
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74603 ***





CRUMP FOLK GOING HOME




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  THE RED MIRAGE.                                 I. A. R. WYLIE.
  THE MAN FROM NOWHERE.                           VICTOR BRIDGES.
  SMOKE BELLEW.                                      JACK LONDON.
  LILY MAGIC.                                   MARY L. PENDERED.
  THE GONDOLA.                                   ROTHAY REYNOLDS.
  CRUMP FOLK GOING HOME.                         CONSTANCE HOLME.
  MALLORY’S TRYST.             MRS. PHILIP CHAMPION DE CRESPIGNY.
  THE SWASHBUCKLER.                        MRS. BAILLIE REYNOLDS.
  BECAUSE OF JANE.                                J. E. BUCKROSE.
  WILSAM.                                       S. C. NETHERSOLE.
  THE HIDDEN ROAD.                               JOAN SUTHERLAND.
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  THE TRANSFORMATION OF TIMOTHY.                     THOMAS COBB.
  THE ENLIGHTENMENT OF ERMYN.                       HARRY JERMYN.
  MIDDLEGROUND.                  The Author of “Mastering Flame.”
  MARGARET AND THE DOCTOR.                     MRS. RANYARD WEST.
  WITH DRUMS UNMUFFLED.                            L. A. BURGESS.
  ONE WOMAN’S LIFE.                               ROBERT HERRICK.
  EDWARD RACEDALE’S WILL.                             MARK HARDY.




  CRUMP FOLK GOING
  HOME

  BY
  CONSTANCE HOLME

  “Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams”

  MILLS & BOON, LIMITED
  49 RUPERT STREET
  LONDON, W.




  _Published 1913_




  TO
  MY FATHER AND MOTHER




CRUMP FOLK GOING HOME




CHAPTER I


The curse of the old place was upon it--sudden death.

The servants crept quietly, starting when the boards creaked, clutching
each other at shadows, and looking for ancestors at every turn.
Upstairs, mother and betrothed, doctor and lawyer, convoyed “Slinkin’”
Lyndesay to his latter end. The butler waited at the door, a curious
expression on his face, neither of sorrow nor indifference; possibly
the look of one assisting at an interesting experiment.

From the library, the only cheerful room at Crump, Christian de
Lyndesay looked down to the river and over the arch of the crumbling
bridge to the bay. A bitter, snarling wind had edged every hill and
headland, and the cold tide came up, hungry and gray. He shivered
suddenly. It was a thankless night to go out--where Slinkin’ Lyndesay
was going.

The evening drew on. A flight of rooks came over the park on the fling
of the wind, swept against the windows, sank, rose again, and was gone;
and the heir wondered, watching them as they swung towards the woods,
whether they carried the black soul of Slinkin’ Lyndesay with them.

Almost with the thought came the sound of movement overhead, and,
shortly after, steps on the shallow stairs. When they reached the hall
he recognised them. Nobody but the lawyer walked with one leg and ran
with the other. Then came the doctor, less certain of his dignity than
usual; after him, the faint, far-off whispering of silk; lastly, a
light, firm step, that told nothing. Christian looked longingly at the
French window.

The lawyer’s left leg walked in sedately, but was overrun by the
right, which almost rushed him into Christian’s arms. The left backed
promptly, and bumped him into the doctor, but he was too distracted
to apologise. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand, which he shuffled
continually like a pack of cards.

“Your step-brother is dead,” said the doctor, switching on the light
from the door, so that the oak panelling and the windows went black,
and Christian’s fair head stood out sharply like a young saint’s.

He was home barely a couple of hours ago from a long tour abroad, and
both doctor and lawyer looked at him curiously, standing as he was
on the threshold of a new and unexpected experience. He had not been
of much account hitherto, with the master of Crump scarcely turned
thirty; but now he was everything. It was astonishing how simple he
looked,--and how little one knew of him.

“I know,” Christian answered, thinking of the rooks, and stopped. Not
that it mattered, for the words reached neither of his companions.
Looking from one to the other, he beheld the fingering of a great
surprise. The face of the butler returned to him, and he wondered
suddenly what Slinkin’ Lyndesay’s death could have had to say to his
life.

The silk-whisper along the hall had something cruel in it, and again
he looked at the window. An old keeper, passing, halted and spoke, and
with a sense of relief he went out quickly into the bleak night. Doctor
and lawyer exchanged glances; the former shrugged his shoulders ever so
slightly; then their eyes went back to the door.

Alicia de Lyndesay came in very erect, very composed, her hands and
face very still. The day’s tragedy had not softened by one whit the set
line of her lips. You would never have guessed that she had laid her
heart as a broken flower is laid on the breast of the slinkin’ hound
upstairs.

The lawyer drew forward a chair, and the doctor surreptitiously pushed
a footstool, but neither looked at her for more than a second, and they
did not look at all at the girl who followed behind.

Deb entered with her head up, white but tranquil, in full command
of herself, to all appearance almost unstirred. The lawyer ventured
a chair in her direction also, and she took it with a brief word of
thanks, folding her hands and looking straight in front of her.

Mrs. Lyndesay touched the bell and ordered tea, and there was a
chilling pause, during which the two men stared uneasily at the carpet;
while before the mother’s hidden gaze was nothing but a slinkin’ hound
slipping away from her for ever.

“Where is Christian?” she asked at last, looking round. “They told
me he had arrived.” There was no need in her voice, only desire for
information.

“He was here a moment ago,” the doctor explained hurriedly. “Somebody
called him. I do not know where he went.”

She poured the tea with a steady hand.

“He does not care, of course. His brother was nothing to him alive.
Dead, his memory will be less than nothing. You will go home to-night,
Deborah, I suppose?”

The words framed more command than interrogation, but the girl’s quiet
assent was not in the very least submissively acquiescent. Deb might be
poor, might have lost everything she had hoped for in the world, but
she was a Lyndesay meeting Lyndesay upon equal terms, and the mistress
of Crump knew it.

“Christian will go with you. I will have him sent for,” she went on,
and, almost as if he had heard, Christian appeared in the doorway. He
shook hands with Deborah silently and rather shyly, for they had met
but seldom since they were children, and then, still without speaking,
laid a hand on his mother’s shoulder, and bent to kiss her. She started
violently when he touched her, twisting her head and staring up into
the fair, kind face so near her own with an expression that made the
onlookers catch their breath; and he withdrew his hand slowly, flushing
as he stood away from her.

“Sit down!” she said coldly. “We can dispense with that sort of thing,
you and I. Why were you not here to meet us?”

“Old Brathay called me,” he replied, taking a seat quietly, and handing
Deborah a plate which she refused with a gesture. “One of the puppies
is ill. I ought to have been here, of course. I am sorry.”

“I suppose you know your brother is dead?” she went on, in the same
lifeless tone. “You would not have cared to see him, I am aware, and he
did not ask for you. But before he died he gave us news of importance.”

“Of importance--to me,” Deb put in on her own account, with curious
ease. “We were to have been married this year, as I believe you know.
And now, it seems, he was married already.”

The elder men did look at her then--at the aloof face, and the
straight, slim figure with its loosely-clasped hands; and from her
to the rigid mother and Christian’s dropped eyes. It was said the
Lyndesays always wore a mask.

“That alters things,” Christian observed thoughtfully, with no sign of
perturbation in his quiet voice. “Slinker was always good at surprises.
I suppose hounds are probably some other chap’s, now?”

“You need not be afraid!” Mrs. Lyndesay broke in sharply. “He married
beneath him--one of those people who do not exist except in the eyes of
Government--but at least we are spared--_that!_”

“He married a horse-dealer’s daughter,” the lawyer explained
hastily and uncomfortably--“three years ago--a horse-dealer’s
daughter in Witham. The father has been dead some time, and since
she left her husband she has been living with a married sister
in Canada. Mr. Lyndesay did not offer us any explanation of his
extraordinary--proceedings.”

“I used to know quite a human sort of horse-dealer in Witham,” said
Christian. “Gave me rides when I was a youngster, and told me tales by
the hour--an interesting character, in his way. And I remember he had
an uncommonly nice daughter----” he checked apologetically--“it’s a
very wild night.”

Deb laughed queerly, and stood up, and Mrs. Lyndesay rang and ordered
the brougham.

The departing guest did not offer her hostess a hand.

“Good-bye,” she said. “You will be glad to say good-bye. You have never
been kind to me, and you will be pleased to be rid of me. We might have
been friends, perhaps, for Stanley’s sake, but it seems we are not to
have the chance. You need not be afraid that I shall ever trouble you
again, though I shall not go away, as no doubt you expect. The county
must get used to seeing me about as usual, and in time you will forget
that I still live at your gates.”

“Be thankful things are no worse!” Mrs. Lyndesay’s voice, grown
suddenly strident, arrested her at the door. “Be thankful you have
been spared what you deserve--you who would have married my son for
his property and his position, grasping at him with both hands, though
caring no more for him than for his shadow on the wall!”

After the shocked hush, lawyer and doctor stood up simultaneously,
saying “Madam!” in the same breath. It was a poor attempt, and she
ignored it.

“You never cared! He was Lyndesay of Crump to you--no more. Lyndesay of
Crump, with his money and his name and his fine old place. The man was
nothing to you--you miserable parasite on a proud old house! You would
have married Christian here on the same terms--isn’t that true? Answer
me! Can you deny it?”

Doctor and lawyer made a desperate bid for the French window, shocked
to the depths of their ceremonious souls, but in spite of their haste
they could not escape Deb’s voice, the voice of a prisoner at the bar.

“It is true!” she heard herself saying, facing the hard eyes of
Slinker’s mother; and then Christian slid a hand through her arm, and
drew her out.

“Old Brathay’s in the kitchen with the puppy, worrying the cook out of
her wits,” he informed her, as they crossed the hall. “Let’s get down
to Kilne as quick as we can. I’ve always heard that your father was no
end of a hand at hounds.”

Footmen hurried them into wraps. An obsequious butler all but lifted
them into the carriage. The lamps flashed a moment on the wide hall as
the smooth wheels bore them away. Deb cast one glance at the dark pile
of the house as they passed; then sat back, silent. Crump blinds had
dropped on more than a dead master.

“It’s an unforgiving sort of night!” Christian said dreamily from his
corner, as they rolled down the last of the avenue, the great trees
clashing overhead. “On nights like this I believe Westmorland breaks
her heart for some old sin of long ago. She beats at the heavens, and
they are brass. God does not hear. Brathay is like an old hen with
hounds, isn’t he?”

She sat up, trying to see his face in the pale light over the river.

“You must let me tell you,” she said quickly and tensely. “I spoke the
truth. I did not love your brother. But at least I loved no one else.
And he was good to me.”

Christian nodded comprehendingly.

“Slinker had his moments, I suppose,” he said. “The rest of the time he
was--Slinker. I’m glad he was good to you.”

They plunged into the shadow of the bridge, where other maddened giants
were at strife. The full tide had swung the river far up its banks, and
they could hear the weir above the shout of the wind. Deb leaned back,
a growing sense of quiet upon her. Christian’s was a presence that
asked nothing, took nothing, least of all sought for your miserable
hidden secrets. He accepted you as you were, and, in some utterly
unreasoned way, made you feel that he was glad of you. She rested a
little in his shadow.

The carriage stopped at the near end of the village, by a creepered
house backed by the hill and faced by the river, and Deb, in the road,
held out a firm hand.

“You’re not coming in,” she said decidedly. “Brathay knows a hundred
times more about hounds than father. This is good-bye between me and
Crump--you don’t need telling that. You want to pat me on the head,
and I won’t have it--not with all the best intentions in the world! So
say good-bye quickly, and go, for there’s quite sufficient anathema in
store for me, without Clark adding that I kept his horses out in the
rain.”

He dislodged her gently, and opened the gate. Then he took the hand he
had ignored.

“Of course I can’t come in if you won’t have me,” he said, “but you
shan’t always shut me out. Please remember me very kindly to Mr.
Lyndesay. And there’s no good-bye between Kilne and Crump, you know
that as well as I do.”

He dismissed the brougham at the turn to the stables, and walked up the
steep incline until the avenue had swallowed him whole. Above him the
knit branches rocked and wrestled as the wind tore at their crests. It
was pitch-dark under their swaying canopy. Now and then a sweep of rain
caught him in the face round some monster trunk. He stood still in the
narrow, sheathed road, looking up and thinking. How strange it was
that Slinker should be gone, and he himself in his place! It was hard
luck on Slinker, he thought, to have been cast out of life so soon and
so sharply by the stroke of a whirling slate--to have sped his soul on
a tempest-night such as this. Slinker was the sort to have crept out of
existence unnoticed, leaving the world uneasily doubtful that he might
not reappear at any moment. The countryside had not christened him
“Slinkin’” Lyndesay for nothing.

Apart, however, from this touch of half-satiric sympathy, he felt
little human sorrow for his half-brother. The bond between them had
generally been strained to the snapping-point of extreme dislike. He
had a hundred times more feeling for his young cousin, Lionel Lyndesay
of Arevar, a mile or two over the river, on the far side of Cantacute.
Slinker had been unbearable--always. Crump had meant nothing to him
but the money it stood for, and the pleasure that ran with the money.
He had often gloated over the amount certain fairy woods represented,
speculated lightly upon the price of certain farms that he was free to
sell. Christian looked through the dark to where Dockerneuk, he knew,
lay in the arm of the fell, and thought of the peril that had come so
near. It had been within an ace of sale, but it was saved now. Dixon of
Dockerneuk, at least, would be glad that Slinker was dead.

Yet the County--(always with a capital)--had approved of Slinker.
Slinker had always made a point of turning up at the right place in
the right suit with the right buttonhole. He knew what was due to his
position, so Christian had been told--often. Christian himself was
supposed to be deficient in this quality--so-called. Christian, home
from college, had been the friend of the farmers, made a name in the
wrestling-ring, played football and ridden at the shows. “Lakin’”
Lyndesay, they called him--the same clear-witted judges who had framed
their delicate sobriquet for his brother. Slinker had merely sat on
Grand Stands and distributed prizes, clapped hands and crooked an arm
for the principal lady present. No wonder the County had thought a lot
of Slinker! He had been so careful about his conduct--in public.

Theirs was a race with a shadow on it, cursed and foredoomed, proud
with age and old in pride. Their mother came of the Devonshire branch,
and had early married Egbert de Lyndesay of Crump, who had died two
years later, leaving William, his cousin and former heir, as guardian
of his six-weeks child. Within three years William had married the
widow, and then Christian was born.

Nominal owner for so long, William never had to face the humiliation of
deposition, for he died a few months before Stanley came of age, little
thinking that in ten years’ time the young man would have followed him
to the grave. But now Stanley, too, was gone, and Christian and his
mother were left in the old house to find what other mutual ground they
might.

She had always hated him, he reflected, almost unemotionally. The
situation was too old for new pain. As an affectionate child he had
broken his heart over her attitude, but in the end he had come to
accept it. Nor had his father shown much feeling towards him, either.
Occasionally he had looked at him with whimsical eyes, as if meditating
some advance, but his mother’s presence had always stultified any
growth of happy intimacy. He had been sent to school early, and
William Lyndesay, to whom life had given most things at second hand
except a certain bitter sense of humour, had been content to remain
outside his child’s heart, busying himself with ordering the estate
of his supplanter. Yes, they had all worn masks, Christian thought:
his father, smilingly impersonal and aloof; his mother, obstinately
and apparently unreasonably cruel; he, himself, puzzled and hurt
but finally acquiescent; while as for Slinker--he laughed rather
cynically--it would appear that Slinker had worn as many masks as a
troupe of mummers!

At last the wind was dropping. He sauntered up to the top of the avenue
and out by the top lodge beyond the trees, where a pale moon showed
him the land sinking in a vast, watery hollow and then rising again.
He thought suddenly of Deb, and wondered how she had ever come to
countenance Slinkin’ Lyndesay.

Deb was one of the Kilne Lyndesays--a branch more remote from the
parent stem than either that in Devonshire or at Arevar, but in many
ways closest of all. Kilne Lyndesays had been Crump stewards for
centuries, serving the fine estate from father to son with inherited
and increasing devotion, which found in Roger, the last of the list,
its most perfect expression and, alas! its culmination, also. For Roger
had no son to follow him; only a daughter, to whom the heritage could
not pass.

For forty years he had set all his brain, his energy and his love
to the prospering of Crump, and under his hands it had touched its
highest point of fortune. During Stanley’s long minority he had nursed
the estate like a tender, living thing, backed by William Lyndesay
in all he did, and handing it over at last with the mingled anguish
of pride and pain which only those know who have given themselves
whole-heartedly for what is not their own. He had wished to resign
at the time, but Mrs. Lyndesay had pressed him to remain in charge,
pleading Stanley’s youth and inexperience, and for two years longer
he had stayed at his post. But he took badly to the new position, and
the reaction of fulfilled work as well as the languor of old age was
upon him, so that the end of the two years found the Crump agency gone
from his branch for ever. The wrench had been cruel at first, but now
the peace of evening had reached him, and his mind dwelt chiefly in
the past. And at least the old home was left to him. That had been one
of Slinker’s few gracious acts in his short but singularly ungracious
life.

Sometime in his fifty-third year, Roger Lyndesay had withdrawn his
attention momentarily from the estate, and married a Morton from
Appleby, thrown by fate across his path on a visit, a quiet lady who
had drifted gently into Kilne, and almost as imperceptibly out of it
to her grave on the high fell-side. So Deb had been a lonely little
girl in a lonely house,--a rather fierce, intensely reserved little
girl, pure Lyndesay and no Morton whatever, a strange little girl who
loved the woods and the silent places, and rarely made friends with
anybody in her own station. She was bred in awe of Crump, and held
aloof from the Lyndesay boys in a mood that was half reverence and
half resentment, though for Lionel, to whom these sentiments did not
apply, she had her moments of kindly condescension. Her education
was represented by a series of battles royal with inadequate daily
governesses until she was thirteen, when her solitary Morton aunt
descended in wrath, and bore her south for five weary and interminable
years. She had come back at last, however, polished and finished, a
masked Lyndesay as much as any of them.

She had certainly been difficult to know, Christian reflected, looking
back upon the four years since her return, and his own college
vacations. He had really seen very little of her, considering the tie
between the two houses, and their near situation; and for the last
eighteen months he had been abroad, glad to escape from the atmosphere
of his home, yet tortured always by the Lyndesay longing for his own
soil.

He was in Japan when the news of the engagement reached him, and he had
written a couple of congratulatory notes, wondered a little, and let
the matter pass. It was fairly easy to understand, after all, whatever
you might think of Slinker. She was poor, probably ambitious, and
Lyndesay of Crump was the Catch of the County (always with capitals).
Any girl might have done it, he had thought--in Japan; but to-night he
had seen her with new eyes, and he wondered again. She had not looked
that sort of girl, he reflected--not in the least the sort of girl to
stand Slinker for a second after she had once really known him.

Of course it was easy for him to sneer, to call her in question. The
temptation was not lightly to be despised, a Lyndesay not lightly to
be said nay--if only it had been anybody but Slinker! Slinker’s face
rose before him with its pale-blue gaze, colourless hair and smooth,
guileless smile, and he frowned distressfully. Surely she must have
shut the eyes of her soul!

He strolled back through the trees in the faint light filtering on to
the muddy road at his feet. The striving arms were growing fitfully
still; the land seemed to be curling itself into sleep with a tired
sigh. He thought fancifully that his very passing had hushed it to
rest. It had risen in storm for the flight of Slinker’s spirit; for the
new master it had sunk into peace. He spread his hands over it in a
sort of benediction as he came out in front of the house. He would see
that it was cherished.

As he went up the steps, the first stroke of the passing bell came
to him across the desolate park and the troubled water, and he stood
bareheaded while it told its tale of death, each long pause between the
heavy notes fraught full with listening souls that had gone home on
the same music. He shivered a little as he turned at last to the empty
hall. His mother was upstairs--he did not need to ask where. The land
was glad of him, but he wanted a more human touch than that. The place
was so lonely and yet so full of ghosts! Even Slinker would have been
better than nothing. But Slinker was dead, and Christian was Lyndesay
of Crump. Looking up at the eyeless windows, he wondered how long it
would be before he came to lie where Slinker was lying, shot into
eternity by the family fate.




CHAPTER II


The little station looked innocent enough, with its solitary platform
and single line, its flower-borders and toy buildings;--innocent and
sleepy, awaiting a tardy train, but to Deborah it was a veritable
pillory as she stood by herself at its farthest extremity, looking
westward to the sea.

Market-day in Witham was drawing its usual votaries in their various
degrees, and for all Deborah was an object of interest as she turned an
obstinate blue-serge shoulder upon whisper and stare alike.

She knew quite well that they were talking about her. Each little knot
of folk had something to say on the subject of her late engagement. It
had been such an unexpected triumph, followed by an equally unexpected
downfall. The peripety had been so abrupt, so recent, that the district
was still gasping. Barely had it learned to look upon Deborah with
a new respect when it found her dumped back into her old obscurity,
though reflecting, perhaps, a more subtle interest, lent by the
atmosphere of scandal surrounding the whole affair.

There had been a Saturday, not so very long ago, when her progress
along the platform had been a painful pageant of success. She scarcely
knew which had hurt her most, the ill-concealed surprise or the
terrible obsequiousness. Well, to-day, at least, no one troubled her.
They left her alone, avoided her eyes, gathered in little groups and
talked of her in whispers.

She could guess what they were saying--hear the pity and the blame
so subtly intermingled. Stanley’s death alone might have earned her
commiseration; his marriage along with it had branded her. It was all
so “queer!” The dead man might have earned the intangible stigma of the
foolish word, but the living girl was left to carry it.

