his dislike of the world, Winchester had had to pay them from time to time. Now that the latter was gone from Gramarye, and Anthony reigned in his stead, the duty, when it arose, fell to his lot. Never relis.h.i.+ng the idea, he would not have believed that it could become so odious. Ere it had taken shape, it loomed vexatious. Looking it in the face, he found it repulsive. No recluse could have been more reluctant to leave his hermitage. Major Anthony Lyveden felt positively nervous.

Since he had been in charge the man had altered.

He, who in the old days had shouldered with a smile responsibilities which would have set his elders sweating with apprehension, found the light weight of Gramarye a fardel to make him stagger. This was out of all order. Had he lain sick for a month, the work would have gone as steadily. The truth is, he was investing the conduct of a waggoner's team with the nicety requisite to the control of a tandem of thoroughbreds. That Lyveden of all men in the world should make such a costly mistake showed that his nerves were hagridden.

For all his dread of it, however, the visit to London could not conveniently be postponed. The need of some of the items upon his little list of accessories had become urgent, imperilling the work upon the estate. A few hours in the Metropolis would be enough. He knew where to go. Two addresses in the City and another in Drury Lane would see the whole of his pilgrimage....

With a sigh, the ex-officer had locked up the safe and, leaving the cold grey parlour, whence he administered, pa.s.sed out of the echoing mansion into the careless frolic of a fine March morning.

As he had expected, the younger of the two carters was in the stables, and Anthony gave his order without more ado. Then he whistled to his Sealyham and started for home.

After a wild night the unrepentant winds were full of mischief. A monstrous dignity of fleecy clouds scudded undignified across the blue.

The precious park became a tossing waste of woodland, teased into flurried liveliness, full of false starts and misdirection, instantly buffeted for every blunder and bellowing good-natured protests at every cuff. Respectable brown leaves chased one another down the tracks; dark sober pools slapped their confining banks; the steady flow of brooks faltered irresolute.

Nature herself being so roughly used, be sure that man and beast were plagued unconscionably. Anthony's hat was sent whirling, and his terrier's ears were flicked inside out at the first corner. Not that they cared--either of them--for the sunlight leapt with a joy that took the sting out of the horseplay and turned the edge of the devilment.

The day was as good as a tonic. By the time they had sighted their cabin the two were revelling.

Not until he was on the point of entering the cottage did Anthony notice the artist. Seated upon the traditional camp-stool, the latter was sketching busily some twenty-five paces away. Apparently absorbed in his work, he never so much as threw the newcomers a glance, and Lyveden was more than half minded to let him be. Patch, however, thought differently. Even as his master turned to the door, there was a low growl, and a moment later the Sealyham was baying the intruder as if he had been a convict.

Calling the dog sharply, Lyveden advanced to apologize.

The lazy brown eyes hardly looked at him, and the slender fingers never left their work for an instant; but a pleasant smile leapt into the stranger's face, and, ere the apology was voiced, he spoke with the utmost good humour.

"Please don't scold him. He's perfectly right. I'm a trespa.s.ser and a vagabond. I have no visible means of subsistence, and, if these things are crimes, I'm an habitual criminal. If you really don't want me to draw your cottage, I'll stop. But you must say so right out. And it isn't the cottage so much as the background I'm after. To be frank, this looks a promising place. I'm out for woodland--something that's not too tidy."

Anthony smiled grimly.

"Orderliness," he said, "is hardly our forte at present. The park's been Nature's playground for over a century, and she's made the most of her time."

"You sound," said the other, "as if you had authority. Am I free of the place, or not?"

For a second Anthony hesitated. Strangers were not to his taste.

There was, however, a quiet careless indifference about the fellow's manner which was rea.s.suring. Moreover, he liked the look of him, there was nothing monstrous about his attire--he might have stepped off a golf-course--and there was a kindly expression upon the intellectual face. Somehow the droop of a fair moustache subscribed to the suggestion of laziness which the eyes had put forward. Indeed, his whole demeanour argued the simple creed "Live, and let live."

Lyveden had just decided to give the required encouragement when the other knocked out his pipe.