Dixon of Dockerneuk drove up slowly, and sauntered on to the platform.
There was interest in his reception, also, for it was well known that
he had never married because of a certain horse-dealer’s daughter
in Witham. He looked much the same, thought the curious--the big,
slow-moving man with the quiet voice and the cloak of patient and
pathetic dignity which is the hallmark of the true-bred dalesman. He
could not have taken it much to heart, after all. It was only when he
reached the railing overlooking the sea that he allowed the new hurt
look to creep back into his eyes.

He exchanged a brief good-day with Deborah, and the spectators looked
curiously at the two who had suffered so similarly under the same
upheaval, whose lives had been altered by the same act of deliberate
deceit. Deborah was acutely conscious of the isolation in which
they stood, yet she drew a little comfort from the presence of a
fellow-sufferer. She made some remark about the crops, and he answered
cheerfully; and presently the leisurely train drifted in, almost as if
washed up accidentally by the tide. Dixon opened a door, touched his
hat, and moved on to another carriage; and her heart warmed to him,
recognising his tact.

There were strangers with her by some happy accident, unaware of her
personal tragedy; but in the next carriage, and all up the train,
Deborah Lyndesay’s name had plenty of play.

A silver-haired, dapper little man, being rather sad at heart on the
subject, had of course several sharp things to say about it.

“So tiresome!” he observed to the compartment at large. “So really
_tiresome_ of people to do these things! It placed their friends
in such an awkward position. Did one bow or did one _not_ bow? Was
it kinder to pretend that they were not there? Or did one walk up,
smiling, and talk about the Insurance Act?”

A mackintosh in the corner submitted that there could be no reason
why one should not bow--always supposing that one _wished_. Most
people, under similar circumstances, obliterated themselves for a long
time, went away and lost themselves for their own sake and everybody
else’s, till the affair was forgotten. But in this case the lady under
discussion seemed to have no self-obliterating tendencies--almost
appeared, one might say, to be proud of the situation.

Silver-hair seemed a little shocked by this statement. There are canons
of good taste even in back-biting.

Hardly _proud_, surely? Of course, it was all distinctly tiresome, but,
for his own part, he had gathered from--say, the droop of her left
shoulder--that she was rather miserable.

Miserable? Of course she was miserable! This was smartness in blue
voile and a cornflower hat, somewhat damaged by a string bag. Hadn’t
she lost Crump, and gained nothing but the clinging odour of a scandal?
Such luck as hers had been quite unlikely to last. And of course she
would never have such another chance. Those weeks of triumph would have
to last her all the rest of her life.

“So stupid!” Silver-hair murmured worriedly. “So upsetting to do these
startling things! Of course she was a Lyndesay and a lady, and she
played the organ quite nicely, but after all one of the professions
would have been more suitable--say, a nice, quiet country solicitor.
It was all very awkward for her friends. And she wasn’t even wearing
mourning for him! What _he_ wanted to know, was--what was one to _do_?”

“Give her time,” said Mackintosh in the corner. “We haven’t seen
the end of things yet. She’s a pretty girl, and she must have had
a way with her, or Stanley would never have looked at her. We all
know that!” (Mackintosh’s forbears having washed for Crump, she was
naturally in a position to speak familiarly.) “Give her time! There’s
still a Lyndesay of Crump!”

Cornflower admired her perspicacity with a meaning smile.

“Oh, of course, _that_ will be the next thing! She is certain to make
the attempt. But Christian will not easily be caught. Christian, I have
reason to know, has a fancy in _quite_ another direction!”

Cornflower had a daughter of her own, who had had the felicity of being
yanked through a hedge by Christian, out basset-hunting. What more was
needed?

Silver-hair looked uncomfortable. Cornflower and Mackintosh did not
appear to him to be keeping to the rules of the game.

“Of course one did not wish to be _unkind_,” he murmured, “but how
much nicer it would be for everybody if these things didn’t _happen_!
One felt one would like to show a little sympathy, only it was so
_awkward_! Surely she ought to have known that he was married? It was
her duty to know that sort of thing, seeing that she hadn’t a mother to
make inquiries.”

A quiet little girl sitting beside him dropped a library book firmly
on his feet, and he picked it up with inward reproach. After all, it
wasn’t quite the thing to talk scandal in front of anybody so innocent
and demure as Verity Cantacute contrived to look, in spite of her
twenty-three years. He was fond of Verity, too, and valued her opinion
highly in a strictly unconfessed fashion. He knew quite well why she
had dropped the book, though he would not have admitted it for worlds.

“Ah!” Cornflower said meaningly. “A mother’s interference is not always
particularly welcome! Occasionally, a mother can be counted a positive
nuisance; and, in _this_ case----”

Verity dropped an umbrella, this time, a sharp-pronged thing that
caught Cornflower on the ankle, and hurt her horribly. An umbrella is
an excellently subtle weapon of offence, if you know how to use it
artistically. Silver-hair, while applauding mentally, was nevertheless
of opinion that Verity had interfered somewhat arbitrarily. After all,
Cornflower ought to have known, if anybody did, exactly how much of a
nuisance a mother _could_ be!

Deborah was just in front of him as they left the station in the swirl
of the Saturday stream, and something about her--probably her left
shoulder--smote his ridiculously soft heart a second time. He attached
himself to her to observe how tiresome it was of the weather to look
like drawing to thunder when he had a tennis-party at stake. Deb smiled
unwillingly. She had always liked him, but she had her prickles out for
the whole world, this morning.

“And the dust!” Silver-hair loved a grievance as cats love cream.
“Personally, he expected an attack of appendicitis, any day, from
swallowing so much ground limestone! Might he carry her basket for
her, by any chance?”

Deborah gave him a real smile this time.

“You can just go and talk to somebody else,” she said. “I’m not
going to have any St. Georges convoying _me_ up the town. This is my
treadmill, and I mean to keep it to myself.” She nodded at Smith’s as
they passed. “You ordered a book there, last week, if you remember. Go
in and ask about it.”

She stepped adroitly in front of a passing lorry, and was lost to him,
and he drifted meekly into Smith’s, wondering vaguely if he could have
done anything different. He had meant to be kind, and she had not
really been rude--he was not sure that she hadn’t meant to be grateful.
How tiresome these situations were!

It seemed to Deb that the whole of Westmorland was shopping that
morning, for almost every busy car and sleek carriage held somebody
she knew. Slinker had given a reception in her honour, a short time
before, and an envious County had shaken her warmly by the hand.
To-day, it was remarkable how many motor-folk seemed interested in
the fit of their chauffeur’s coat, how many traps carried people
hunting for something on the floor. Lady Metcalfe, stopping outside
the fish-shop as Deb came up, discovered instantaneously that what she
really wanted was stockings. The Bracewell girls, hunting hats in Miss
Clayton’s, remembered in a flurry that they had been instructed to
purchase tooth-powder; while the Hon. Mrs. Stalker made no bones about
the matter at all, but, having walked straight into Deb’s arms, merely
remarked to the sky that she desired sausages, and glided over her.
Deborah, reflecting, was not sure that hers wasn’t the kindest method,
after all.

Coming out into the main street, the Crump stanhope passed her, with
Christian on the box, but she was very busy doing sums inside her
purse, and people who didn’t know her thought she must be either blind
or stupid to ignore the compliment of so gallant a salute. Apparently
she had seen nothing; yet she knew that at Christian’s side had sat
a dark girl in trim black, and a wave of fierce feeling swept over
her--for the woman in question was Slinker’s wife.

She was at Crump, now--Deb knew that. Mrs. Lyndesay had sent for her,
acknowledged her--more, insisted on keeping her! As Slinker’s wife
she had taken her place in the County; as Slinker’s wife she drove
at his brother’s side; while the girl he had wooed in such arrant
deceit walked stubbornly alone, with a high head and eyes that looked
singularly straight in front of her.

When they came back again, Slinker’s wife had the reins, and pulled
up cleverly in the crowded street close to where Deb’s passage was
obstructed by a wood-cart. Christian, swinging quickly down, caught her
as she looked round for means of escape.

“You cut me!” he said reproachfully, taking her hand in spite of her.
“I don’t deserve it, and you know I don’t. You might at least have had
the decency to stop and ask after the puppy.”

“I’ll wire for the latest bulletin,” she responded, moving away
instantly in a distinctly uncomplimentary fashion. “You’ll excuse me,
won’t you? I’m chasing a scrubbing-brush.” But Christian detained her.

“I want you to do something for me,” he said hurriedly,--“oh, please!
It’s just this”--his voice was uneven and embarrassed--“Nettie--Miss
Stone--er--that is--Slinker’s wife, you know--wants to know if you’ll
be kind enough to know her. He--she--I give you my word, she’s an
awfully good sort--that is to say--you won’t regret it!”

Deb stopped short enough now, regarding him incredulously.

“You wish to introduce me to--to that woman?” she asked, her voice very
low. “You ask me to speak to her--in this crowd----?”

Christian cast a glance of easy indifference round him. “These don’t
count, dear old things! She’s my horse-dealer, as I thought. I’ve known
her all my life. I wish you would--don’t you think----?” He saw Deb’s
face, then, and stopped.

“Oh, how _dare_ you!” she exclaimed, her voice shaking in spite of her.
“How dare you even think of it? You must know that you insult me by the
very suggestion!”

She swept a glance of outrage and pain from Christian’s troubled face
to the figure on the box; caught the earnest gaze of a pair of bright
brown eyes, then plunged into the traffic and was gone. Christian
watched her disappear before he climbed back miserably, and Slinker’s
wife shook the reins lightly, and proceeded down the full thoroughfare.

“That was a mistake!” she said, nodding cheerfully here and there to
a well-known face. “You can’t have been very tactful, Christian, my
child. But anyway it was a mistake, and I’d no business to suggest it.
Still, we’ll do it yet, see if we don’t! Trust Nettie Stone for that!”

She drove on gently, smiling, very sure of herself; but at the corner
of Redman Street the horses swerved without just cause, as if the
hand on the reins had tightened unawares. Dixon of Dockerneuk was
standing on the pavement, and he raised his eyes as she passed above
him--Stanley Lyndesay’s widow. She laid her hand on Christian’s arm as
he stared worriedly at his boots, and he looked up quickly, wondering
at the shake in her voice.

“Laker dear,” she was saying with a smile, “I rather think Slinker was
a mistake, too!”




CHAPTER III


The third thing that Verity dropped, that morning, was three pounds of
salmon, right in Deborah’s blindly-descending path. She knew Deborah
wouldn’t step on anything as squishy as salmon.

“I want to ask your opinion about something,” she said, leaving the
salmon barrier-wise on the pavement, “so come along to the café, and
be asked it like a lamb. It’s no use pretending that I’ve got scarlet
fever or a new hat, or anything of that kind that you simply can’t be
seen with, because I’m thoroughly bored with my own society, and I mean
to have yours.”

“You want to pat me,” Deborah said fiercely, looking at her hardly with
reddened eyes, “and I won’t have it! I won’t! I won’t!”

“How terribly limited you are!” Verity sighed pityingly. “I want to
talk to you solely and entirely about myself. Otherwise, why should
I pick you up in the pig-market on a Saturday morning, when you have
pointedly cut me three times this week?”

“I shall hold you to that, if I come!” Deborah yielded weakly to the
hidden strength in the demure little figure before her. “And, mind, at
the first pat--I go!”

“What did you want to know?” she asked, later, seated at a table in an
upstairs room, overlooking the street.

“Know?” Verity, her eyes on the traffic, was a trifle vague until
Deborah’s stern gaze collected her wits with a jerk. “Oh, I wondered if
by any chance you knew the author of----?”

“I don’t!” Deb got to her feet. “Good-bye!”

Verity pulled her down again.

“No, it wasn’t that. It was--let me see----” looking anxiously at the
crowd--“oh, I know! Should you think red roses and green tulle----?”

“I shouldn’t!” Deb made another effort. “You’re a little wretch,
Verity! You might have known I wanted to be alone.”

Verity clung to her, gazing despairingly at the stairs.

“I’ve remembered the real reason--honest Injun, I have! I just wanted
to know whether the best way to manage a parson is to marry him?”

“Marry him?” Deb sank into her seat. “Now, Verity, what are you up to?
Tell me at once. I won’t move till you do!”

“Oh, there’s nothing at all to worry about,” Verity replied, pouring
out coffee with beautifully concealed triumph. “The question hasn’t
arisen yet, in any way. I put it merely as a business proposition.
Something must be done with the new parson at Cantacute, and as I’m
much the bravest person in the place--sugar, dear? Here’s the cream.”

Deb opened her lips wrathfully, but got no further, for Verity was
listening to somebody else,--indeed the whole café was listening,--to
an intensely vitalised young person who roared directions to his
chauffeur as he plunged headlong into the building, afterwards tearing
up the stairs with the impetuosity of several elephants gone amok. Such
was the usual advent of Larruppin’ Lyndesay.

Deb knew who was coming before the black bullet head and sturdy
shoulders cannoned round the corner into Witham’s illustrious mayoress,
who had looked in for an innocent glass of milk; and while he was busy
picking her up and dusting her down, shooting her to the ground floor
and thrusting her into his own car, she called her friend to account.

“Why did you do it?” she asked reproachfully. “You know I can’t meet
any of the Lyndesays. And Larrupper will tell the whole town I am here!”

“The new parson----” Verity began innocently, and Deb leaned across the
table and shook her. Then she sat down and covered her face with her
hands.

“Can’t you understand,” she added, very low, “that it hurts me to meet
them, seeing that I can have nothing to do with them any more?”

“Just because one berry had a grub in it, I don’t see why you need
burn the whole bush!” Verity answered doggedly. “You’ve been treated
abominably, scandalously! Please credit some of us with sufficient
decency to realise _that_. You’re behaving as though we were a crowd
of savages dancing round you with assegais! And the Arevar Lyndesays
had nothing to do with the affair, anyhow. Larrupper’s awfully hurt
because you’ve given him the cold shoulder, and I won’t have Larrupper
ill-treated. It’s like being cruel to a--a donkey. And he’s quite upset
enough as it is over the Mayoress.”

The mayoral catastrophe seemed to have disorganised Larrupper
completely, for, upon his volcanic return, he rushed at the nearest
table and shook hands with two girls he had never seen in his life,
before he discovered Verity sitting with shocked eyes fixed on the
ceiling.

“Disgraceful!” she observed, looking like a disapproving tombstone.
“I’m not sure that we ought to know you. Sit down and say the first
three stanzas of the Catechism, just to let the steam off your voice
before you speak to Deborah.”

But Larrupper, crimson with emotion to the thick roots of his inky
hair, seized upon Deb’s hand without an instant’s hesitation.

“Oh, you’ve been cruel, Debbie dear!” he reproached her. “I called
and called, an’ stood outside an’ swore an’ threw things, an’ they
gave me the boot every time, an’ told me you weren’t seein’ anybody.
We’ve always been pals, you and I, ever since we fell into the river
together, tryin’ to be trout, an’ to shut your door in Larrupper’s
pleadin’ face is what I’d never expected to get from you,--hanged if I
did!”

“I’ve finished with the lot of you, Larry,” Deborah said gently. “I’m
going to be a Lyndesay all by myself for the rest of my existence, so
you can just keep on the other side of the road when you see me coming,
for your poor relation doesn’t intend to know you. It’s no use arguing.
I mean what I say.”

Larrupper upset both cream-jugs.

“That’s a footlin’ way of talkin’,” he said. “Haven’t I adored you
always, an’ been ready to lift the roof off the world for you, as you
don’t need tellin’? An’ just because things have gone to smoke through
that bunglin’ bounder of a Slinker----”

“_Larrupper!_” Verity’s little voice was almost shrill.

“Just because Slinker----” (Larry, when interfered with, always
erupted louder than ever)--“just because Slinker behaved like
a--a--a--low-down, crawlin’ scallywag----”

“_Larrupper!_”

“You think the rest of us are not good enough to be seen dead with.
But we’re a fairly decent lot, for all that; Laker is, anyhow, an’
Larrupper’s quite a charmin’ imitation; an’ if you’re goin’ to give
us all the go-by on Slinker’s account, you’re makin’ us responsible
for somethin’ we didn’t know of any more than you; an’ if that isn’t
glarin’ injustice, I’d like to hear of a better sample!”

“I’ve been hurt,” said Deb, staring at the table, “so naturally I’m
looking round for somebody to get back on. And you happen to be the
nearest, that’s all.”

“And what about me?” asked Verity. Deb, looking up, caught a look of
real pain on the small face. “If it hadn’t been for that three pounds
of salmon, you’d have lost the two people who love you best in the
world, and serve you jolly well right!”

“Where _is_ the salmon?” Deb put in suddenly, her conscience smiting
her, and Verity blinked away her tears and laughed.

“Somewhere on the pavement, I suppose. I forgot all about it, to tell
the truth. Yours is a very expensive friendship. And, by the way, it
was to pay a bet I lost to the parson.”

“What parson?” Larry interjected quickly, with interest.

“The new Cantacuter. (You have to have everything repeated to you,
Larry, every time we meet!) I bet him three pounds of salmon that he
couldn’t get Billy-boy Blackburn to join his Young Men’s Soul-Savers or
whatever he calls them; and he did, so I have to pay up. It’s for their
annual bean-feast or something of the kind.”

“He seems an individual with some strength of purpose,” Deborah
observed. “But why were you so anxious to know if the best way----?”

Verity kicked her without remorse.

“He has such dreadfully ‘Fall in and follow me’ views about women,” she
went on. “Expects them to take a back seat when they’re not wanted,
and run and work like blaz--blacks--when they are--under _him_, of
course. Men proudly goose-stepping in front is how he sees life; women
trailing meekly behind. That’s his line throughout--though I must say
he does his best to sweeten the pill with rather painfully obvious
flattery. He comes to see me every other day, to ask me to join things
and support things and sing in things and collect for things. He tells
me I am so beloved in the village; that I have religious eyes; that my
influence for good is--well, little short of the Bishop of London’s.
And all the time he regards me merely as a tool for his using! I leave
Voltaire and Shaw and the Pankhursts about all over the place when he
calls, but he doesn’t see them--he’s too busy collecting me. It’s my
face and my voice, I suppose, that make him think I’d be a fine tail to
his heavenly comet. But I’ll teach him, see if I don’t!”

“You’d much better leave him alone,” Larrupper remonstrated. “What’s
the use of botherin’ about him, anyway?”

“Leave him alone?” Verity’s eyes flashed. “Leave my unfortunate village
to struggle with him alone? Never! I’m not a suffragette or anything
else in the ironmongery line, but to have a stranger thinking he’s more
influence than I in my own place is the very last thing I’ll put up
with! He may have Billy-boy and the salmon; he may have his own private
little gloat; but there’ll be something very wrong with the universe
if Verity Cantacute doesn’t come out top in the end!”

Deb rose. “Well, I’m going,” she said. “I’m very angry with you both,
but all the same you’ve warmed the cockles of my heart. No, Larry, I
will _not_ be taken home in your car like the remains of the Mayoress.
You can come to see me if you insist, but I warn you that I shall not
be over-polite to you. Oh, of _course_ I love you, you inky-headed
baby! That isn’t the point. The point is that Lyndesays of Crump and
Arevar can no longer be on friendly terms with Lyndesays of Kilne. So
good-bye.”

Larry stood up, looking pathetic.

“An’ who’s to help me with Verity an’ the sky-pilot? It’s always like
this. Just as she’s thinkin’ she might possibly make up her mind to
marry me, off she goes an’ starts a hobby of some kind, an’ I get
shoved into the background. Parson-squashin’s all very well, but it
takes so much of her energy, an’ she forgets that I’m--well, just
waitin’. And nobody has the faintest influence with her but you, Debbie
darlin’, as you know. Mayn’t I really take you home? I’ve got a new----”

“Yes, I know,” Deb interrupted ruthlessly. “A new carburettor or a
gudgeon-pin or a ball-bearing. You always have. Thank you, Larry. I’ve
given up cars. And I won’t, I won’t, I _won’t_ be patted!”

After she had gone, Verity cried unaffectedly behind the sheltering
screen, while Larry, almost weeping himself, kicked things miserably
and chopped splinters off the table.

“It’s hurt her so dreadfully!” she said, “every bit of her; her pride,
her affection, _herself_. She’ll never be the same again. And people
are saying such hateful things. I could strangle them--the--the
alligators! Slinker was a rotter, but he was quite decent to her--she’s
bound to miss him a little. And think of all he represented! She
couldn’t help but feel that. And now she’s nothing--nothing--except her
name and her pride. What can we do for her? What _can_ we? Not that
it’s any use asking _you_!”

“There’s Christian,” said Larrupper, slowly, and Verity looked up with
a start. Their eyes met across the table, and Larrupper nodded his
black head.

“Laker’s a good sort,” he went on, apparently irrelevantly. “Always
goin’ about pickin’ up the cryin’ an’ the crocked. It’s just meat an’
drink an’ five rounds of golf to old Laker. There’s never any knowin’,
is there, dear--I mean, old girl?”

Verity looked at him almost approvingly as she thrust various parcels
into his arms, preparatory to rising.

“Larry,” she observed kindly, “I do believe you’re growing a brain!”




CHAPTER IV


Larruppin’ Lyndesay, perturbed by the events of the morning, roared
down Hillgate at a pace that sent peaceful marketers flying to the
pavement. Dixon of Dockerneuk, coming up leisurely, watched him and
smiled--for there was a dog.

The grip of the brakes swung the car close upon Jordan’s plate-glass,
and several people thought they were killed, but the dog was spared;
and Dixon smiled grimly a second time, both at Larry’s face and at a
certain recollection. When the car pulled up beside him, he could see
that the young man’s hands were shaking.

The chauffeur, exchanging a friendly wink of much understanding, sprang
out and gave him his place beside his master. Dixon mounted after a
brief greeting.

“You’ll be goin’ out, I suppose?” Larrupper said, moving on. “You’d
better let me take you. I’m needin’ your moral support badly, Dock,
old man. And I got a devil of a fright at that corner--you saw it,
I expect? The dog had a silver brush to it. It reminded me----” He
glanced sideways at his companion--“Sorry, old chap!”

“Lord, Dock!” he went on, presently, “if you knew what a time I’ve
had, these last three years, keepin’ out of the way of things with a
tail at one end and a bark at the other! I dream of them at nights.
There’s times I think I’ll have to quit motorin’, an’ take to a
tricycle. I’ve been punished, Dock, if it’s any comfort to you to know
it.”

“Well, well,” Dixon answered thoughtfully and with admirable serenity,
seeing that they were full speed on the track of a carrier’s cart which
was occupying the whole of the road--“if it’s learned you to think on
a bit before turning a corner, it happen wasn’t all wasted. You’re one
that takes a deal of learning that way, Mr. Lionel!”

Larry chuckled, and then sighed. He did not like to think of that
incident of three years ago. He had been fresh home from Eton, a hasty
snatch at college and a wild rush round the world, and he had known
nothing of Dixon in those days, or of all the things of the North that
Dixon so adequately represented; but in one sharp lesson he had learned
much, and at a price.

Dixon, too, went back in mind. It was not his way to dwell overmuch
on the past; he took things as they came, ordinarily--one day with
another--but he had had other memories stirred, that morning, and he
was looking back in spite of himself. As the car whizzed down the white
road, the two men saw the same scenes re-enacted before them.

       *       *       *       *       *


I

Dixon of Dockerneuk came down the last slope of the fell.

Behind him, the fresh-herded sheep still cried hysterically to one
another. In front, he saw the smoke of his farm and the twisted ribbon
of the hedged road.

Round his knees flitted a gray and silver thing with adoring eyes
hidden by a silken fringe; a silent-footed attendant whose ears lifted
at the faintest whisper of command, and who dropped to heel at a raised
finger.

Reaching the gate, he paused and looked down at her, and the steady
seriousness of his face relaxed a little. Rain, sitting at his feet,
flopped a lovely tail and reached out an insinuating tongue, but
Dixon’s hand stayed at his side. A dalesman does not waste unnecessary
caresses upon his dog, any more than upon his other daily companions.

Yet Rain was the pride of his heart. He had bred her himself, trained
her himself, as he trained all his dogs, and she knew every shade of
his whistle as a child knows the inflections of its mother’s voice.
The least wave of his hand was her code; two words could give her a
complete law of shepherding. The sympathy between them was the most
perfect that has ever been known to exist between man and beast--the
link between a shepherd and his dog.

He unsnecked the gate, and she danced out, eager for home, waving a
silver tail for him to follow, but he paused again, leaning against the
stoup. A sound escaped him, so soft that at the bend of the road you
would not have heard it, but Rain dropped as if shot, ears cocked, body
rigid; and this time Dixon of Dockerneuk smiled ever so slightly.

To-morrow he was to run her at the dog-trials at Arevar, before half
the County, and he knew that there was not a dog within a fifty-mile
radius that could beat her when handled by himself. Already she was
famous; already “Dixon’s Rain” was a familiar phrase in the mouths
of shepherds; her judgment, her intelligence, her beauty, were
known in every household where a sheep-dog was a matter of serious
consideration. She would be eagerly looked for, to-morrow, and he who
possessed anything that could beat her would indeed be a proud man by
sunset.

With another scarcely-breathed whistle he released her, and turned
to hasp the gate and give a final look up the soaring fell, skirted
with bracken, crowned by sullen rocks. Rain sprang round--sprang to
meet a devil’s galloper of satin panels and shining brass, hurled at a
criminal speed along the narrow, curving road--sprang and disappeared.
She was quite dead when Dixon and the chauffeur drew her out from
between the heavy wheels.

A group of those children who always appear miraculously at every
untoward occurrence, thrust frightened faces through a break in the
hedge. They knew Dixon and they knew Rain, and if the sky had fallen
upon the appalling catastrophe they would hardly have been surprised.
They said “Goy!” at intervals, and held each other’s hands, knowing the
meaning of the countryman’s set face.

Dixon said briefly--“She’s done!” through set teeth, and the chauffeur,
rising reluctantly from his knees, dusted his smart livery, and nodded
his head, biting his lip. It was not his place to criticise his master
for taking other people’s risks as cheerfully as he took his own.

A dark young face looked over the side of the car, and eyed the dead
dog with a perturbed expression. It was all a beastly bore, but of
course he had taken the corner far too fast, and would have to pay for
his pleasure. It was a decent-looking dog, too, worse luck! He liked
dogs as well as anybody--jolly, wagging things that always met you with
a smile. What a fool he had been to peg along at that pace! He might
have been sure there would be a dog at the corner. There always was,
when _he_ was driving.

He fumbled in his pocket, wondering vaguely why nobody said anything
except the children in the hedge, who still observed “Goy!” at
intervals. Grange might have helped him out, but Grange was such a
fool about animals; you wondered why he had ever taken to machines.
Fortunately, the owner did not seem excited about the accident, thought
the boy, seeing nothing unusual in the grim face which the northern
children read so plainly.

He was a gentleman; and in justice it must be admitted that he
offered his apology before he offered his gold; but perhaps his
curiously-worded expressions of sorrow conveyed too little to the
farmer, just as the gold conveyed too much. Grange made a movement to
stop him when he saw the money; he had been bred in the dales. But
again it was none of his business, and he shrugged his shoulders and
stood aside, awaiting events.

They were not long in arriving. As the careless hand came out, Dixon’s
brown fist flew up to meet it; the gold clove a glittering path into
the ditch, and the stranger subsided into his seat, nursing a damaged
wrist.

Then he laughed, and motioned the chauffeur to get in.

“As you please!” he said to the farmer; and--“Take the wheel!” to his
servant; and, as they moved, stopped nursing his wrist to raise his
hand to his cap. Dixon stood like a block.

Opposite the children, the motorist checked the car.

“There’s somethin’ in the ditch, yonder,” he observed, leaning forward,
“that will set you up in bull’s-eyes for a month of Sundays!”--and not
a child stirred. Behind him, he heard his own laugh echoed sardonically
by Dixon--Dixon standing like a block beside his silver-haired darling.

“Grange, you fathead,” said his master thoughtfully, as the chauffeur
swung his responsibilities out of sight, “why in the name of all that’s
sportin’, didn’t you warn me?”

“Sir,” answered the chauffeur, “I have always understood that you
preferred to learn by experience!”


II

Bowman’s Pink trotted nervously in the wake of uncertain footsteps.
Life had become a devious and dangerous thing since her master had
taken to looking upon the ale when it was yellow, and she followed
his erratic curves uneasily if faithfully, since a well-bred dog must
always be at its master’s heels.

Not that the splendid title fitted her at first glance, as she pattered
unhappily along the sticky road. Her slender, pointed limbs were
plastered with mud; her black coat with the white star on the chest was
rough and matted, and had lost its gloss; the fine, keen little head
was shaggy and unkempt. She was underfed; she was uncared-for; and,
much worse, she was cowed. A word from her lord set her trembling; a
movement flattened her to the earth. Yet, she stayed, as many women
stay in like case--women whom all the Divorce Commissions in the world
will never reach. And so Bowman and Pink came to the Trials.

They were late. Men whose hour-glass turns with ale usually are late.
But Bowman’s name was not among the first on the card, and he had not
been called as yet. He pulled himself together as he made his way
past the flower-show and the shooting-gallery and the brass band,
and Pink drew a little closer, humbly thankful to be free from the
perils of the open road. On the left, rows of hard and unattractive
benches supported the honourable weight of the flower of the County.
On the right, the competitors watched and chatted and compared notes.
In front, the long meadow, dotted with flags, sloped upward much as
a stage slopes, so that the performance regularly enacted every ten
minutes was plain to every eye; while near to the Society gathering,
just where sunshades and chatter might alarm sheep and distract
canine intelligence, was the little pen where the last act of the
round was played, the only one in which the owner of the competing
dog was allowed to give definite assistance. Society always derived
huge enjoyment from this crucial moment. Seventeen-stone Jackson of
Dubbs, prancing cautiously around his woolly adversaries, hat in hand,
was certainly a sight to be treasured in the memory. The skill of his
crawling, quivering lieutenant was apt to be overlooked in the humour
of the situation.

Dixon of Dockerneuk sat by himself in a corner of the big field. He
had come because he could not stay away, but now that he was here,
the whole business was torture to him. There was scarcely a man on
the field but was asking for Rain, and annoying him with well-meant
sympathy. Even the ladies had heard of her, fish-hooked each other’s
hats with their sunshades, and said--“Dear me! How perfectly shocking!”
as if their respective cars had never so much as slain a hen. There was
an immaculate youth, nursing a bandaged wrist amid a bevy of beauty,
who went hot all over at the mention of the dead dog’s name.

But Dixon would not be pitied. He shook off sympathy as a man shakes
off a troublesome bluebottle. He was billed to run another dog beside
Rain, a young yellow collie that had the root of the matter in him, but
at present preferred to regard life in general, and sheep-dog-trials in
particular, as a huge joke. Dashing up to his three victims, he greeted
them with affectionate exuberance, much as some over-familiar parsons
fall upon the necks of the dignified poor. Fleeing before his bouncing
guidance, they were through the first flags in a rush, merely because
that happened to be their line and they could not avoid it, but they
ignored the rest, and were down the field and almost upon the lap of
Society before Dixon’s imperious whistle could swing the culprit in
front of them.

Lark went back cheerfully enough. A little energy wasted more or less
made no difference to him. Another rush brought the resentful trio
through the stone gap and between the second flagged limits, but there
the happy fluke ended. One sheep broke off from the rest, and for the
remainder of his allotted space Lark played Catch with it over every
square inch of the field. Dixon wrestled with him patiently enough,
while Society laughed and clapped, and the roughs in the background
scoffed and called for Rain; but Lark, like the Punch ’cellist, was
there to enjoy himself, and came in when dismissed from the course
with a lolling tongue and a grin that reached from ear to ear. Dixon
walked back to his corner without a word, feeling no resentment
against the yellow dog who had made such gorgeous fools of them both.
He was only a puppy; he would steady in time; and since Rain was not
there--was lying under a new-turfed mound at home--nothing else really
mattered.

Bowman’s name was called at last by a member of the committee, and
he disengaged himself from a group of second-rate acquaintances, and
slouched forward. Pink was whining ever so softly to herself as she
followed him out into the field, and every nerve in her body tingled
with excitement. She had played this game before, and she was wild to
get away and begin.

Society laughed again as Bowman’s Pink came into view; she looked
so small, so hungry, so pathetically incompetent. “The Pink of
Perfection!” observed a scarlet hat, nodding poppies, and was at once
fish-hooked in revenge by a Reckitt’s Blue sunshade who had been about
to make the same witty remark herself.

Bowman gave the welcome signal at last--the least lift of a knotted
stick--and Pink was up the long field like a black streak to the
far point where three plump, puzzled sheep had been suddenly dumped
to await her. She was on them quicker than Lark, but there was no
scattering this time. With one smart circling movement, she clumped
them together and dropped, looking for further orders, a dingy speck
on the vivid green.

Bowman had gained sufficient control of himself to appear before the
footlights, but, once there, he went to pieces altogether. His fuddled
brain could not command the situation; his bleared eye could scarcely
mark his little black servant waiting his will; the hand that waved
the stick was as reliable as a weather-cock in a shifting wind. He
gave orders, it is true, but they were the wrong ones. Pink, straining
ear and glance alike, could make nothing of him. He dropped her when
a quick rush was imperative, forced her forward when to move an inch
was to court disaster, rounded up at the wrong moment, scattered and
separated when close upon the flags. The resulting confusion irritated
him; the suppressed mirth of Society goaded him to fury. His stick
began to wave wildly; he ceased to whistle, and took to shouting,
and the tone of his shouting made the bright sunshades quiver. Pink
quivered, too, shamed and insulted, for no really first-class man
shouts at a first-class dog; he has no need. She obeyed him, because
not to obey would have been as possible to her as to have made a
live-mutton dinner off the three exasperated creatures whom she was
being forced to torture so unnecessarily; but under the stress of
puzzling, contradictory orders, she, too, was beginning to lose her
head. The whole fiasco ended in a glorious exit of sheep and sheep-dog
over one of the President’s newly-laid fences, while Society rocked
with laughter, and Bowman, black in the face, was removed peremptorily
by the committee.

Pink came back, terrified, puzzled, shamed, but faithful--faithful
even beneath the rain of knotted blows, hobnailed kicks and purple
objurgations. She cried a little as she pressed her slim little
body against the turf and screwed up her frightened eyes, and Dixon
from his corner heard her. He stood up suddenly, and thrust himself
contemptuously between executioner and victim.

“Hold on a bit, lad,” he said grimly, “and answer a civil question
before you get through with your leatherin’. D’you mind yon clashy
winter’s night as you nabbed Geordie Garnett’s best pup from his
shippon?”

Bowman accomplished the almost incredible feat of turning blacker in
the face than ever.

“That’s a--something--lie!” he stormed thickly.

Dixon stooped and turned up one of Pink’s soft ears, showing the letter
“G” within, faint but still discernible.

“I know that breed as a man knows his own barns,” he said slowly.
“Geordie an’ I have always been thick as inkle-weavers, you’ll think
on, and I’m not like to forget what he had to say, yon night. I’ll just
step up and have a crack with him. He’ll be rarely set up to have lit
on his lost pup at last.”

Bowman was understood to remark that not for all the Dixons gone before
to a certain unmentionable locality should Geordie Garnett lay a finger
on what was not, and never had been, his. Dixon eyed him steadily. The
fight was healing the hurt places in his soul.

“Look you here,” he said firmly. “I’ll make you a fair offer, and you
can take it or leave it, just as suits you! You’ve shamed the poor
brute before the whole countryside. She was game for the work, right
enough, but you were fair maiselt. Now, I’ll do this for you. Let me
take her round just once, just to show Lyndesay and all the lot of
them what she can do when she’s given half a chance, and when Geordie
Garnett gets her back, I’ll never let wit where I clapped eyes on her.
Is it a deal?”

Bowman laughed murderously.

“A deal?” said he. “Ay, a deal, right enough! Take her, my fine
lad--take her!”

Dixon bent to obey, but his fingers had barely touched Pink’s head
before he stepped back with an exclamation, for her teeth had met in
his wrist. She eyed him sorrowfully, even while the growl rattled in
her throat. A well-bred dog could do no less for her master, however
unworthy.

Bowman rolled about in drunken glee, urging his opponent to further
effort, and Dixon’s temper snapped like dry kindling. He took Bowman
behind a quiet hedge, and thrashed him into acquiescence. When he
reappeared, Pink trotted meekly in his shadow. Together, they sought
out the President, who listened a little impatiently to the demand that
the dog might be run again.

“What’s the good?” he asked, watching his head shepherd making a
glorious mull of things at the pen. “Having been the round once, she is
no longer eligible for the prize.”

Dixon growled contempt.

“’Tisn’t the prize,” he said. “It’s the _dog_. She was run by a man
who wasn’t fit to run her, a drunken fool who simply threw her away.
She comes of the best stock in the county, and she can do better than
that, I’ll lay my best heifer. She doesn’t know me, but I think I can
work her. She’s been shamed before the whole county. Give her another
chance.”

Arevar’s eldest son stood up and joined in the conversation. Dixon’s
eyes met his without the slightest change of expression. The eldest son
had a bandaged wrist.

“Let her run, Father,” he said. “It’s not harmin’ any one, and
everybody should have a second chance in this world, shouldn’t they,
Mr.--er--Dixon, I think? Let her run.”

Lyndesay shrugged his shoulders, and with difficulty restrained
himself from rushing down to assist the head shepherd, who had at last
succeeded in penning the whole of two of the sheep and half of the
third.

“Very well!” he said. “Just as you like. She’ll do no good, anyway.
She’s had all the intelligence beaten out of her, poor little brute!”

His son smiled gallantly into Dixon’s grim face.

“Everybody should have a second chance,” he said again. “Everybody--rich
or poor, knave or fool, starvin’ sheep-dogs or--motorin’ roadhogs. Let
her run!”

There was a space on the yellow programme hallowed by the name of Rain,
but when Dixon came out in his order, it was not the silver-haired
beauty but the cowed little tramp that trotted at his side. Pink had
spent a thrilling hour gleaning new impressions. These included a
tentative grooming with an old stable-brush, a few dry biscuits, a few
rough caresses, a few kindly words. The sympathy and the biscuits had
put fresh heart into her; the grooming had eased her self-respect. She
came out gladly enough to the work she loved, though her faithful heart
still yearned after the drunken, hobnailed brute slumbering behind the
hedge.

Dixon dropped his hand to the dog’s head, and she cowered to the very
ground. He repeated the experiment until she stood up confidently under
his touch, and the two looked into each other’s eyes. Then he jerked
his own head sharply, and she was gone like the wind up the edge of the
slope, to be checked by a sweet, clear whistle before she was upon the
fresh prey, who raised innocent eyes, unafraid of the harmless black
and white patch so near. Presently there was another whistle, a languid
wave of a thin ashplant, and the quartette was ambling unconcernedly
towards the first of the flags.

Dixon, for all his outward calm, was conscious of a slight nervousness.
He had pledged his word, so to speak, upon the dog’s worth, and would
have staked his last coin, if need be; but every man handles a dog just
a shade differently, and any sudden lack of sympathy between himself
and his new protégée might bring fresh derision upon both. The dog was
cowed, too, half-starved, home-sick for her old tyrant; but he knew the
stock she came from, and the training that becomes inherited instinct
after so many generations, and he counted strongly upon these. Taking
a grip of himself, he concentrated all his attention upon the waif in
Rain’s place, as if she had indeed been Rain herself, charged with all
his hopes. And presently his confidence in the power of race changed to
exultant wonder, for here was a trained intelligence answering to his
will as even Rain had seldom answered. Such tact, such patience, such
judgment, such skilled, gentle handling, he had never seen. There was
no shouting, now, no furious waving, no volleying of oaths to scorch
sensitive Society ears. The clear whistles hardly clove the air before
they were obeyed; the sharp, clipped signal that means “Drop!”--the
long, clear call, lifting at the end, that says “Come on!”--the shower
of quick notes that telegraph “Round up!” Here were the first-class
man and the first-class dog working like a single instrument. The
President, his eyes glued to the little tramp, forgot that the head
shepherd had never succeeded in penning the second half of the third
sheep.

They had passed three of the tests--the top flags, the stone gap and
the oak tree--and were making for the fourth when the first hitch
occurred. Dixon, forgetting in his concentration that it was not
Rain he was working, after all, employed a special call that he used
on the fell to warn his dog of a precipice. It had a curious swerve
in the middle, and meant--“Keep together!” and Rain would have had
the sheep in a tight bunch right between the flags, but Pink was not
fell-trained, and she dropped, puzzled for the first time. Dixon,
cursing himself, gave her the signal she knew, but in that fatal pause
one curly monster had separated itself from the rest, and taken a
bee-line for home. Pink was in front of it in a flash, only to lose the
other two, and there followed a pretty piece of handling which agitated
the parasols into a perfect frenzy of fish-hooking, but at which Dixon
frowned, for the precious minutes were flying.

The sheep were through the final flags at last, however, but their
faith in their gentle conductor had been ruined by that sudden
separation and breathless chase. They were in the mood to be alarmed
by the smallest slip when they approached the narrow door of the
uninviting fold. It was then that Dixon made his bold stroke.

Every other farmer on the field had helped to pen his sheep; it was a
recognised fact that even the best of dogs could hardly accomplish the
finish unaided, particularly when each of the sheep was as nervous as
a cat, and would break on the slightest encouragement. But Dixon had
faith in his dog, and he was playing for her reputation. He let her
pen them alone.

Slowly, inch by inch, Pink crawled in rear of her charge. Slowly, inch
by inch, the frightened heads turned to the pen. Something about it
must have suggested safety to the first sheep, for it moved forward,
and the second followed. The third, however, lost interest during the
pause, and edged to the right, but Pink edged in the same direction.
Tossing its head, it swung to the left, but Pink was there, also. This
seemed to annoy it, for it skipped round in its own length, and faced
the enemy defiantly, but Pink’s innocent muzzle was on the ground,
her vivid eyes almost shut. The third sheep looked a little ashamed
of itself, swung round again and lined up. The first was practically
inside.

Dixon of Dockerneuk stood like stone, and Society forgot even to
rustle. Pink crept nearer, nearer, and dropped for the last time;
and as she did so, the first sheep, apparently disgusted with the
accommodation, swerved like a shying horse in the face of its
following, forcing the second sheep into the startled mouth of the
third. Even then, Dixon did not stir; but there was no need, for Pink
flung herself forward as the Winged Hats flung themselves at the Great
Wall, and in another moment three disconsolate noses poked through
barren bars, whilst a panting black and white streak stretched across
the threshold of their prison.

Dixon whistled ever so softly, but she heard him and came to him
gladly. He put out his hand, and she leaped to catch it joyously with
her teeth. Through the cheering crowd he sought his way to his corner,
but a yesterday’s enemy checked him. Larruppin’ Lyndesay faced him
diffidently but courageously.

“You’ve given one dog a second chance,” he said. “Can’t you see your
way to doin’ it for another?”

Dixon honoured him with a long look.

“There’s the Ring o’ Bells,” he said at last, “just across the road.”

They went off together.