"That's all right," he said lightly. "I never take offence. And I'm a rare believer in privacy. If I had a place in the country I should have a ten-foot wall about it and a guard-room at every lodge. It's not that I'm a misanthrope, but to my mind there's not much point in owners.h.i.+p if you don't----"

"I expect you'd issue some pa.s.sports," said Anthony. "Any way, please don't go. And, if Gramarye's what you want, you're free to come and work whenever you like. n.o.body'll say anything to you; but if they did--I'm going to Town to-morrow--my name's Lyveden, and I'm the--the agent here."

"You're very good," said the artist; and with that he filled his pipe and set to work again.

Anthony went about his business.

By the time he had washed Patch, the stranger was gone.

Dusk was falling ere Lyveden saw him again--a tall, thin figure striding up the track from the depths of Gramarye. As he pa.s.sed the cottage, the ex-officer hailed him, offering to house his paraphernalia for the night. After a moment's hesitation, the other accepted....

With the interior of the cabin he was plainly delighted, pointing his host a score of engaging features which only an antiquary would have recognized. Anthony gave him some tea, and the two sat smoking for the inside of an hour.

At length the artist rose.

"I must get back to Girdle," he said. "About two miles, isn't it?"

"About that. I won't say 'Good-bye.' If Gramarye suits you, perhaps I shall see you again."

"Thanks to your _laisser pa.s.ser_, you may. I want to get on to Woodstock, really; but your woods are worth a day or two. Good night."

He swung off into the darkness, and a minute later Anthony heard his steps upon the metalling of the London road.

It was upon the following afternoon that Lyveden swore under his breath. At the time in question he was standing in a large efficient-looking shop which smelt strongly of cordage and was situate in Drury Lane.

The manager was nervously apologetic.

"They've bin on order a week now, sir, but I can't honestly say as I expects them under three. You know what labour is now. In the ole days it was a matter o' 'phonin', an' hanythin' you liked 'd be 'ere by special messenger in 'alf an hour. But now...."

He threw up his hands helplessly.

"Where else can I try?" said Lyveden.

The man mentioned two or three stores--each of them in the City.

"But I don' think you'll get 'em, sir. You might get an hodd one, but 'alf a dozen o' 'Lightnin'' mattocks at the moment is worth their weight."

With a sigh Anthony bowed to the inevitable.

"There's my address," he said, handing the man a slip of paper. "Send me a card the moment they come in."

"I'll set six aside for you, sir."

"All right."

He paid for the goods he had purchased, had them placed in a taxi, and drove to Paddington.

He was so ridiculously glad to see the station again that the ordinarily provoking discovery that he had lost the return half of his ticket but twitched the hem of his temper. With a rueful smile he determined to deduct the price of his carelessness from his next week's wages.

The fact that he had broken no bread since breakfast never occurred to him. His one idea was to get back to Gramarye. Not that the dreaded visit had proved exacting. Indeed, as was to be expected, London had roared as gently as any sucking dove. It was with no true sense of relief that he watched the bustling platforms recede. Them and their fellows, the streets, he bore no grudge. Hideously crowded as they were, he felt almost kindly disposed towards them. He could afford to be magnanimous. He was on his way back. An hour or so, and he would stand once more under the grateful shadow of his sanctuary....

He had no newspaper, nor any need of one. The flitting landscape, the regular pounding of the wheels were declaring tidings precious beyond price. A hundred times he wished the compartment empty save for himself, that he might have exulted openly. As it was, he was reduced to hugging himself surrept.i.tiously, to staring upon the window and winking at his elusive reflection, which he could dimly focus in the stout pane. After a while he became pitiful of his fellow-travellers.

As like as not, poor devils, they thought they were well off. And here beside them sat one who was bound for Gramarye. Anthony hugged himself anew. Then another station flashed by, before his feverish eyes could read the name, to set him twittering with speculation....

By the time the train steamed into Chipping Norton, the ex-officer was trembling all over.

To Patch, who had spent the day in the wood-shed, his master's return to the cottage was the signal for an undisguised explosion of ecstasy.