CHAPTER V


Slinker’s wife drew up with a flourish at Crump steps, but
she relinquished the reins rather wearily. She looked almost
tired--Christian thought--a thing very foreign to her extraordinary
vitality. Butler and footman were automatons of respect as she
descended, and she smiled inwardly as she went in. She knew quite well
what they had said about her when she first came.

Mrs. Lyndesay was standing just inside the hall, her hard face like
ivory against the dark background. There was something inhuman about
her to Christian, coming out of the sunlight into the frigidity of her
presence. During the last month she seemed to have retired further
than ever into that icy aloofness which wore, for him at least, the
appearance of hatred. She turned her eyes away from him sharply as he
entered, and he knew that she had looked instinctively for another form
to fill the door when he crossed the threshold.

Slinker’s wife thrust a hand through her arm, and led her to the
tea-table. All through the meal she talked steadily, while Mrs.
Lyndesay listened with something almost like amusement in her eyes.
Somewhere and somehow, Slinker’s wife had found a chord in that hidden
heart which answered when she struck it.

Christian, ignored, wandered into the garden, and stood looking across
the green of the sunk lawn and the glory of the flower-beds to the
rising background of woods. There was a stream running flittingly from
wood to garden, and he walked beside it, hearing it but not hearkening,
for he was reviewing his swift and disastrous meeting with Deborah.
Emphatically, he had done the wrong thing, and in the most hopelessly
wrong manner. He had hurt her afresh--she, who had already suffered
more hurt than one dared think of. After all, what use could Slinker’s
wife be to her, on any terms? Somehow, the horse-dealer’s daughter had
inspired him with a confidence in vaguely miraculous powers. You leaned
with a strange trust on Slinker’s wife. Something about her made you
feel that the world could never be long out of joint with her capable
hands willing and ready to manipulate it. He had known her all his
life, or near it, and she was older than he by several years--a million
years older in everything else but age.

She joined him presently in a white gown, the faint trace of fatigue
utterly vanished, and towed him into one of the mossy woodland paths.

“I’ve finished with those crow’s clothes,” she said, slipping her hand
through his arm, and looking down at herself approvingly. “Parker
nearly did a faint when he saw me, but who cares? I didn’t allow
Slinker to be a bore to me when he was alive, and I certainly won’t
have him a nuisance now he is dead. I’m only his widow by accident, so
to speak, and I don’t see why I should go about making an object of
myself on his account. What’s the matter, Youngest One? You seem a bit
down in the mouth. Worrying about that turn-up, this morning?”

“Looking back, it seems such a rotten thing to have done!” Christian
replied. “You see, I never gave her time to think, just fell upon her
out of the sky and sprang the thing at her. I should have prepared her,
broken it gently----”

Slinker’s wife laughed humorously.

“I do need some gentle preparation, don’t I? Oh, you needn’t apologise!
And of course public opinion expects us to glare defiance at each
other, as if we each had a claw upon Slinker’s dead body. It’s only
natural she should hate me. But that girl’s got grit, Laker--the sort
of grit you don’t meet with every day in the week. Most females left
in a similar lurch would have had nervous prostration and a prolonged
visit on the Continent or at the nearest rest-cure. But _she_ goes to
market slick in the chattering teeth of the whole County--snaps her
fingers in their pained faces, and lets them see she isn’t ashamed of
anything she’s done. Why _should_ she be ashamed, either, I’d like to
know? If Slinker asked her to marry him, she’d every right to say yes.”

Christian shook his head.

“That’s what’s wrong. And that’s what she _is_ ashamed of, no matter
how splendidly she tries to hide it. She can’t really have been able
to stand Slinker. No decent girl could. And to marry him for his
position---- I say, Nettie dear, I’m horribly sorry!”

Mrs. Slinker smiled with something of an effort.

“Don’t judge our rotten sex too hardly, Laker. It isn’t always sheer
sordidness, even when we do marry for position; there’s a glamour it
gives the man, no matter what he may be himself. He’s got all his
fathers and grandfathers standing bail for him. You kind of catch your
breath at all he represents, and shut your eyes to the miserable,
moth-eaten bagman you might possibly find him if you weren’t blinkered
by his grandeur.”

“The glamour couldn’t have lasted long; and after that had vanished,
I don’t see how she could ever have dreamed of going through with it.
A nice girl like that, with nice ideas, and--and--isn’t that moss a
ripping colour?”

She pressed his arm affectionately.

“It’s all right, Youngest One! You can’t think of us in the same light;
and, after all, why should you? I come of tougher stock, rougher stuff.
I knew how to handle a man like Slinker. I could have made something of
him--perhaps--something that Heaven wouldn’t have been ashamed of--if
I’d tried. But I didn’t think him worth while, and I don’t doubt that
the Almighty agrees with me. I didn’t even think the estate worth
while, with Slinker slung round my neck like an albatross; so I went to
Canada to my sister, and thought of him as seldom as possible till I
got the news of his death and his charmingly-planned _comédie à trois_.
I wonder what he meant by the whole thing?--whether he was waiting for
me to hear, and come back? It would have been like Slinker’s slinkin’
way of doing things. I’d have been bound to come to the church, at any
rate; not a step further! I wonder if that’s the real solution of the
muddle? After all--Slinker cared.”

“Don’t!” Christian shuddered. “Don’t you see what a diabolical
situation that creates for--for--the other woman?”

She looked at him curiously.

“Yes, I suppose it makes things worse, doesn’t it? It wouldn’t have
been so bad if Slinker had loved her and wanted her too badly to
remember that he had some wretched sort of a wife already. Well,
we’ll leave it at that! What do I care? But you mustn’t blame her too
much. It’s because she’s one of your own people that you feel as you
do--that she shouldn’t have stooped to a man like that for a reason
like that. You could forgive a stranger who had done it--a woman who
wasn’t a Lyndesay born and bred; you could forgive--Nettie Stone, the
horse-dealer’s daughter!”

He looked at her whimsically, knowing her too well, respecting her too
much, to lie to her. He let the statement pass.

“Didn’t the place call you more than once?” he asked. “Didn’t all
this--the land, the house, the things they stand for--call you ever
again after that one moment when you put out your hand and took them?”
He looked through the green veil of the wood to the long house lying
below them, and over the house to the faint hills. “Didn’t you want
it, ache for it, break your heart for it? Oh, Nettie, how did you keep
away?”

She shook her head, smiling.

“That isn’t in me--how should it be? How should generations of
horse-dealing draw any human soul magically to Crump? The house is dumb
for me--in spite of the hundred tongues it keeps for you. The land says
nothing--no more than it says to every other soul that springs from it
and goes back to it. It is our mother--we others. To you, it is your
child.”

“But, if you don’t feel, how do you _know_?” he asked, laying a hand
for a moment on an ancient trunk. “And you _do_ know!”

“Intuition, I suppose. Besides, the thing radiates from you. One has
only to watch your eyes--listen to your voice. It must mean more to you
than to us whose forefathers owned no more than the six feet of earth
doled them for a grave. You don’t get a soul for soil out of that! No.
Just once the whole thing caught me--the glamour of Lyndesay of Crump;
but never again. I never felt it again.”

“What kept you--came in between? Why did you never want to take your
place?”

Slinker’s wife looked up and up to where the quiet smoke of Dockerneuk
chimneys curled in the pure air.

“Because I had once seen something better,” she said, “and after I had
done the irrevocable thing, the remembrance of that better thing came
back to me. I saw quite plainly what a good man was worth, and the
worth of a good man’s love--just everything that Slinker couldn’t mean
to me, in spite of Crump. I might have taken it before, and come out
all right in the end. But after that I couldn’t have taken it and saved
my soul alive.”

“What stopped you, Nettie dear?”

“A little thing--a very little thing. Just the sound of a two-horse
grass-cutter on a summer morning. It was miles away from here, in
another part of England, in an hotel in some beastly little town;
but soon after dawn I woke as if some one had whispered, and, far
away, ever so far, I heard the whirr and the click and the call to
the horses. And the smell of the hay--that came too; and all it stood
for--all it stood for! I couldn’t stop after that. I told Slinker I was
going, and I went; and I never had anything to do with him afterwards.
I knew then what I wanted--what I had wanted without knowing; and
though I couldn’t have it, I could at least refuse anything less.
Crump was less, Lyndesay of Crump was less--and Nettie Stone the most
wretched, ashamed reptile that ever crawled the earth!”

Christian kissed her hand.

“Thank you for marrying Slinker,” he said. “You belong to me, now, and
I shall not be so lonely any more. Thank you for marrying Slinker.”




CHAPTER VI


Deb found her father in his usual place by the window, looking out over
the road and the rush-edged river, and up the slope of the park to the
plantation outlined against the sky. The _Estates Gazette_ was in his
hand, but he was not reading; he was looking out at the land he loved.
He was always looking out.

He turned as she entered, and she tried to smile, for in the
transparent old face was a content that she had sorely missed during
the last, long, trying weeks. The trouble was dying, now, and the spell
which had made his chief happiness in life had hold of him once more.

He had never questioned the wisdom of his girl’s engagement, and, to
the amazement of the unthinking neighbourhood, he had followed Stanley
respectfully to the grave, showing no outward resentment against his
daughter’s dead lover. Many people thought it strange and almost
inhuman, but Deb understood. What he honoured was not the body of a
wild young blackguard, but the representative of the race which he and
his forefathers had served. He would have done the same had Slinker
wrecked them both, body and soul.

He asked her the state of the market while she ate her late lunch,
and drifted on to inquiries as to the folk she had met in the town.
She mentioned several of his old cronies--_that_ ground was safe
enough--commenting on their health, business and conversation. Then at
last came the question she dreaded.

“Anybody in from Crump?”

He had not meant to ask it, but you cannot put a question every
Saturday for years without becoming more or less its slave. His thin
hand clasped and unclasped nervously on his knee, but when once the
sentence was spoken, he stood by it.

“Christian was in,” she replied, fixing an intent gaze on the mustard.
“He was driving;--yes--the stanhope.” (Cars were nothing accounted of
in the old man’s conservative eyes.) She tried to stop the next words,
but they came in spite of her. “Stanley’s wife was with him.”

The stately old man crimsoned to his snowy hair.

“She is still there, then--that person--old Steenie Stone’s daughter? I
heard she was stopping, but I did not believe it. I could not!”

“Mrs. Lyndesay would not let her go. They say she has taken a fancy to
her. A somewhat embarrassing attention, I should think!” Deb smiled
faintly, paused, and began again. “She--Stanley’s wife--wanted to know
me.”

“To know you? _You!_” The old man was trembling, now. He struck
his ebony stick sharply on the floor. “She presumed to demand an
introduction? You did not grant it, of course?”

Deb shook her head, anathematising herself for opening the subject.
“No, I did not.” Rising, she laid a hand on his shoulder, and turned
him to the window. “The Highland cattle are coming down to drink. Do
you remember where we got them?” (The old steward “we” still clung to
the lips of both.) “Dixon says the hay crop is going to be first-rate,
this year. When will you have the paddock cut?”

But for once the enthralling topic of the hay did not serve to turn his
attention.

“You’ve been crying!” he observed, looking up at her. “Did any one
dare--was anybody rude to you in Witham?”

She slid down on her knees by the sill, and laid her chin on her arms.

“Not rude, dad. Not exactly what you might call rude. Some of them
weren’t precisely on the same planet--that was all! And others came
too near, which was worse; good little Verity, for instance, and dear,
blundering Larrupper.”

“Lionel, do you mean?” he asked quickly. “Then the Lyndesays stood by
you? The Lyndesays sought you out?”

“Oh, dear, yes!” She laughed rather shakily. “The difficulty was to get
away from them! I had to dive into a cheese-shop to escape Christian,
and Larry wanted to bring me home in the car.”

“Then the rest don’t count!” the old man answered, unconsciously
echoing Christian’s words of that morning. That had been his attitude
all through life. God made the Lyndesays, and the rest--didn’t count.
His face cleared, and his eyes went back more restfully to the window.

“I wish I hadn’t gone!” Deb said brokenly. “I thought I was brave
enough, but I found I wasn’t, after all. I’ve always been able to rely
upon myself before, but to-day I went all to pieces. I wish I hadn’t
gone. They all think I should have left the district, I know. They
think it would have shown nice feeling and good taste! But I’ll not
go--they shan’t make me. I’d hear the very ’bus-boy jeering as he drove
me to the station; and I’d come back and fight the lot of them! They
shan’t hound me away from you and the old place, shall they, dad?”

He laid his hand for a moment on her hair, but he did not turn his eyes
from the window.

“The Lyndesays stood by you,” he said again, as if no other argument
were needed; and again he added--“the rest do not count.”

Deb was silent, watching the long-horned cattle paddling blissfully
deep in the cool water. What was the use of trying to explain that
it was Lyndesay kindness that made the real difficulty? At least she
would receive no unwelcome patronage from the mistress of Crump, she
reflected ironically, and fell to wondering how Stanley’s wife had
besieged that fortress so successfully. Presently she began to talk
about the hay once more, and this time her father entered into the
subject with zest. From that, they came back to the cattle again, over
which he shook his head in unwilling admiration. He was a shorthorn
man himself--was still one of the finest shorthorn judges in the
country--and the picturesque, rough-coated beasts looked out of place
to him on Crump land. Deb had the history of half the famous shorthorn
herds in the kingdom before she finally escaped to her own room. That
looked over the park, too. Father and daughter lived half their lives
with their faces turned to Crump.

At least he was happy again, she thought, with a sigh of relief. He
would settle down, now, and under Christian’s rule nothing should
happen on the estate to spoil the old man’s last days. For him, at all
events, there was peace ahead.

Under the big beech on the old bridge, a man and a girl sat on the
low wall, looking down to the bend of the river, bringing back to the
watcher in the creepered house the night when on that very spot Stanley
had asked her to be his wife. Shutting her eyes, she felt again the
warm darkness of the leafy arch, heard the hurry of the water under
her feet, and Stanley himself as no more than a voice in the dusk.
Something that was not Stanley at all had cried to her from without,
and to that, and that only, had she yielded. Stanley was only its
mouthpiece. Could he come back this very night, free to claim her given
word, she knew that she would yield again.




CHAPTER VII


“Why not cut it down?” Mrs. Slinker asked, from the deep window seat in
the hall. She had been riding, and had come straight to her favourite
post, from which she could see the old pele tower of Dockerneuk through
the cloud of wood.

“Why not cut it down?” she said again, and she lifted a gauntlet and
shook it vindictively at some unconscious object without. “Horrid,
grewly old thing, standing there gloating over the misfortunes of the
house! It shouldn’t stop another day if I had the ordering of things.
Why don’t you get rid of it?”

Christian, standing behind her, shrugged his shoulders as she glared at
the huge cedar, centuries old, standing alone in its patch of emerald
lawn, as if the hand of a witch had ringed a curse round it.

“Swank, I suppose!” he said, smiling. “I can’t think of any other
particular reason. Only I can’t fancy myself setting out, on my own
responsibility, to grub up the family fate. Perhaps, if I spoke the
truth, I should say I was afraid! I hardly know.”

She turned and looked up at him.

“You don’t honestly believe that because, hundreds of years ago, one
of your ancestors hanged another on that horrid old object, no Lyndesay
of Crump will be allowed to die a natural death as long as the tree
stands in its place? Laker, you’re a cuckoo!”

“I don’t doubt it! Nevertheless, the fact remains that no Crump owner
has ever died peacefully of senile old age. We go out fighting,
hunting, shooting--moving, anyhow--always rebelling, never acquiescing;
and generally in pretty good time. We do not die as most other men die.”

“_That’s_ swank, if you like!” she answered him teasingly, and he
coloured hotly, biting his lip. “No! Don’t curl up. There never
was anybody less side-y than you, Christian. But you’ve got the
family-feel very strong. It showed in Slinker, too, at times,
though you never believed it was there. _He_ said things like that,
occasionally--generally when he had had too much to drink.”

His face clouded a little, and she turned squarely upon him.

“Look here, Laker, you’ve got to learn to bear it! I’m not your sort,
and I never shall be; and if I’m to go on living here for the present,
as you say you wish, you must get accustomed to my way of talking,
and the things I may shoot out at any moment, even if they do drive
the footmen into hysterics, and old Parker into dropping the beef. If
I’m to stop, I’ll not be glossed and veneered and shoved into a glass
case. I’m not a Lyndesay, in spite of Slinker. I’m Nettie Stone, the
horse-dealer’s daughter; and if I can’t use my native unparliamentary
language under your venerable roof, I must go and use it out in Canada
or some other place where ears are less tender and the air is free!”

“I beg your pardon!” he replied, very gently, and with a ceremonious
but perfectly sincere inclination, and this time it was she whose
colour rose.

“Oh, you--you aristocrat!” she said under her breath, with a little
laugh; and he parted suddenly with his new-born dignity, and flung
himself boyishly beside her.

“Heavens, Nettie, how serious we’re getting! And all because of a silly
old tree-thing! Let’s skip back a page. Tell me some more of your
impressions of our cranky old family.”

“Well, I can’t help thinking it’s just idiotic,” she went on, “to sit
round watching that old trunk flapping a curse at you without so much
as trying to answer it back. You can’t _really_ like the idea that you
may find yourself shoved into Eternity at any minute in the twenty-four
hours. Anybody with half a yard of backbone would have gone out and
talked to the gloating old ghoul with a bill-hook, centuries since,
before it got into its stride.”

“I suppose the real reason is that it is part of ourselves, by now,”
he answered thoughtfully. “It may have been superstition in the first
place; cussed pride, later on; but for myself it is just simply that
I would sooner put a bullet through my skull than give orders for the
tree to be destroyed. It’s a link between owner and owner--myself
and all the other freaks gone before--(that must be how I look at it
unconsciously)--and to break that link would mean annihilation of
spirit more terrible than any possible annihilation of body. I’ve got
all the other fellows looking on and lending a hand, you see. If the
tree went, I should be left standing alone.”

Again she looked at him curiously, as at something not wholly within
her comprehension.

“It sounds all right when you put it like that, of course. Very
majestic and Back to the Flood and all that kind of thing, don’t you
know?--though it isn’t exactly comfortable to think of the family
spooks perching like a lot of lost roosters on that slimy cedar. But
I should have thought you would be glad to be free of them. Thank
the powers _I’ve_ no family ghost-bones to be pulling my back hair
when I’m out to enjoy myself! I’ve been standing alone ever since I
wore openwork socks, and I feel fit enough to go on standing till the
Judgment! But from what I’ve seen of life, Christian, there comes a
time to every man when he’s got to learn to stand alone; and it strikes
me very forcibly, Laker, my lad, that you’ll have to take your turn
along with the rest!”

She laid her hand on Christian’s for a second, with the freedom of good
comradeship, but as her eyes dropped to the square strength of her
fingers, foiled by the slender strength of his, she drew it back and
pulled on her gloves sharply, conscious again of the intangible barrier
that had arisen momentarily when he asked her pardon. “I’m just
talking through my hat!” she added, with an angry little stamp, while
he watched her in amused bewilderment, having no clue to her change of
mood. “Well, go on dying as often and as suddenly as you please--you
and your bunch of devil’s firewood! And now I’m going out to talk on my
own level--to the stable-boy!”

After she had gone, a message came to Christian from his mother, and
he climbed the stairs to Slinker’s own room, which still was as he had
left it, and was likely to remain so as long as Alicia Lyndesay reigned
at Crump. Slinker had disdained the library and the other rooms on
the ground floor used by his conservative ancestors, and had fitted
himself a den overlooking the stable-yard. “Too many eyes looking on,”
he had said of the family portraits, and graced his walls with others,
obviously minus family, and chiefly remarkable for teeth. “No rotten
old views for me!” he had observed likewise, and had blocked sky and
air daily with a cloud of expensive smoke.

The room was full of sporting implements of the newest type and the
highest finish; beautiful, untried things stuck in corners or against
a wall to drag out a useless existence; for Slinker had been no
sportsman. He liked the look of the things well enough--the old blood
spoke sufficiently for that--but he rarely handled even a gun, though
in shooting-kit he was a most convincing spectacle; so much so, indeed,
that few had ever grasped his real form as a shot, except a nervous
keeper or two with eyes down their backs, and a badly-frightened dog.

From over the mantelpiece Slinker himself greeted his entrance, slim,
sleek, irritatingly guileless in expression. To the casual eye there
had been sufficient resemblance between the half-brothers to rouse
a sense of impotent wrath in Christian’s very dissimilar soul. Both
were fair and blue-eyed, gentle-voiced and quiet in movement; points,
however, which really served to mark an amazing difference to one
intimate with both. Christian’s athletic grace had been in Slinker
chiefly the artistic wisdom of an over-patronised tailor. Christian’s
gentleness was fear to hurt; Slinker’s, mere backstairs policy.
Christian’s charming serenity was the outward expression of his inward
self; Slinker’s guilelessness veiled deceit as deep as the sea.

Eluding the eyes of the portrait with difficulty, Christian experienced
an actual shock as he met those of Deborah from the opposite wall,
grave and rather haughty, as if disturbed by the picture-postcard
society around her. Moved by a sudden unaccountable impulse, he placed
himself before the photograph, so that Slinker’s travelling gaze could
no longer reach it.

His mother was seated at the desk in the recess by the fireplace,
surrounded on all sides by Stanley’s papers. Judging from her face, she
was not finding this voyage of discovery any too plain sailing.

Without speaking, she motioned him to a chair, and, avoiding Slinker’s
ostentatious saddle-bags, he dropped obediently into the Windsor which
the dead master had kept for his tenants.

“It is time things were settled,” she said at last, turning just
sufficiently in his direction to indicate that she was addressing him
and not Flossie Featherfin cake-walking in the alcove. “I suppose
you know that Stanley had engaged a new agent? We cannot keep the
man waiting any longer. No doubt you are willing to confirm the
appointment?”

“I wanted to ask you about that,” Christian put in. “I had a
letter from him, this morning. He seems all right, of course--good
testimonials and all that kind of thing--but I should prefer a personal
interview before settling anything definite.”

“How anxious you are to assert your new authority!” she sneered, and
waited while he winced. “Stanley’s judgment after years of experience
is of course not to be weighed against that of an untried youngster
fresh to his responsibilities! Probably you would prefer one of the
country yokels with whom you are on such intimate terms, to an educated
gentleman, trained in his profession. But there is the estate to be
considered before your own personal tastes--you must please make an
effort to remember that.”

“Of course the estate comes before everything,” Christian answered
quietly. “Why will you never believe that I care for the old place?”

“It is certainly difficult to realise,” she retorted coldly, “seeing
that you have never shown any sense of your position! _That_ must be
changed, at least. Now that you are Lyndesay of Crump, you must break
finally with the individuals who have hitherto made demands upon your
time and pocket--all those persons whose chief object in life seems to
consist in going about hitting somebody or something with something
else.”

“Do you mean that the games must go to the wall?” Christian
asked wistfully. “Is it really necessary? They keep one fit, you
know--and--and--it seems rotten to be throwing flowers at oneself, but
I’m considered pretty useful----” He broke off under her mocking eyes,
his enthusiasm dropping dead.

“All that is over!” she said very distinctly. “Lyndesay of Crump cannot
go out into an open field to make sport for spectators. There is
absolutely no second word on the matter. All that is over.”

He sat silent, wondering vaguely why he did not rebel; conscious
of something beyond and stronger than his mother forcing him into
acquiescence. He felt suddenly very desolate. He had loved that part,
at least, of the old life, and he was not ready for the new.

“I never approved, as you know,” Mrs. Lyndesay went on, “but while
Stanley lived, it was not of paramount importance. I never thought
Stanley would go--so soon.” She looked up at the portrait, setting her
lips, and Christian ran a gentle finger down the smooth cane of a rod.
It had been hard on Slinker, poor chap, in all conscience: yet Slinker
had never loved a swinging game as he loved it, nor ached to get at
grips with an adversary in fair and amicable fight. At that moment he
would almost have been content to change with him.

“You must get to know the County,” his mother was saying. “You have
been very much of a boor, refusing invitations when you were at home,
and going your own way entirely. Lyndesays of Crump have always led,
have always been expected to lead, and you must take your place. You
must get to know people.”

“Some of them are such slackers!” Christian answered sadly. “I’m afraid
I like people who do things for themselves instead of those who run a
reputation upon others who did things for them. But I’ll get to work on
the County points at once, if you like. And I’ll”--he rose abruptly,
and turned his head away--“I’ll give up the games.”

He could feel the leather sphere under his arm, the rush of wind past
his ears, the thud of his feet on the firm ground, the final pitch
into glory on the far side of the line. That was gone for good. Again
he crossed the ring with outstretched hand, sank his chin on his
opponent’s shoulder, braced his muscles and suppled his wrists ere he
felt for the final hold. That, too, was gone. Breathing deep, he came
back to the foreign atmosphere of Slinker’s den, and found himself
looking once more into Deb’s eyes. With a kind of mechanical deftness
he lifted the picture from its ambiguous position, and slipped it into
his pocket, turning towards the door.

“And you will confirm that appointment?” his mother asked again,
without looking round, an interesting document in Slinker’s theatrical
collection having sprung upon her.

“Very well. I will write at once. No doubt it will be all right. And if
there’s nothing further----”

In the library he drew out the photograph and looked curiously at the
gravely-aloof face.

“Why did I save you, I wonder?” he asked both of it and of himself.
“Because you wanted to come away so very badly, I suppose. Yet you went
of your own free will. Why, oh, why did you go? Couldn’t you _feel_
that it was all wrong? I’m not blaming you, of course--and yet I _am_
blaming you--I _am_! Almost anybody else might have done it, but not
you. You shouldn’t have taken the risk.”

He dropped it into a drawer, and turned the key.




CHAPTER VIII


Black coat-tails came whisking up Heron drive on a bicycle, and Verity
tore to the drawing-room to set about her usual preparations.

From some obscure corner a dusty _Doll’s House_ was dragged into the
light of day; _Anne Veronica_ scuttled into position beside the latest
problem novel, _Woman Enthroned_; Zola, Oscar Wilde and Cicely Hamilton
shared the shelter of the same chrysanthemum; while from the silver
table Mrs. Pankhurst addressed the world at large.

The hall-door opened, and Verity, scattering a few Mormon tracts at
random over the sofa, flung herself at the piano and dashed into the
new war-song--“Way for the Women!” just as the Vicar was announced;
only to be conscious, as she rose to greet him, of the utter futility
of her dramatic efforts.

“The man sees nothing but the inside of his own head!” she told
herself, as she welcomed him prettily, and watched him settle himself
among the Mormons. “It’s a real waste of time trying to be artistic
with him, and I think I’d better take Larry’s advice and give it up.”

“I’ll tell my mother,” she added aloud, moving to the door. Mrs.
Cantacute was a widow and an invalid, which was counted by some as
Verity’s sole excuse.

The young parson, however, sprang to his feet, putting out a protesting
hand, his dark eyes very bright and eager.

“No, no, please don’t!--that is, not just yet. There is something I
want to say to you alone, Miss Cantacute, if you will be kind enough to
spare me a few minutes.”

“Of course!” Verity shifted Ibsen from his chair, and sat down with him
in her lap, the title invitingly uppermost; and Mr. Grant looked at
the little figure in blue with its shining head and downcast eyes, and
thought of Raphael and Correggio and Fra Angelico and ladders of angels
and Rebekah at the well.

“I want to ask you a favour,” he began, picking up a Mormon, and
crackling it nervously without looking at it. “You’ll think I’m very
interfering, I expect, and perhaps very impertinent, but I don’t doubt
that you will see my point of view in the end. One has only to look
at you, Miss Cantacute, to know that you are incapable of any but the
very highest and noblest instincts concerning any subject of spiritual
importance.”

Verity looked up deprecatingly without saying anything; then refixed
her gaze on the buckle of her left shoe. The Mormon crackled harder
than ever.

“I hear that you are arranging an elaborate Pierrot entertainment,”
he went on, “the work for which is to occupy a large portion of the
winter. I don’t want to discount your kindness, Miss Cantacute, in
organising displays of this sort for the amusement of an isolated
little village, but I do ask you to consider one particular point. As
you know, I found, when I came, that many of the usual church efforts
for promoting spiritual growth had fallen into neglect. There was no
mission-work, for instance, no special service for men, no Girls’
Friendly or Temperance League; no sewing-parties, night-classes or
lectures. I have worked hard to alter that state of things, and at
last I earnestly believe I am beginning to succeed. Most of the young
men and women of the parish are at present pleasantly and profitably
employed during each evening of the week, striving to become worthy
helpers in the great Cause. Now you, Miss Cantacute, propose to
distract their minds by musical and dramatic rehearsals held almost
daily; and I ask you, very humbly, and with real anxiety, whether you
think yourself justified in interfering thus arbitrarily with the work
of the Church? I love my task, as you scarcely need telling, but at the
same time it has its disagreeable side. I have had my battle to fight,
like every one else, and it has not been a small one, by any means--far
from it! But at least I was beginning to trust it was won. Now--I don’t
know. I don’t know!”

He rose sharply, and began to pace up and down the room, his hands
behind him, passing _Anne_ and Oscar without so much as a glance.
Verity still said nothing.

“I had heard so much about you before I came, Miss Cantacute. I was
told how clever you were, how charming, how heart to heart with the
villagers, how affectionately regarded on all sides! I had it said to
me that, with Verity Cantacute under my banner, I need never know an
hour’s uneasiness. I have tried very hard to enlist you; you will admit
that. I have asked you to work for me--the very highest compliment in
the world! I have offered you posts second only in importance to my
own. I have done all in my power to demonstrate to you that, after
myself, I regard you as the greatest influence in the parish. And yet,
despite all this, you have met me, time after time, with rebuff on
rebuff, refusal on refusal--rejection, discouragement, almost contempt!”

He looked again at his silent hostess--at the prayerful hands, lightly
clasped, the Madonna-like parting of the hair, the subdued, gentle bend
of the neck, and his hopes rose. Surely, surely she was touched! He sat
down thoughtlessly upon _Woman Enthroned_, and leaned anxiously towards
her.

“Can’t I persuade you to give up this entertainment, my friend? I
don’t say that it is wrong in itself--I am not as ridiculously narrow
and one-sided as that--but I do say that it comes at a very critical
moment in the spiritual life of the parish--at a time when even an
innocent amusement may be grasped by the devil as a weapon of offence.
My boys and girls will come to you in preference to me--it is only
natural. Music and laughter will of course appeal to them more than
lantern-slides on Church History--singing and dancing please them
better than lectures upon How to Keep Bees. There will be big gaps
in my hitherto well-filled rows of faces--faces which send me to bed
happy every night of the week. They will be with you, Miss Cantacute,
enjoying themselves and learning to be very clever; but will they be
learning to be--good?”

Verity was white to the lips as she pushed her chair back from him a
fraction, so that the _Doll’s House_ slid heavily to the floor; but she
smiled at him quite sweetly.

“There’s Billy-boy Blackburn to be considered,” she said very gently.
“I _did_ pay the bet, you know, so we’re quits again and can start
afresh. And I want Billy-boy back.”

He stared at her, puzzled, worried, helpless before the workings of
this strange little brain.

“I don’t think I quite understand,” he said at last. “You can’t mean, I
suppose, that you want Billy as one of your Pierrots? Such a thing is
absolutely out of the question!”

“But why?” Verity opened innocent eyes of wide surprise. “Billy-boy
sings like an angel, and he has a perfect ear. As for dancing, you
should just try reversing with him--oh, of course you can’t--but I
give you my word that he’s positively divine.”

“‘Divine’ is certainly the very last term I should think of applying
to him!” Grant snapped hastily, forgetting for the moment that he was
a parson, and only remembering that he was a man. “If you insist upon
having this performance, I must request that he shall not be included.
You cannot have him to practise in your drawing-room. You cannot appear
with him on a public platform. I--I shall speak to your mother about
it, and in the meantime I absolutely forbid it!”

Verity laughed tunefully, and he was filled with a sudden and rabid
desire to shake her.

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you!” she said kindly. “I
was brought up with Billy-boy Blackburn, after a manner of speaking,
and I know how to manage him beautifully. He’ll be a lamb, you’ll
see, and dance like a duck. I’m dreadfully sorry, but I feel bound to
go on with the entertainment now it’s started. Church History is a
little--well--a little _historical_, isn’t it?” She smiled angelically.
“And, you know, I _did_ pay the salmon on the nail!”

He got up for the last time, also very white, and desperately hurt.

“You are exceedingly foolish!” he said, struggling to speak quietly.
“Foolish and headstrong and very unfair.” He turned rather blindly in
the direction of the door. “And very unkind!” he added, groping among
the Mormons for his hat; and Verity bit her lip. It was only to his
official side that she mentally put up her fists. When he was boyish
and puzzled she wanted to promise everything and give him an orange.
But to yield now meant defeat for all time, and that simply couldn’t be
thought of, so she hardened her heart and refused to let Israel go. The
next moment she congratulated herself, for he wrecked his cause at the
very door.

“You will be sorry if you do this thing!” he said, losing his tact
utterly before her steadier nerve. “You can’t really care about a
foolish concert, and who knows what souls may through it be laid to
your account? Give it up and come to my help with the Girls’ Friendly.
I’m badly off for subordinates in several cases, just now. And if you
really want to do something artistic, you might teach the Sunday School
a little fairy play. Think it over!”

Verity laughed again, but openly this time, gaily and whole-heartedly.
The dear thing was so deliciously funny!

“Billy-boy Blackburn is too old for Sunday School,” she said
pleasantly, “and I can hardly picture him as a fairy, can you? After
all, Billy is the point, you know. Don’t you think we might as well be
frank and admit it? And I _do_ play fair, whatever you say. You mustn’t
forget that I paid the salmon!”




CHAPTER IX


In the middle of the long, steep hill up which the village of Crump
climbed, Augustus sat firmly on the best green velvet footstool out
of his mother’s parlour. He was not a model son. Though still in
petticoats, and the owner of soft brown eyes and a head of girlish
silken hair, his extraordinary determination rendered him far from easy
to live with. To desire was to have--with Augustus. He had never any
doubts as to the attainment of his end.

His mother, the wife of a prosperous cattle-dealer, came to the door of
the low, pink-washed house, and demanded the footstool in peremptory
terms, but Augustus merely turned his back upon her, and she retired
discomfited, not daring to resort to physical suasion. For Augustus had
a voice, and she feared it.

Larruppin’ Lyndesay came rocketing over the hill with his cap pulled
over his eyes, sitting apparently on the back of his neck. Augustus
surveyed his approaching end with the utmost serenity, and stirred
not an inch. He was so small that Larrupper nearly missed seeing him
altogether, and only managed to stop, his heart in his mouth, when a
stout Dunlop tyre was grazing the minute figure with its sash round
its knees. Rising in his seat, he peered over the screen at the lord of
the street.

“Treasonable offence, obstructin’ the King’s Highway!” he informed
him severely. “’Tisn’t playin’ the game, hidin’ behind a pebble like
that--’tisn’t really! Don’t mind if I ask you to move, do you, old
chap?”

But Augustus, thrusting his thumb into his mouth, merely turned upon
him a large gaze of such supercilious condescension that he withdrew
his demand on the spot, reversed the car meekly and took a standing
jump at the kerb of the green, landing with a rattle that seemed to
loosen every bolt. A second rush wedged him neatly between the ancient
posts of the churchyard gate, where he was discovered by Deb, coming
out of the church, followed by a hound-dog of sorts, full of smiles.
She stared at him in amazement.

“What in the name of goodness are you doing, Larry?” she demanded
unkindly. “Bringing the car to be christened? I do wish you’d behave
decently in _my_ village, whatever you do in your own or in Verity’s.
Take the horrid thing away at once!”

Larrupper, with a final effort, wrenched his new mudguards into
freedom, and pushed back his cap, panting,

“I’m hanged if I can understand why life should be so disappointin’!”
he grumbled, turning pathetic eyes upon her stern countenance. “I had
to climb up here to avoid slaughterin’ somebody’s baby, an’ then you
come along an’ pitch into me for jackin’ up my own mudguards! By the
way, what are you doin’ with one of Christian’s chickens?”

Deb looked down at the smiling pup at her feet, flapping a curving tail
lustily against her skirt.

“It fell upon me an hour ago,” she explained worriedly, “and I’m afraid
it thinks it has acquired me. We’ve been playing hide and seek all
over the village, and it always wins. I’ve had an awfully expensive
time with it, too. It sampled all the cheeses in Turner’s, and ran a
cat to earth in an open box of biscuits. I thought I’d escaped it when
I rushed in to try the new organ-stop, till I suddenly saw its nose
sticking out from under the altar! Do please haul it into the car and
run it up to the kennels.”

“Right you are! Sling it over.” Larrupper stretched out an inviting
hand, and the puppy backed promptly. “Come on up--up, my beauty! Here,
boy--here! Good dog--good old dog--nice little dog--hang the brute, I’m
afraid it isn’t havin’ any!”

Deb stooped for the hound, but it flopped round to the back of her, and
it was only after a wild, teetotum chase that she succeeded in grabbing
it. Breathless and dishevelled, she pushed her limp prey into the car,
and stood back; whereupon it eluded Larry’s grasp with an eel-like
wriggle, and instantly fell out again.

“You’ll have to come, too,” Larrupper said, alternately shrieking with
laughter and trumpeting every hunting call he could think of, but Deb
shook an obstinate head.

“No. I’m not coming in that direction at all. It’s got to go in the car
whether it likes it or not. You can hold it all right if you _try_. And
I’m sure there must be something wrong with you, Larry, when so young a
dog hates you horribly at first sight!”

Five times she bundled it into the motorist’s arms, and five times
it escaped him with ease, rushing back to the girl with ecstatic
recognition; but the sixth time Larry grabbed hard and drove away like
the wind; and a Cruelty Inspector rushed his bicycle in front of him,
and demanded his name and address.

“Shameful, sir! Something shameful!” he stormed, snatching out a
notebook, and propping his machine against Larry’s new paint. “Dog was
hanging head downwards out of the car--a sight I’d never thought to
see in a civilised land--on my word, sir, never! Valuable dog, too, I
should say, knowing a bit about dogs and given that way myself, and
likely to suffer for it all its days if not put out of its misery at
once and shot!”

Larrupper signalled wildly for help, and Deb came up running, weak
with hysterical laughter, to be fallen upon rapturously by the quite
unharmed devil in the machine.

“Tell the man it’s Christian’s----” Larry began desperately, horribly
alarmed by the party in uniform, but the last unfortunate word merely
drove the enemy into further frenzied scrapings of paint.

“Christian is just what it _ain_’t, sir--anything _but_!--More like
them there savage caballyairos, over in Spain! Oh, the dog’s the
lady’s, you say, sir, is it? Makes it all the worse then, being two of
you. Your name and address as well, miss, _if_ you please!”

It took some time to convince him of the purity of their intentions,
and when he finally let them go, it was only on conditions.

“You’ll kindly take the dog along yourself, miss,” he announced firmly,
still eyeing Larrupper with distinct distrust. “Oh, I’ve no doubt the
gentleman _meant_ well and all that kind of thing, but to go ’anging
an ’armless dog out by the ’eels isn’t exactly nice behaviour to _my_
way of thinking. So you go along with him, miss, and then I’ll be
satisfied.”

“But I can’t--shan’t--won’t--don’t----!” Deb protested weakly, but he
waved her objections to the winds.

“Don’t let us have any more arguments, miss,” he entreated plaintively.
“’Tisn’t a very pleasant subject, now is it, when all’s said and done?
Not one as you might _dwell_ on. You get in, and I’ll hand you the dog.”

They drove away thoroughly chastened, even the puppy having been
quiescent in the inspector’s grasp, and poor Larry slammed on top
speed, seething with exasperation.

“I might have known any sort of a dog-thing would bring me bad luck!”
he groaned dismally. “This’ll be fine hearin’ for old Dock, won’t it?
It’s sure to be rampin’ all over the village before we’re well up at
the kennels. Why on earth couldn’t you come at the beginnin’, Debbie
dear, an’ save us makin’ a cinematograph of ourselves?”

“I told you I didn’t mean to know you,” she answered firmly, “and I’m
not coming up to the kennels in spite of the inspector, so you can just
stop and let me out at Kilne as you pass. Don’t you think if you put
the puppy under your arm--so--and covered it up with the rug--so--?”
She prepared for active experiment, but Larry edged away with a jump,
nearly pulling the car into a passing butcher.

“Lord, no, Deb! Keep away. I won’t have it! An’ you’re not even to
think of gettin’ out. What’s the bettin’ old Fuss-pot isn’t trackin’
us for all he’s worth? You’ve got to deliver your own goods, so don’t
be makin’ any more bones about it. I don’t know what I’ve done that
you can’t bear ridin’ with me,” he added, very hurt. “We’ve had some
rippin’ spins together, you an’ I, an’ now you won’t even let me take
you the length of the park!”

“How’s Verity?” she asked, to change the subject, and Larrupper groaned
again.

“It’s simply heart-rendin’! Whenever I drop in, she’s up to her eyes in
music and ankle-deep in patterns of clothin’. She’s havin’ some sort
of a sing-song, you know, an’ she’s trainin’ crowds of the awfullest
people you ever saw in your life to sing an’ dance an’ sit up an’
beg. She’s never any time for me, nowadays, an’ I feel like drownin’
myself, Debbie dear. If I fall in of a mornin’, she’s always busy
makin’ blots with tails to them, an’ if I stop long enough I have to
listen while she sings the blots to see if they’re in the right place.
In the afternoon she’s dancin’ out of a book with a chair or a table
or Larry Lyndesay, or any other sort of a block that happens to be
standin’ about doin’ nothin’; an’ in the evenin’ every blessed squawker
in the place is there, makin’ night hideous, so I never get any notice
worth mentionin’. It’s sickenin’, I can tell you!”

“You’re not half firm enough with her, Larry, and you’re a donkey to
stand the way she treats you. Why don’t you pack her in your pocket
and carry her off to the nearest registry-office, without asking her
anything about it?”

But Larry shook his head.

“I’m not wantin’ her on those terms,” he said. “I’ve got a little pride
still stickin’, for all I’m her ladyship’s football, an’ when she comes
to me it’ll have to be jumpin’ an’ willin’, an’ not by the hair of her
head.”

“Then you’ll never get her,” Deb replied, lifting the puppy in her
arms as the kennels hove in sight. “Verity’s the sort that has to be
captured, and if you don’t sail in and do it, you may go on playing
round till the Judgment. You _must_ put your foot down, Larry!”

“No!” Larry set his mouth. “No. She’s just a little bit above herself
an’ ready to ride the world at present, but it won’t go on for always.
Some day, she’ll find that life isn’t all beer an’ skittles an’ top
o’ the mornin’, an’ when she scrambles out of the ditch she’ll be glad
to see me sittin’ in the hedge. Till then I can wait--though I’m not
sayin’ but the hedge is a bit thorny!” He heaved a sigh. “Hi! Hold on!
Where are you goin’?” for Deb had slipped off the car as they neared
the gate.

“There isn’t any need to drive in,” she said, avoiding the puppy’s wild
and wet farewells. “I’ll shoot the thing inside--it will wander up all
right--and then perhaps you will be kind enough to run me back home.”

Larrupper agreed; but the next instant, catching sight of two figures
above in the field, and with a dim remembrance of a café conversation
floating through his mind, made his first effort at diplomacy.

“Oh, but I’m forgettin’ I’ve to see old Brathay!” he announced, bending
to gaze at a perfectly satisfactory lubricator. “If you don’t mind,
I’ll just drive right up an’ give him a hail. I want to ask him about
some--you know--what-d’you-call-em--what’s-its-names!”

Deb hesitated, looking at him suspiciously.

“Oh, of course--if you _want_ to go----!” she began reluctantly, a
little puzzled. “But I can see hounds are all out, and you know Brathay
always has a fit if there’s a motor within a mile of the pack. _I_
know! I’ll wait here with the car while you run up to the kennels; and
you can take the puppy with you.”

“Not much!” Larry refused flatly. “I wouldn’t touch the thing with a
ten-foot pole. I’m simply a yawnin’ death-trap for dogs--it would never
reach its cubby-hole alive. An’ if you think I’m goin’ to leave you
waitin’ in the mud like a beastly chauffeur--how do, Laker, old man!
Where have you been puttin’ yourself all the week?”

“Rather neat groupin’!” he congratulated himself, leaning anxiously
over a sound and blameless wheel, while Deb swung round with the puppy
in her arms, to meet Christian’s pleasant smile and a grave bow from
the stranger beside him.

“One of the puppies”--she explained hurriedly and incoherently, put out
by the sudden encounter, though unaware of Larrupper’s machinations.
“Wandering about the village--cheese--had Brathay missed it? Yes,
it looked a good one--and such jolly things they were, too, weren’t
they?--oh, only too glad, of _course_--_any_body would--and it was more
than time that she was getting back.”

“But I want to show you our improvements,” Christian protested, taking
the hound from her, and introducing his companion. “Mr. Callander--Miss
Lyndesay--my cousin, Larrup--I say, Lionel, what on earth _do_ you call
yourself? Mr. Callander’s frightfully pleased with the kennels, I do
want you to look round and give everything your blessing--please!”

“Tell your father what’s doin’, an’ all that kind of thing,” Larry
supplemented, with amazing readiness, and again clapped himself on the
back, for she yielded at once. She never denied her father information
concerning the least detail of the estate.

She walked up the field between the two men, puzzling out a means of
escape, and listening vaguely to Christian’s thanks for her salving
of the puppy, while Larry followed with the car, hooting furiously at
inquisitive noses and waving sterns. Her last visit to the kennels
had been made with her father and Stanley--the conversation including
“points” on the one side, and “The Merry Widow” on the other. She
had wondered why hounds had met Stanley with distant recognition
while greeting her father with effusive joy; and she had wondered,
moreover--but what was the use of wondering, _now_?

“I’m hunting them myself, this season,” Christian was saying. “I used
to hunt them for Sl----” he cast a glance at his agent--“for Stanley,
you remember, when I was at home. Sl--Stanley--wasn’t keen on the
sport--left it to Brathay, as a rule. It’s good exercise, if you care
about that kind of thing, and now that I’ve given up the games----”

Larrupper let out a yell that brought the old keeper racing down the
hill with his heart in his mouth.

“Give up the games? You’re rottin’, Laker! Give up the wrestlin’ and
the jumpin’ an’ the footer an’ the--Brathay, my good idiot, the whole
blessed lot are as safe as houses, as you could see for yourself if you
were any use at countin’!”

“I do mean it,” Christian replied, looking at the ground.
“I’ve--there’s a lot to see to, now, you know, and games are rather a
waste of time--I suppose.”

“Footlin’ piffle! You don’t mean to be gluin’ yourself to the place
all your life, do you? Your agent will keep it runnin’ all right
if he’s a decent chap; an’ you _are_ a decent chap, aren’t you,
Mr.--afraid-your-name’s-gone-missin’? _Slinker_ had time for playin’
round a bit, we all know _that_! _Slinker_ had his little hobbies----”

“Your engine has stopped, Lionel.”

“Who’s mindin’? Crump’ll jog along in the same old cart-track without
you everlastin’ly shovin’ behind; and hang it all, man, you’ll be
wantin’ a bit of amusement _some_time! What’s worryin’ you _now_,
Brathay dear? I wish you’d run away an’ play!”

“Can’t count more than fifteen couple, sir. Rest must be somewheres
about, and hounds is that curious--likely they’re some of them
underneath.”

“An’ likely they’re roostin’ inside the bonnet as well, you--you old
Buff Orpin’ton! Now look here, Brathay. I’m doin’ no harm on your
rubbishin’ premises, an’ I won’t be hustled off for all the over-fed,
under-run hounds in creation!”

“You make hounds that nervous, sir! They’re very easy upset.”

“You’re dreamin’, Brathay! Why, the darlin’s simply dote on engines.
I’ve never been out with them yet but they’ve gone steamin’ full lick
for the line whenever a train came along. Laker, tell him I won’t be
bullied!”

“Do you good!” Christian smiled, nodding to the old keeper; and the
sounds of violent altercation followed him as he led the way to the
kennels. Brathay and Larrupper were joyful enemies of long standing.

“I remember now!” Callander said suddenly, as they reached the door. “I
saw a picture of you somewhere in wrestling-kit--one of the papers, I
forget which--and your nickname--‘Lakin’’ Lyndesay, isn’t it? I thought
I knew your face.”

“That’s it.” Christian looked uncomfortable. “Some bounder caught me
with a camera, I suppose. It’s a good game----” He broke off abruptly.
“You remember old Rosebud, of course, Deborah?”

He spoke the name stiffly but with determination, definitely sealing
their distant relationship and their slight but ancient acquaintance.
“The Lyndesays stood by you!” she found herself quoting inwardly, as
she caressed the old hound, and took the puppies in her arms, while
Christian pointed out the alterations in the buildings. Callander,
who had an artist’s eye, looked with interest from the quiet young
master to the bright face of the kneeling girl lifted above the soft
heads of white and tan. He remembered Christian well enough, now--had
heard of him at Grasmere, at Olympia, at the Highland Games. It was a
curious record for a son of so proud and ancient a family, but perhaps
it was better than the one left by his brother. Already his ears were
filled with the gossip running rife in the countryside, and, watching
the clear eyes and the brave bearing of the heroine of the drama, he
wondered greatly where the truth of the matter lay. Not in the mere
sordid love of riches, surely, nor in the foolish, flattered vanity of
youth? Behind, he felt, was something deeper, out of reach.

There was no sign of Larrupper when they came out, and Brathay, with a
grim face, his fingers shut upon a lordly tip, explained that he had
evicted him without ceremony; whilst Larry, who had instructed him
thereto, chuckled with Machiavellian glee as he raced homeward.

“I will walk back with you, if I may,” Christian said, opening the
little gate of the stile. “Shall we go by the park?” And when Deb
hesitated--“Why, surely you don’t prefer the road, do you?” he added,
in surprise.

She did not answer--she could not tell him she had never set foot
in the park since the day of Stanley’s death--and while she stood
silent, Callander bade them good-bye and struck off towards the marsh.
Christian kept his hand on the gate.

“There will be frost to-night,” he said, looking over the land. “The
deer will be making for the buckhouse. The beeches are stripping fast,
and the river is like glass. Do you really prefer the road?”

Did she? She walked beside him over the springy turf, while the red
ball of the sun dipped towards the bay, wondering why every channel of
love should be always first and foremost a channel of pain. The quiet
of the old woods etched black against the yellow sky caught her by
the throat. The silver river smote her like a sword. The homing rooks
called the heart out of her. And the land--the green, good homeland
around and beneath her--ah! _did_ she prefer the road?

“How quiet the hills are!” Christian broke silence, half-way across the
park. “Have you ever noticed how the first frost stills them like the
touch of a cold finger? In summer they are almost restless, but as the
winter strengthens they gradually fall asleep. I like them best asleep.”

She made no reply, and he felt rebuffed. Perhaps she did not care for
that sort of thing. Perhaps, as his mother had said, it was the house
that called her, the position and pride of place--he thought suddenly
of her pictured eyes in Slinker’s room, and put the charge from him
self-reproachfully; then remembered that she had seemed to prefer the
road, and was chilled anew.

Down in a hollow a couple of panting, writhing forms thrust apple-red
cheeks over each other’s shoulder, and he checked at once, forgetting
the girl in his sudden interest.

“The Younger Generation!” he laughed, watching the herculean if highly
unscientific efforts of the children, and, drawn gradually nearer in
spite of himself, began to issue instructions.

“Your hold is too high, Jimmy. Get your feet more apart--you, whatever
your name is. Now! right foot--lift--strike inside--got him!”

He came back to Deb apologetically, after superintending the
traditional handshake of etiquette.

“I’m ever so sorry to have kept you standing about, waiting! You must
think I’m horribly rude, and of course you’re wanting to get home. I’ve
always been crazy about the sport--I suppose because it’s our own. It’s
a fine thing for a county to have its own game, to feel that it’s bred
in the very bone of you, and that it calls you as it calls no one else
on earth. It marks a county’s character, too, keeps it individual and
strong. And I couldn’t let them go on making a muddle of it, could I?
You see, it’s at the start that things matter. Catch them early--that’s
the way to get style. Later on, when a man’s set----” He looked at her
averted head. “But of course all this can’t possibly interest you.”

“Can you tell me the time?” she asked, without turning. (Would they
never cross the park?) And then, almost as if the words had been
dragged out of her--“It’s a fine sport,” she added, and again Christian
wondered, not knowing that his speech had put the final touch to the
fierce passion of heritage which was tearing her asunder as she walked
dumbly at his side.

On the bridge he stopped again, to look through the frost-mist on the
river to Crump bare and lone against its black shield of woods and
the cold sky overhead; but Deborah hurried on, and as she turned the
corner, saw him still gazing. She had another picture of the bridge now
for all time--one that had Christian’s face clear-cut by the frosty
light against the darkening slope of the hill.

He caught her up before she reached the house.

“You’re the only Lyndesay I ever knew who didn’t stop on that bridge!”
he said reproachfully. “Nearly everybody stops on bridges, haven’t you
noticed it? It must be because they feel a little bit nearer Heaven.
But you didn’t stop, and I’m afraid you preferred the road!”

She looked up at him, conscious that he guessed at the existence of her
mask, yet ready to fight for it at all costs.

“Perhaps I did!” she answered casually, and stood aside to let her
father greet him in the porch.

Christian sat for long in the little, lamp-lit parlour overlooking the
river, while the old man told him tales of farm and field with the easy
memory and sure knowledge of one who carries recollection in his heart.
Deborah came down at last to find them standing at the window, the fair
head close to the white one, and Roger Lyndesay’s hand marking the
curve of the hill under the sharp light of the risen moon.

“Cappelside?” the old man was saying. “I could find my way to
Cappelside in a blinding blizzard! ’Twas there I courted my wife, as my
father before me. Lyndesay stewards love all Crump better than their
own souls, but they love Cappelside best. They will be found there,
sure enough, when the earth gives up its dead!”

“How you feel about the old place!” Christian exclaimed. “It’s home
to me, of course, but if love alone were a claim, you’d have a better
right to it than I. Yes, and by right of work, too, your own and your
fathers’, Crump should be yours, Mr. Lyndesay!”

“Crump _is_ mine!” Roger Lyndesay returned, with curious emphasis and
conviction. “Do you think either deed or descent could give it me as
the long years of labour and knowledge have done? You are master and I
am only servant and lover, but I own it in my heart. Crump _is_ mine!”

Christian’s voice was very gentle as he bade the old man good-night. “I
will try to hold it worthily for you,” he said; then smiled whimsically
at Deb. “But _you_ preferred the road!”




CHAPTER X


Slinker’s wife was restless on Christmas Eve. At dinner, she talked in
feverish snatches, and ate nothing; and when the dismal meal was over
at last, she wandered nervously from room to room, lifting blind after
blind to look at the white waste of the park. Christian followed her
like a puzzled dog, oppressed once more by the mighty loneliness which
had lifted a little since her coming, until she turned on him brusquely
with a little jump.

“For goodness’ sake, Laker, don’t go trailing after me like a broken
bootlace! I’m a bundle of nerves to-night, and not fit to speak to--the
snow, I suppose.” She shivered, looking almost fearfully at the inky
spectres of the avenue flung upon the sinister white of the hill. “How
near it is! Somehow it makes me feel as if I couldn’t breathe. Life can
make you feel like that, too; as if you’d fastened yourself into your
coffin, and couldn’t get out.”

“And couldn’t--_couldn’t_ get out!” she repeated, beating her hands on
the frosty pane; and the next instant had opened the hall-door and was
half-way down the steps before he realised that she had gone. Springing
after her, he caught her arm and drew her back forcibly into the
warmth.

“What’s the matter with you to-night, Nettie? You’re not a bit like
yourself! This isn’t the weather for moonlight walks, and I can’t have
you catching your death of cold while you’re in my charge. Come and sit
by the fire, and let us talk.”

He struck the log with his foot, sending up a shower of sparks, but she
drew away from him, and back again to the door. He looked at her in
surprise. He had never seen her like this--her eyes wide, every nerve
tensely strung.

“I’m going out!” she said quickly. “Don’t try to stop me. I’m not
ragging, Youngest One--I _must_ go! Yes, fetch me something to put on,
like an old dear, only be quick about it.”

He brought a coat and a scarf and wrapped her in them, and gave her his
hand down the slippery steps; but when he would have come further she
checked him imperatively.

“I’m going alone,” she said, pushing him gently from her, “so scoot
back at once, Laker child! I’m not going far, and I’m going alone. I
shan’t take any harm, so don’t get excited, and if you dare to sit and
freeze on the steps, I’ll leave Crump to-morrow! I can’t stop in the
house to-night, and that’s all there is about it. It’s full of Slinker
from garret to cellar, and I just can’t bear it. Couldn’t you feel
him at dinner--that awful ghost-walk of a dinner? I wondered how you
could sit in your chair and swallow your port! He was there all the
time--just shrieking to come back! Oh, Christian!--suppose he should?”

He took her hand again, looking at her with concern.

“Why, Nettie, there’s certainly something very wrong with you! Come
back into the house and sing something, and let’s be happy. There is
nothing to be afraid of. How could there be anything to be afraid of on
Christmas Eve?”

She clung to his fingers, staring up at the house.

“I should hear Slinker singing along with me. He had a voice, you
remember--a queer sort of voice like an owl squawking in the night!
Christian--suppose that window opened up there, and Slinker’s face
looked out--Slinker’s face--Christian----!”

He gave her a peremptory little shake.

“Stop that at once--do you hear? And you’re just coming back with me
this instant, so you can make up your mind to do as you’re told for
once, instead of twisting the whole world round your little finger!”

She shook her head, pulling herself together with a trembling sigh and
a smile.

“No, I’m going on. It’s all right, Youngest One. I’m quite sane, and
perfectly fit to be loose. Go in and wait for me in the hall, and brew
me some nice warm gruel to drink when Christmas comes in. I’m going to
the place where I’m safest in the whole world. Oh, if I’d only guessed
it, long ago!”

He watched her disappear up the avenue, a dark speck on the purity of
the white track, walking firmly and with purpose, and then he returned
reluctantly to thaw himself, keeping an eye on the half-open door the
while. No sound came to him from any part of the house but the creak of
the stairs and the running talk of the fire. In the oak chair with the
high back he looked very young and very lonely--the new master sharing
his shadowed home with his ghosts.

Slinker’s wife walked fast--fast, like a woman going to meet her
lover--and her heart beat and the colour burned in her cheek. She
clasped her hands tight in the wide sleeves of Christian’s coat, and
her breath came unevenly on the frosty air. Leaving the arch of the
avenue for the full moonlight, she saw beneath her a wide sheet of
bright ice, and, to the right, the long, low buildings of Dockerneuk
Farm. She stopped then as if a hand had barred her way, trembling
violently and leaning against the stoup of the gate.

Work was long done at the farm. The clash of milk-pails was still, long
before. The cattle had had their extra Christmas feed, and the men had
gone home. The blinds were drawn. The kitchen had red blinds through
which lamp and fire glowed warm. From the parlour a piano tinkled a
Christmas hymn.

Slinker’s wife, leaning against the stoup, needed no open doors for her
sad eyes. She knew so well the wide kitchen with its open range and oak
settle, the spotless stone of the floor, the shining pans, the queer
things that hung from the oak rafters, hams and Christmas puddings
and great, dry bunches of sage. She knew the parlour, too, with its
yellow-keyed, silk-faced piano, its pot dogs, wool mats and vases of
honesty, but it was to the kitchen that the passionate eyes of her
mind strayed and stayed. For Dixon would be in the kitchen.

She saw him as she had seen him often in the old days, when the tie of
a distant relationship through her mother had brought her to Dockerneuk
for many a long week; saw him in his deep wooden chair by the steel
fender, his dog’s head against his knee, as they listened together to
the little hymn played by his sister’s child. The door would be open
between the rooms, she knew. Dixon loved both children and music.

He would be sitting very still in his big chair, with that curious,
almost fateful stillness of the men bred in the Dales. His tall,
slow-moving figure would be bent a little, his square, quiet hand
laid along the smooth wood of the chair-arm, his tranquil face turned
towards the fire.

It would be such a good fire, too--Slinker’s wife, through Christian’s
warm coat, felt the cold strike her like a knife--a great, roaring,
glowing, gladsome fire, filling full the big mouth of the chimney, and
flinging splashes of brightness over the half-shadowed room. There
would be holly, too, perhaps, and a bunch of mistletoe over the outer
door. Dixon had once wanted to kiss her under a bunch of mistletoe.
He had held her hands and looked at her with grave eyes, but he would
not kiss her in jest. Slinker’s wife, laying her head against the icy
stone, knew that the mistletoe might have saved her. But Dixon had not
known that you may win or lose the whole world with a kiss, or perhaps
he had known it too well, and not dared the risk.

The piano stopped suddenly, and the parlour went dark, so that she knew
the door into the kitchen had shut. The child was going to bed. Dixon
would stoop his tall head to bid her good-night, and presently her feet
would patter on the polished, carpetless stair. His old mother would
be waiting to settle her warm and safe for the night, and to steal in
later with sweeties for her little stocking. Soon he would go upstairs
himself, and the lights in Dockerneuk would slide out silently, and
when the moon sank the dark would swallow it up as if it had never
been. Slinker’s wife hid her face against the stoup and cried aloud,
and one of the fine-eared dogs in the stable heard her, and barked
quick and deep. The kitchen door opened instantly in response, and
Dixon came out into the porch.

He did not need his dog’s repeated signal, for he could see her figure
plainly enough under the moon, but some instinct kept him from speaking
until he was near enough to discern her face. She stayed quiet, leaning
against the stone, and they looked into each other’s eyes.

“It’s sharp to-night,” he said gravely, and saluted her with a raised
finger. The tiny action put the whole world between them. “Were you
wanting anything of me, Mrs. Lyndesay of Crump?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I--it’s Christmas Eve. I just--walked
up.” She gathered her courage and looked up at him again. “Can I come
in?” she begged. “I want to come in--oh, please--let me come in!”

But Dixon shook his head.

“Crump’s your place. You chose Crump. You’d a right to choose for
yourself--I’m not denying that. But it’s done, and you must bide by it.
You’ve finished with Dockerneuk for ever.”

“No, no! Oh, no, no----!” she stammered, suddenly broken-hearted like a
child wrenched from a happiness just within its grasp. She put out her
hands, the quick tears running down her face. “Anthony--I’ve come back.
Why did you ever let me go? Anthony, take me in!”

And again he shook his head.

“You chose Crump!” he repeated doggedly. “All the wishing in the world
won’t change it. You’re Crump, now, and Crump you must bide till you
die.” He moved forward. “They’ll be missing you at the Hall. I’ll set
you back.”

But she caught his arm, brave through her confidence in the man’s fine
nature and his faithful love.

“Ah, don’t turn me away! It’s my home for all you may say--mine as
well as yours. I belong to you and to Dockerneuk, though I never knew
it until it was too late. You’ll take me back, Anthony--you’ll take me
back?”

He gathered her cold hands into his warm ones.

“I’ve thought the world of you always,” he said. “Your place was ready
for you ever after I had once set eyes on you. I could scarce bring
myself to bolt the door of a night because it seemed to shut you out,
and yet the house had you in every corner. I used to sit of an evening,
and think I heard you laugh--you were so close. And in the morning,
when I came in from the shippons, I’d look to see your face at the
window. But when you married Lyndesay, you shut the door yourself,
and I never saw your shadow in the old place again. You went into a
different world, and I couldn’t follow you. You’re Crump now, and
you’ll never be Dockerneuk no more. You’ve learned quality’s ways such
as I never learned--fine talk and fine manners, dinners, carriages and
footmen. What-like would farm-life seem to you, _now_? You’ve had a
gentleman to your husband--a liar and a wastrel, happen, but a Lyndesay
and quality for all that. Dixon of Dockerneuk’s not quality, and you’d
remember it--ay, and I’d know you remembered! It would be hell for both
of us. If once you’re quit of your own folk, there’s never any getting
back in this world, for it’s you that changes, no matter how you may
think things look the same. There’s no help--no way out. You left me
and Dockerneuk behind you, and all the longing in the world won’t ever
bring you home.”

She tightened her clasp on his, and spoke steadily for the first time.

“There’s no change can harm love,” she said. “I didn’t know when I
married Stanley, but I knew soon after. I knew that you were the best
thing in my life--ah, no!--that you were the whole of it! I married
Stanley for Crump, right enough, but when once I saw clear, I never
raised a finger to take it. I knew where my real place should have
been, by then, and I wouldn’t come. I came when he was dead, because,
when once I was free, I couldn’t stop away from you and never see
you; just as I’ll stay, Anthony, till you take me in, if I’ve to come
begging like a tramp every night to ask it!”

“I can’t believe it!” Dixon’s voice was harsh and troubled. “It’s not
likely you’ll ever stoop to me, now. Think what folk’ll say--Dockerneuk
after Crump! You’ve got to make me sure it’s right before I’ll take the
risk for you. I’ll not snatch at what I want, and be hated for it all
my days. I couldn’t bide that--to see you eating out your heart for
things I couldn’t give you. You’re Mrs. Lyndesay’s darling, nowadays,
they say. She’ll find another Lyndesay for you, likely, or some other
of the quality.” The first touch of bitterness crept into his voice. “I
can’t think you’d ever be happy with me. ’Tisn’t in reason. You’ve got
to prove it.”

“How can I prove it better than by being here to-night?” she asked
piteously. “Did you ever know Nettie Stone go on her knees before?”

“It’s not enough,” he answered, loosing her hands, and a cloud went
over the moon. “It’s not enough! To-night’s to-night, but there’s half
a lifetime to think other in. Only prove it, and you’ll find every
stone of Dockerneuk calling for you, but till then we must go our
different ways, and bide it as we may.”

They descended the avenue in silence, to meet Christian speeding
anxiously up it. His face lightened when he saw Dixon, though he made
no comment, only gave him a Christmas greeting, and pressed Crump
hospitality upon him. But Dixon refused obstinately.

“Thank you kindly, sir, but I’d best be getting back. I left the door
open, and my old mother’ll likely get feared. _He_ never asked me, Mr.
Christian, and he’s been dead such a short while. I can’t rightly feel
that he isn’t still there.”

“You’ve infected him, Nettie!” Christian said, as lightly as he could,
when Dixon had vanished among the trees. “You’ve told him all the
things you thought you saw, and all the other things you thought you
felt.”

“I told him nothing,” she answered bitterly, “but I’m not surprised. He
felt the chain at my heel. If you put your life into the hands of a man
like Slinker, you’ll never quite escape him after, alive or dead!”

In the hall she slipped out of his coat, and he brought her a steaming
glass; and as she took it from him, over the snow-smooth park the bells
began to ring. Christian opened the door, and let the joy of them flood
the sombre hall. The clock struck in the dimness under the stair, and
at the foot of the steps the fiddler broke into his thin, wailing hymn,
and the shouter cried them their Christmas mirth. Mrs. Slinker laid
her hand lightly on Christian’s shoulder, and kissed him.

“A Merry Christmas to you, Laker, my dear!” she said, with a thrill in
her voice and a kindly look. “Here’s luck to Lakin’ Lyndesay!” and she
lifted her glass and drank. Then she raised it again, turning south to
Dockerneuk. “And here’s the right home to every soul, and to all the
lost dogs a-seeking!”




CHAPTER XI


Deb turned from earnest contemplation of a window of tinned fruits
to find the Hon. Mrs. Stalker’s carriage at the grocer’s steps, that
august personage herself enthroned therein, wearing a fur garment of
such dimensions as to send all the Crump cats scuttling for shelter
to the nearest drain. The coachman touched his hat, but the great
lady appeared to find the street perfectly empty, though Deb stared
defiantly, her back to the tinned fruits. Silver-hair Savaury of
Tasser, marking the situation from the Post-Office, hurried to her
relief.

He bestowed a sweeping bow upon furred grandeur as he passed, and the
Honourable smiled and put out a hand, for Savaury of Tasser was “quite
all right,” and not to be ignored by anybody; but Savaury merely waved
a lavender glove gracefully in her face, and, throwing her an airy
“Rejoiced to see you, dear lady! So sorry--important business,” pulled
up in front of Deb. “Can you come to dinner?” he added loudly, with his
back to greatness, and all Crump heard him.

A faint giggle came from somewhere behind the Honourable’s tiger-skin,
but Deb was too upset to catch it. She looked at her knight with more
doubt than gratitude in her eyes.

“Thanks very much--I don’t think I can----” She hesitated, praying for
escape, and Savaury snorted and waved his glove again.

“Oh, of course you can come! I insist. You can tell me about the new
stop on the organ. I can’t manage it--so tiresome! And Petronilla
thinks she’s got mumps or appendicitis or something. It will do her
good to have a dinner-party. When? Oh, let me see! Hardly to-morrow,
of course--no! Shall we say Wednesday?--yes! Now don’t be tiresome
and send us back word. May I walk with you as far as the park? Oh,
you’re not going that way? I’m sorry.” The Honourable was about to
descend personally upon the shop, and he raised his voice as Deb fled.
“Petronilla sent you a message, by the way. Wants you to go with her to
the Cantacute concert--Verity’s performance, you know. And don’t forget
about Wednesday!”

A second chuckle came from the victoria, and he looked round quickly.
Slinker’s wife, glowing like a rose in her dark furs, leaned towards
him.

“Won’t you ask me, too?” she begged prettily. “Don’t pretend you don’t
know me just because we haven’t been introduced. My grandfather was
your grandfather’s stable-boy at Tasser, so that’s quite a bond, isn’t
it, and ought to make us friends on the spot! Do ask me to dinner,
there’s a dear thing. I want to meet that nice girl ever so badly.”

“But--but--my dear lady----!” Savaury stammered helplessly, clutching
at his hat, and dropping the lavender glove to a slushy bed.

“I’m not a lady. I’m old Steenie Stone’s daughter. But I’m an imitation
Lyndesay, nowadays, for my sins, so you can ask me to dinner quite
comfortably, without upsetting your ancestors.”

“Of course--of course!” Savaury managed a gallant smile. “But I was not
aware that you were--going out--and--there’s Miss Lyndesay!” he bungled
desperately, hoping fervently that the men-servants were not listening.

“Oh--etiquette!” Slinker’s wife flapped her big muff contemptuously.
“It’s a bit late to start being conventional about this affair, isn’t
it--Stanley’s general behaviour, I mean, and mine?” He cocked a nervous
ear, and she shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, it’s all right! They know a
good deal more about it than you do. I belong to them, you see, so I
don’t value their opinion like you aristocrats!”

She smiled at him enchantingly, and he responded involuntarily, though
inwardly sadly pained.

“As for Miss Lyndesay, she’ll get used to me. People do, you know. Mrs.
Stalker’s taking me back with her to tea, so I _am_ going out, you see.
And I’m just dying to know that girl, so you’ll ask me, won’t you?”

“Certainly--only too delighted--honoured--enraptured!” Savaury
murmured, as fascinated as any rabbit by a boa-constrictor. “But you
must admit it will be a little bit _awkward_.”

“Oh, well, I’ll bring Christian along as well,” she said kindly,
“and then, if things are going wrong, you can shove him in between.
Christian’s a beautiful buffer. Don’t you fret. We’ll worry through,
somehow, and come up smiling. Wednesday? All right. You’re a duck!”

“I eat quite decently at table!” she called after him, as he turned
rather blindly up the street, “and I don’t need introducing to a
finger glass. And--oh, yes!--I always take a fork to sweets. Thought
I’d better tell you--save you worrying, don’t you know!” and he could
hear that she was still laughing as he stumbled, gasping, into the
saddler’s, and gave a lengthy order for tea-cakes.

“So tiresome!” he condoled with himself, peering round the doorpost
to make sure that the coast was clear before emerging. “Really a most
distressing occurrence, not to say calamitous. And yet, without doubt,
a decidedly pleasant woman! But, goodness gracious, how am I to tell
Petronilla!”

Petronilla took it very well on the whole, being a woman of character,
whose quietly-regal demeanour was equal to most situations; but it
was a distinctly nervous host and hostess that waited their guests on
Wednesday evening in the long, low-ceiled room, where the lamplight
caught the flowers in the old punch-bowls, and the firelight rippled
along the shining surface of chintz and deep-tinted china, and warmed
the mellow delicacy of the miniatures on the walls.

“If only she would come _first_--Deborah, I mean!” Savaury agitated,
all black and white and pink and silver, waving eyeglasses distractedly
on the hearth-rug. “Then I could take her aside and just _explain_
to her, while you kept the others away till she settled down. I wish
you’d have let me tell her beforehand, just to get her broken _in_; and
then--well, then----”

“_Then_ she wouldn’t have come!” Petronilla finished serenely.

“Well, no, I don’t suppose she would. But you must admit it’s simply
_horrid_, not to say _painful_! Suppose she won’t bow, or goes out and
walks home in the mud? And I ordered such an extremely nice dinner!”

“She won’t do that. Deborah is too well-bred to make her hosts
uncomfortable. What _I’m_ wondering is how the High Sheriff will take
the horse-dealer’s daughter. He’s a Radical, you know. And I’d quite
forgotten that Crump used to owe Whyterigg a grudge--oh, dear! Still,
it’s a very long time ago, and one can’t ask just _any_body to meet
Mr. Lyndesay, even if it _is_ only Christian. But a horse-dealer’s
daughter! Perhaps she’ll get on with the parson.”

“Don’t you pin your faith to the parson!” (Savaury seemed to have
followed this curious speech with perfect ease). “Mrs. Stanley isn’t
the parson-sort, from what _I_ saw of her. Oh, I don’t mind _anything_
if only Deborah doesn’t try to shoot her! I hope to goodness she’ll
come first!”

But Deborah did not come first. She came last, hoping to escape the
painful minutes before dinner, so that the stage was fully set by the
time she entered the warm, delicately-tinted room. The High Sheriff was
discussing the exact date of the carved fireplace with his hostess,
dropping an occasional lofty remark to Christian, while Slinker’s wife,
her dark head framed by an alcove panelled in yellow satin brocade, and
crowned by the blue and gold of old Worcester on a white shelf, dragged
the Arevar parson across Canada with a celerity which left him gasping.
The High Sheriff’s sister and the parson’s sister sat together on the
broad chintz sofa, listening politely to the Crump doctor, who was
saying nothing. They had been born to sit on sofas out of the limelight.

Deb took in the group at a glance, and for a moment she stood still
in the middle of the room, lifting her head with the startled grace
of Christian’s fallow deer, every line of her rigid with reproach
in her white gown, casting a steady look of condemnation at the
conscience-stricken Savaury, who prepared for any catastrophe in that
fateful second.

But Petronilla saved the situation. Leaving the High Sheriff with a
weighty sentence hanging in the balance, she moved placidly forward,
took the girl’s hand and kissed her; then flung her into Mrs. Slinker’s
arms before she had time to retreat.

Slinker’s wife made no attempt to hold her; merely gave her a
courteous bow and smile, and continued to expand the parson’s mind,
at the same time manœuvring Christian skilfully and unobtrusively
forward. Deborah found herself inquiring after the runaway puppy in
perfectly normal tones, though the miniatures swam round her, and a
helpless fury possessed her galloping heart. It was not until she met
the disapproving gaze of the High Sheriff’s sister that she became
fighting-cool. The High Sheriff’s sister had cut her in Witham.
To-night Deborah Lyndesay cut the High Sheriff’s sister.

Yet the dinner passed smoothly, for all the high tension and the
warring sympathies. It was a frantic situation, as everybody realised,
but convention has its own transforming magic. Savaury, in after years,
when the terror of it had left him, was known to say that it was the
most successful dinner he had ever given. Perhaps everybody made a
special effort, even the sofa-people. Perhaps the spice of danger in
the air lent the touch of excitement necessary to brilliance. Perhaps
both accounted for it--or neither. Perhaps just the wizardry of Mrs.
Slinker, with her heart knocking for admittance at Dockerneuk gates.
Savaury was at her feet before he had swallowed his first fish-bone.
The High Sheriff’s head had turned in her direction by the time the
entrée was served. And when dessert had been reached without fiasco,
she had the whole table listening to her.

Christian looked at her with affectionate admiration; then back
to Deborah at his side, remembering with some bewilderment their
unrewarding stroll across the park, and her steadily-averted head.
To-night she had plenty to say; to-night he saw the curve of her mouth
and the even flash of her teeth, the satisfaction of a clear skin and
the clean line of a cheek that has eight hundred years of breeding
behind it. Glancing from that revealing profile to her hands, so
strangely like his own, for the first time he realised their kinship
with a thrill of pleasure and pride. As for her, she had long ceased to
look at him, for where a man matters, a woman looks at him once for all
time. She knew by heart his easy grace, the light on his hair and the
charm of his quiet eyes.

They were in full tide of a discussion on wire-fencing--amazingly and
volubly interested--when Slinker’s wife leaned forward and addressed
Deborah deliberately across the table. She wore black to-night as a
concession to poor Savaury and his ancestors, and her vivid face rose
from a cloud of soft drapery which spelt Crump’s widow as little as it
spelt horse-dealer’s daughter.

“I want you to tell me, please,” she said, “the way to the wishing-well
in the Pixies’ Wood. Christian says he has forgotten it, and Mrs.
Lyndesay says she never knew it. But of course your father’s daughter
will know it. You _can_ tell me, can’t you?”

“Why, yes!” Deborah answered, without stopping to think. (How could
she resist such a question? Oh, weirdly-wise Mrs. Slinker!) “The
path is lost now, but I knew it well in my childhood, and I couldn’t
forget it if I tried. Old ‘Buck’ Lyndesay fought a right of way over
it, you know, and though he lost, he shut it in the teeth of the law
and everybody else, and by degrees people gave up going, when they got
tired of pulling down the wall in protest. Some say that the well is
lost altogether, but that isn’t true.”

“And how does one start to find it?”

“Oh, it’s easy enough at first. You take the bridle path through the
Home Plantation, and break out along the common to the foot of the
Pixies’ steps. You must shut your eyes when you climb the steps, or the
pixies will turn you blind; and always, always you must pluck the gorse
that grows at the top, and think of the one that you love best, or
you may leave your heart behind you! Then you see the great pine from
which a Lyndesay flew the flag that threw his father’s ship on Aill
Sands; and after that, a long, feathery line of firs like fairy fingers
beckoning from a moss-green velvet sleeve. And on the left, where the
wood sinks and the bracken grows to your waist, the well lies in a
limestone cup----”

She broke off, meeting the wonder in Christian’s eyes, knowing herself
hopelessly betrayed; and Slinker’s wife, too wise to press the
situation further, smiled her thanks, and turned a polite ear to the
High Sheriff, who, either because of his position or his politics,
thought himself justified in addressing her across the parson’s sister
and the dumb doctor.

“Suppose we find it together?” he suggested, kindly. “Christian has
asked me over to lunch, next week, I believe, and I--I collect wells.
I’m sure we could find it together!”

Rishwald was forty and still unmarried, handsome, if pompous, rich
and immensely run after, so that the table gasped at his amazing
condescension, whilst Petronilla offered up spiritual sacrifice to
every fetich she possessed; but Slinker’s wife merely shook her head,
smiling.

“It is only safe to visit a wishing-well with one of three people,” she
said gently; “yourself, another woman, or--the Right Man.” And in the
clear well of wine in her hand she saw Dixon of Dockerneuk’s face.

“So you didn’t _really_ prefer the road!” Christian murmured in
Deborah’s ear, and became acquainted a second time with the back of her
head.

“Yes, I did!” she returned obstinately. “Shall I tell you what I wished
for when I last visited the fairy well? A motor-car!”

“That’s a lie!” Christian said in his gentle voice, and the farthest
person from him was the only other that heard him--the High Sheriff’s
sister--and she had her own reason. Even sofa-people may have longings
eating the heart out of them.

“I’ll prove it to you!” he added quickly. “I’ve had an offer for that
wood, just this last week. There’s some especially fine timber, they
say, and I could do with the cash to spend on the farms. The wood will
be just as fine again in another few hundred years or so. So I’ll write
to-morrow, closing with the offer----”

Although he was prepared in a measure, he started before the Deborah
that faced round on him with blazing eyes and trembling hands.

“You dare!” she cried, under her breath, but as fiercely as if she
had shrieked. “You dare! You just _dare_ to touch a root of those
trees----!” She saw the trap then and stopped, but she was still
trembling when he rose, laughing, to make way for her, as Petronilla
left the table.

“I was right!” he whispered exultantly. “I was right, and you are a
wicked deceiver. You _didn’t_ prefer the road!”

Later, they played Pope Joan in the hall, with a wonderful old gilded
bowl and mother-of-pearl counters, Rishwald planting himself firmly
beside Mrs. Slinker, and magnanimously paying her double when she won,
though she was both a luckier and a better player than he. There was no
mistaking his complete captivation, and Nettie, as he slid the counters
tenderly towards her, thought of Dixon’s words. She had got into a
different world; she would marry into that world a second time; there
was no going back for those who once stepped out.

Savaury, who detested cards, played soft nothings on a dim piano, and,
at the end of the first game, moved by some unaccountable impulse,
invited the horse-dealer’s daughter to sing. Nettie got up at once,
glad to escape further mother-of-pearl attentions, and went across to
him. She sang “Veils.”

  “I drew betwixt us blue mist of the main,
  The gray mist of an English winter’s rain,
  The black mist of intolerable pain:
  Yet, if I draw even Death between us twain,
  Through its white mist I still shall see you plain.”

“A silly little song!” Savaury snorted, by way of gratitude. “A
tiresome, silly little song--quite too absurd! For goodness’ sake sing
something else!” and sang the silly little song in his sentimental
little heart for the rest of the night.

Mrs. Slinker laughed. A song, like any other work of art, can only give
you what you bring to it, and Savaury had never needed to shroud his
soul from Petronilla--Petronilla and her Pope Joan bowl, framed in her
old-world hall.

“Sing again!” Savaury commanded; and she sang--

  “All in the April evening,
  April airs were abroad;
  The sheep with their little lambs
  Passed me by on the road.

  The sheep with their little lambs
  Passed me by on the road;
  All in the April evening
  I thought on the Lamb of God.

  The lambs were weary, and crying
  With a weak, human cry.
  I thought on the Lamb of God
  Going meekly to die.

  Up in the blue, blue mountains
  Dewy pastures are sweet;
  Rest for the little bodies,
  Rest for the little feet.

  But for the Lamb of God,
  Up on the hill-top green,
  Only a Cross of shame,
  Two stark crosses between.

  All in the April evening,
  April airs were abroad;
  I saw the sheep with their lambs,
  And thought on the Lamb of God.”

April was in the room when she ended--April, full of the passionate
hope and the heart-break that make each spring an agony of
resurrection. She heard the lambs cry as they turned in at the gate of
Dockerneuk fold. She heard Dixon’s call to his dog and the quick reply.
The soft spring air wrapped her round; the quiet night came up; the
hills sank. And still the lambs called and cried.

Christian heard the blackbird that sings every evening on Crump lawn
all through the spring. Just at dusk it starts, sweet as a harp-string,
and you dare not shut your ears though it tear the very heart out of
you. All you have lost it tells you, and all you have hoped for and may
never find.

And Deborah thought of young grass springing on the land--of the smell
of the brown earth turned by the plough, of the rooks swaggering
bravely in the furrows behind the horses, fearing the servitors
of their spring-feast no more than a human the fingers round a
sacramental cup. And later, when the plough was idle, and the ploughman
gone home, they, too, would turn home to Crump.

Out on the drive, Rishwald’s chauffeur started his engine with the
hardihood of despair, and Mrs. Slinker’s spell was broken. The great
person bade everybody else a hurried adieu in order to spare her a long
moment of farewell.

“Then I may come, next week?” he inquired eagerly. “You will be
there, of course, won’t you? Promise you will!” and went away with a
mother-of-pearl fish tightly clasped in his hand, Petronilla beholding
the departure of her cherished heirloom with well-bred serenity. It was
not until he was four miles home that he remembered it, together with
the facts that his new adoration was old Steenie Stone’s daughter and
barely a ten months’ widow--and didn’t care.

Deb’s hired brougham was waiting too, but there was no sign of the
Crump car, and Christian, remembering that it had been running badly
all day, was for setting out in search. Mrs. Slinker demanded goloshes,
declaring that she would walk home, whereupon Savaury at once offered
his own carriage; but Deb, thinking of his warm horses and autocrat of
a coachman, was suddenly stricken in conscience.

“Won’t you come with me?” she asked, rather shyly, looking full at Mrs.
Slinker for the first time. “I can just as easily go round by Crump,
you know, and you really must not think of walking. We may meet the
car on the road.”

So thus the incredible thing happened--Slinker’s wife and Deborah
Lyndesay driving Crump lanes in peace and amity, with a very much
astonished Christian sitting opposite. His trust had not been
misplaced--Nettie Stone _was_ omnipotent, after all! Again he gave her
full meed of admiration; and then again felt the thrill of claiming
pride towards his shadowy kinswoman in the other corner.

“Aren’t they old dears?” Mrs. Slinker laughed affectionately, as they
left Tasser behind them. “Petronilla and Co., I mean. Not that they are
_really_ old, of course, but you feel they must have been rooted there
for centuries. They just _fit_, don’t they? You want to thank them
for being so beautifully in the picture, and you hope they’ll go on
Pope-Joaning for at least another hundred years.”

“Wait till you see Whyterigg!” Christian said, his voice faintly
quizzical as he mentioned Rishwald’s place. “It’s a lot older than
Tasser, and has a priest’s room and a ghost, and suits of armour
running up against you in every passage. You’ve been there many a time,
Deborah, of course?”

“Not I!” Deb answered. “Never once. Wild horses wouldn’t drag Father
into Whyterigg! You’ll remember it was Crump property, once upon a
time, and the Rishwalds got it by some rather curious hanky-panky.
Crump and Whyterigg have never been friendly, you know,” she added,
and both her hearers felt suddenly outsiders.

“Of course. I’d forgotten for the moment,” Christian replied, almost
apologetically. “I’m not half as well up in the family history as I
ought to be. You know much more about Crump than I do.”

“It was my great--three times great--grandfather that was done over
Whyterigg--we were stewards of Crump even then. _You_ might forget that
sort of thing, but _we_ couldn’t. We were responsible, you see.”

“Kleptomania seems to run in the family!” Mrs. Slinker said quaintly,
and they all laughed, thinking of Petronilla’s fish. “I suppose he’ll
have to come to lunch, Christian, but you’d better keep an eye on the
spoons!”

In the lane above the park they met an apologetic chauffeur, waving a
spanner. The car had struck work by the top lodge, and Christian got
out to assist.

“I’m glad the silly old thing stuck!” Mrs. Slinker observed, as they
drove on, leaving him to follow. “Fate doesn’t mean you to pass me by
on the other side--_that’s_ clear, anyhow. You can’t ever really hate
me again, now you have done me a kindness!

“You won’t speak, I know,” she went on impatiently, turning on her
silent companion. “Your class never does! But I’m not afraid of
speaking, and I’m just sick and tired of the whole position. It’s been
a wretched muddle from beginning to end. I invited myself to that
tea-fight to-night, as you may or may not know. It isn’t exactly a
habit of mine--going where I’m not wanted--but I’d have done more
than that for the chance of straightening things out with you. You
mustn’t treat me as though I’d deliberately harmed you. It hurts; and
it isn’t fair. I’ve got my own punishment to grin and bide, as it is.
Anyhow, life’s hard enough without going round collecting enemies for
amusement. Won’t you try to tolerate me? Can’t you be kind to me, as
though Stanley had never existed?”

“‘Kindness’ would be an insult, surely!” Deb said slowly. “I don’t
hate you, of course. I’m not as absurd as that. And you were the more
wronged of the two. But it is an impossible situation. We can never be
friends.”

“‘Never’ is a long word!” Nettie said stoutly. “I deserved what I got,
if it comes to that. I should have stayed with my husband, instead of
leaving him free to run after other more attractive people. But I had
to be quit of him--I can’t pretend anything else. It’s no use blinking
facts, my dear--neither you nor I had any business with Slinker at all,
and we were rightly served. Vanity was the pebble I tripped on--I won’t
ask what was yours. Anyway, there’s no sense in not making the best of
things, and I want to be friends with you--I do! I’m not going back to
Canada if I can help it,” she added, smiling wistfully in the dark,
“so you’ll have to learn to make the best of me. Oh, you _will_!” she
finished passionately, and fell silent; but when she offered her hand
at Crump steps, it was not refused.

The car had caught them up, and Christian, jumping out, was at the
carriage-door when they stopped. He wished to come on to Kilne, but
Deborah would not hear of it, and, as she drove away, took with her
that glimpse of him standing on the steps, smiling; and though she did
not know it, a new spell wove a shuttle through the old. Crump had her
now for all eternity.




CHAPTER XII


Even at the gates of Heron Grant sighed, for sounds of song came
roystering down the drive to meet him. A tambourine rattled
bravely, a piano banged, and that last instrument of depravity--the
bones--chattered cheerily in his ears. Verity’s Pierrots were getting
into their stride. The concert was beginning to loom definitely on the
horizon, and their repute had gone forth on all sides. It behoved them
to strain every nerve.

In the hall he found Larruppin’ Lyndesay sitting on a hard, polished
chair, hugging a large pile of music, and gloomily studying the pattern
of the parquet floor. He raised his head to nod funereally, and to
point to a second hard, polished chair beside him.

“It’s no use your tryin’ to see her,” he observed cheeringly. “If you
walk inside, she’ll only get the plumber or the fish-man to throw you
out again, an’ there’s no sense in takin’ risks. I’m just let in to
deal the music, an’ then I have to git. If you’ve come inspectin’, I
can give you my word that everythin’s O.K. and as strict as Leviticus.
Think it sounds a bit rowdy from outside? Oh, well, that’s _music_,
old man,--there’s no helpin’ _that_! Music is a great and glorious
gift of God--Martin Luther or some other Johnny said so, so you can’t
be disapprovin’. _In_side, it’s as flat as a funeral an’ as dull
as a donkey-race. It’s somethin’ distressin’ to see them strainin’
themselves an’ gettin’ thin, tryin’ to be humorous. Verity’s nothin’
but skin an’ bone. As for Larry Lyndesay, I haven’t had a decent dinner
this week, aeroplanin’ over to practices!”

From the drawing-room came the final crashing chords of “Boiling the
Old Black Pan,” and then a lugubrious bass began to sing “Queen Amang
the Heather.”

“Just listen to ’em!” Larry groaned miserably. “Harry Lauder in white
piqué! ’Tisn’t self-respectin’! I’m thinkin’ of writin’ to him about
it. An’ now Verity’s gettin’ her hair up again. There she goes! If
you feel like sailin’ in after _that_, you must be a double-barrelled
Balaclava broncho-buster!”

Verity’s voice had broken clear and commanding across the lumberings of
the embryo Harry Lauder.

“Begin again, please, right at the beginning, and get the thing
_along_! It’s as heavy as a stale loaf, at present; more like an
elephant trying to dance than anything else. This is how you sing it,
if you care to know.” (Faithful if uncomplimentary imitation.) “A great
deal more dash about it, please,--a _great_ deal more dash! And just
have a look at the notes, will you? You don’t seem even to have _seen_
those dotted quavers!”

“It hurts to hear her conversin’ like that!” Larrupper threw at the
silent parson by the drawing-room door. “She looks such a kind, soft
little thing, doesn’t she? She’s no business to be roarin’ like a
drill-sergeant fifty inches round the chest. She’s jolly clever, of
course, an’ she knows what she’s doin’, but it kind of makes me squirm
when she slogs at the grocer or starts bullyin’ the big fish-an’-chips.”

“It hurts me, too,” Grant said in a low voice, without turning.

“Yes, but it hurts me all over,” Larry mourned, his black eyes pools
of misery,--“inside an’ outside, my head an’ my heart an’ my charmin’
disposition. It only hurts _you_ in your parson-part, old man!”

Grant turned half an eye upon him, but made no effort to contradict
him. “Are you engaged to her?” he asked suddenly, apparently of
nothing but the grain of the drawing-room door, and the white china
finger-plate.

“Oh, yes, I’m engaged to her all right!” Larry pronounced firmly,
plunging into search after a missing copy, so that he did not see the
other’s back stiffen. “I should have thought you would have known that
without tellin’. I’m always gettin’ congratulatin’ letters. The only
worryin’ thing about it is that _she_ isn’t engaged to _me_!”

Grant gave a short laugh which might have meant either amusement or
relief.

“Do you think if I were to knock----?” he began, summoning his
determination, but was cut short by a fresh star within, swimming
soothingly into his ken with--“Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!”

There was no peremptory checking, this time, no request for “dash,” no
insulting recommendations as to quavers. The accompaniment murmured
tenderly beneath the pure, easy tenor, and the parson jumped round with
an unspoken question on his lips, to which Larry nodded a solemn assent.

“That’s so,--but it’s no use disturbin’ yourself, old man. It’s
Billy-boy Blackburn, right enough, and can’t he just sing, bless his
dear, innocent little heart! Sounds like somethin’ in a surplice
with wings, doesn’t he? An’ now he’s dancin’,--you can hear the old
Nanki-Poo joinin’ in!”

“I’m going to speak to Miss Cantacute!” Grant announced sternly, but
Larry sprang up and grabbed him.

“Not on your life!” he said anxiously. “I’m Verity’s watch-dog, an’
it’s my job to see you don’t go bargin’ in to worry her. What’s the
use of excitin’ yourself, anyhow? Tisn’t what _I_ was brought up to,
either, if it comes to that, but perhaps we’re a bit old-fashioned, an’
ought to keep movin’. He _can_ dance, too, dear old thing! He won’t
smash anythin’. An’ Verity likes it.”

“She’s no business to like it!” Grant snapped angrily, opening the door
in spite of him. “Blackburn’s a wastrel,--a real outsider--and Miss
Cantacute ought not to have anything to do with him. She’s too young
and--and too pretty!” he finished defiantly. “And if you’re engaged to
her, as you seem to think other people think you think you are, you
shouldn’t have allowed it!”

Larruppin’ Lyndesay crimsoned indignantly.

“D’you think I’d have him on the same planet as my girl if I could
help it?” he asked hotly. “Don’t I know Billy-boy Blackburn’s winnin’
character as well as you an’ everybody else in the parish? But if
you imagine it’s any use sayin’ ‘no’ when Verity says ‘yes,’ you’re
labourin’ under a very highly-coloured delusion! You’ll get no good by
breakin’ in an’ makin’ yourself disliked, young feller-me-lad, and--oh,
very well, go to blazes! _I_ don’t care!”

Verity did not see the black figure at first as she bent earnestly over
the keys, looking up now and then to smile approval at the performer,
and joining heartily in the refrain.

      “So the minutes slip away:
      We get older, every day:
      Soon we’ll be too old to play.
  (Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!)
      ’Nother night we’ll both be dead:
      ’Nother couple dance instead:
      Honey! Lift your pretty head--
  Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!”

Billy-boy sank panting into a chair, and it was not until Verity had
finished applauding that she had time to perceive the intruder. The
perfection of Billy-boy’s ‘turn’ must have softened her heart, for she
rose with a smile and offered Grant a welcoming hand.

“I’m afraid you find us rather busy to-night. Are you wanting anything
important? If not, won’t you sit down and listen to a few of our items?
You may be able to make some suggestions.”

Grange, Larrupper’s chauffeur, offered the vicar his seat, which the
latter took after a moment’s hesitation, and sat in silence while
Larrupper himself, looking rather sheepish, doled out a fresh batch of
copies. He hated the job frankly. Larruppin’ Lyndesay hadn’t an ounce
of either self-consciousness or pride, but he did feel a bit of an
ass distributing “My sweet sweeting” and more of that ilk to his own
chauffeur. He had a strong suspicion that Grange thought him an ass,
likewise, for all that he looked like a bit of the furniture. Besides,
Grange could sing, and Larry couldn’t. Perhaps that was the rub.

It was certainly a very select troupe. Grant, looking round upon the
prim party of twenty, had to admit that;--decidedly O.K., as Larry
had put it. Billy-boy was its only blot, thought the parson, and
instantly his artistic sense (sternly repressed) responded that, on
the contrary, he was its only saving grace. For when Billy-boy sang,
the chorus were magnetised into rhythm, attack, spontaneity and life;
but when Billy was silent, they were merely so many stuffed dolls,
hanging heavy upon Verity’s little fingers. The audience, considering
the big, black-bearded smith, with his gentle voice, step as light as
a cat’s, and character,--well, not worth mentioning,--pondered sadly
upon the pitfalls of the artistic temperament. Not one of those present
but despised the man, shrugged a meaning shoulder when speaking of
him, or shook a condemning head; yet with one consent they bowed to
the artist in him, and paid it tribute by giving him of their best.
No wonder Verity had counted him as her leaven of magic in her barrel
of commonplace material! Yet he chafed to see the man under her roof,
sharing her society; for in his thoughts Verity floated always as the
whole host of heaven float in the top half of an old Italian canvas.

Many of his church-workers were present, and both his artistic and his
official sense pronounced violently that they were thoroughly out of
the picture. The girls were stiff; the men desperately polite. Grange,
in spite of his voice, looked as though he might touch his hat at
any moment. “My sweet sweeting” left them all unstirred; all except
Billy-boy Blackburn, on whose lips the old English words took instant
meaning and colour.

Grant, falling greatly, allowed himself to delay his special mission
until Billy had contributed his second solo, and again he marvelled,
for it was merely a simple lullaby, sung simply as only an artist could
sing it. His own mother had sung it often; yet he found himself unable
to resent either interpretation or interpreter. Art was the subtlest
lure of the devil, he concluded, sitting with closed eyes, the parson
struggling with the man. He had long ago decided that St. Paul’s thorn
in the flesh must have been the curse of the artistic temperament.

When the cradle-song finished, he rose nervously, his thin hand
grasping the back of the chair before him, his bright eyes fixed on
Verity’s face.

“You will think I am always a spoil-sport, Miss Cantacute, and I can
assure you I feel one, entering with an ulterior motive upon this
pleasant entertainment, but I have to remind my friend Blackburn of
a promise. He undertook some work for me, this winter, a position
in the service of my Master and his, which, lowly as it might seem
in your eyes, has a very great importance in mine. He has neglected
this undertaking for your rehearsals, Miss Cantacute, and those who
had grown to look for him and depend on him are now left a little
sadder, perhaps, than if he had never been. I went to see him about it,
naturally, and he told me that he was not in the least tired of his
work, but that Miss Verity wanted him, and therefore he couldn’t come.
You did tell me that, Blackburn, didn’t you?--just that--that Miss
Verity wanted you, and therefore you couldn’t come?”

Billy-boy, his blue eyes very solemn in his dark face, responded “Yes,
sir,” respectfully, touching an overhanging forelock, and Verity smiled
at him. She could afford to smile.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Grant,” she said frankly, with the honest sympathy
born of success. “Of course I didn’t know Billy was doing anything
special, but in any case I don’t see that we could have managed without
him. He makes all the difference, doesn’t he?” she added to the choir,
who replied affirmatively in various shades of tone, being divided
between their dislike of the man and the consciousness of their own
superior merit under the guidance of his genius.

“It is too bad, certainly, to leave you in the lurch,” Verity went on,
with maddening kindness, “but you see I want Billy simply frightfully
myself. I’d give him up if I could, but it’s out of the question. I’m
really awfully sorry, but I don’t see how I can help you, except,
perhaps, by finding you somebody else.”

I’m afraid she enjoyed that last knife-edged sentence. It is difficult
not to be a snob when flanked by twenty staunch flatterers of lower
degree.

Grant looked at her sadly and a little whimsically.

“Thank you, I think I know by now the extent of parish service
available,” he answered, with a faint smile. “We are almost on the
verge of the press-gang, as it is! But you see, this happens to be
Blackburn’s job, and nobody else’s. I’m not in the pulpit, but you
don’t need to be told that we all have our own job somewhere in the
world, and this was Billy’s. I shall be unhappy every day until I see
him back in it.”

“Was it very important?” Verity asked, touched in spite of herself by
his earnestness. “Really important?”

“As Christ counts importance, Miss Cantacute!”

“Then, if Billy will go, you may have him.”

Grant took an impulsive step forward, and there was an instant murmur
from the troupe. Faced with the possible loss of their star, there was
no shadow of doubt as to his value. One or two of the men started a
protest, but Verity ignored them, fixing her eyes upon the subject of
dispute.

“You have my permission to leave us, Billy, if you think it best. I
don’t like to feel that I’ve stood in the way of your duty. Will you
go? You know I wouldn’t keep you against your will. I’ll try to do
without you, if I must.”

Billy touched the overhanging lock again.

“Thank you, miss, but I think I’ll stop.”

“You mean that, Blackburn? You won’t think it over, and change your
mind?” Grant leaned towards him eagerly. “Miss Cantacute is kind enough
to say you may come. I fully appreciate the sacrifice, I assure you,
but I feel it my duty to accept it. Won’t you come back, my friend?
Won’t you?” But Billy shook a firm refusal.

“Not till this here’s over and by with, sir. I’m sorry, but Miss Verity
comes first, of course. I’ve always done for Miss Verity. She’s top-dog
in Cantacute, and always has been; and if Miss Verity wants me,--well,
sir, to put it plainly, I’m just there an’ nowhere else!”

There was a pause, while Grant’s hands clenched and unclenched on the
chair, his sorrowful mind reckoning up his defeat; and then Billy said
again--“Miss Verity’s always been top-dog in Cantacute!” and a sharp
echo of assent ran round the choir. Afterwards, they would remember
that they had followed Billy-boy’s lead, and be annoyed about it,--also
that they had shown him his importance far too obviously,--but at
the moment there were no side-issues, the point at stake loomed too
large. That murmur of assent showed Grant where he stood as nothing
else could have done,--showed him his opponent’s strength and his own
helplessness, the single-handedness of his own fight, and the long
power of her prestige.

Verity’s gaze was on the floor, and her attitude told nothing, yet he
knew as if he had heard it just what pæan of triumph was swelling her
conquering soul, with the inspiring word “salmon” as its passionate
motif. She had smitten him to the dust, although in a thoroughly
ladylike manner. She had humiliated him in the eyes of his own parish
without apparently raising a finger. She had won her victory and proved
her power by snatching back his hard-saved lamb to wander once more in
the wilderness.

He said nothing further,--just let his eyes travel round the group, not
reproachfully but rather wistfully, as if wondering by what reason one
man should be ready to die for a cause, while another simply yawned in
its face; and looked for one long, final moment at the bent head of his
conqueror,--and in that one moment thought, curiously enough, not of
his own shame and her treacherous subtlety, but of the way the light
played on the fine gold of her hair.

“I knew you’d make a bally ass of yourself!” Larry remarked
comfortingly, outside. “I knew you’d absolutely no earthly of any kind.
Why couldn’t you take a sportsman’s advice? You’ve gone an’ upset
Verity all for nothin’, an’ that means a devil of a time for Larry
Lyndesay. She’ll be as snarky as anythin’ after this, I can tell you.
She doesn’t _really_ like playin’ Alexander all round the place. No
nice woman does; only the hat-pin kind. I can’t think why parsons are
always bargin’ in an’ settin’ people by the ears!

“All the same, I was admirin’ you no end!” he added confidentially, on
the steps. “Grange was admirin’ you, too,--my shover, you know. I could
see him sketchin’ you on the back of that ‘Sweetin’’ thing. I’ll bag it
afterwards, and send it round. You might call it ‘Beardin’ the Begum.’
An’ don’t you get worried about Verity an’ Billy-boy. She’ll probably
post him along to-morrow, done up in a neat parcel. All Verity requires
is a little cultivatin’,--just cultivatin’. Haven’t you noticed that
most of the parishes round here are engineered by women? You can’t
get your Salic business runnin’ all in a minute, you know,--not in
Cantacute, anyhow. Just you take my tip, old man, an’ you’ll not regret
it. Try a little cultivatin’!”

Larry’s worldly diplomacy rang in poor Grant’s ears all the way home.
Would he really be justified in “cultivatin’” his proud little lady?
Didn’t it mean the sacrifice of his most rooted beliefs, the upheaval
of the foundations upon which his very life was set? As representative
of his Church, he was her spiritual superior; for all that, as man,
he longed to kiss her feet. To yield to her banner would be rank
treachery, and all the more because beneath it stood no foe but the
dear form of Verity Cantacute. All night he thought and fought and
prayed, and all night he sang without ceasing to her bent head--

      “So the minutes slip away:
      We get older, every day:
      Soon we’ll be too old to play.
  (Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!)
      ’Nother night we’ll both be dead:
      ’Nother couple dance instead:
      Honey! Lift your pretty head--
  Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!”

Was she right, after all?--argued Billy-boy’s song. Soon they would all
be in the dark, and the more fools they who had missed the sunshine and
the mirth! Perhaps he was hard, his creed damnably drear. Yet he had
been happy in it until he had heard Verity piping on the green. Had he
been harsh to her, the pretty, piping thing? Had he hurt her for the
sake of a soul that perhaps none could save?

Oh, Honey! Lift your pretty head!




CHAPTER XIII


A slow but sure affection was coming into being between the old Crump
agent and the new. As a rule, this particular sympathy is far to seek,
for the young man is nervous of the elder’s criticism, the old man
impatient of the younger’s methods, while both are held apart by the
jealous love that always clings to land; but Roger Lyndesay had retired
too long to be irritated by trifles, and moreover the mismanagement of
a decidedly indifferent successor had broken him very completely to
patience. Callander was to be hailed with delight after Slinker’s other
selection, whose sole recommendation had been a genius for extracting
rents, and who had finished an altogether doubtful career in the river,
when fishing. The new man, quiet and unassuming, slow to push himself
among strangers, found life a little solitary in his house across the
park, and by degrees he came to spend many an hour at Kilne, though he
had a habit of slipping in unobtrusively, and he never seemed to say
very much. It was old Roger who talked, and Callander who listened and
learned--many things.

Deb was happier since his coming, for he had brought a new interest
into her father’s day, and she would sit sewing by the fire, listening
to the pair of them as they traced dates, conned agreements and settled
valuations. Roger had many a tale to tell, too; of floods on the marsh,
of the Great Cattle Plague, of the dobbies that haunt the lanes, of
Royal Shows, shoots and rent-dinners. Callander would try to cap
them sometimes with tales of his own, but his Shropshire experiences
had no atmosphere in the heart of Westmorland, and he was content to
steep himself in the glamour of the new life with which he felt so
mysteriously satisfied.

He said less even to Deb than to her father. It is difficult to keep
up a society conversation along with a discussion upon swedes and the
merits of ground limestone, or the vexed question of Small Holdings.
Yet, though he scarcely seemed conscious of her presence, he had a
disconcerting habit of turning round on her with a question in cases
of difficulty, and she was always too taken aback to conceal what
knowledge she possessed. She might wear a mask with Christian, more or
less successfully, but Callander’s curt directness got behind it every
time.

One afternoon, he persuaded them to drive with him to a farm on the
marsh, and it did her good to be welcomed in the old way, and to spend
an hour chatting with the farmer’s wife while the men went round the
buildings. It was a quiet day in February, and the sands were a dim
brown beneath the mountains’ dim blue. Only the new-turned earth struck
a rich, deep note against the faint tones surrounding. They drove home
in silence, drawing in the magic that circles a certain northern marsh.

But at the gate of Kilne their peace was rudely broken, for the Crump
victoria came up, carrying Mrs. Lyndesay, pale and stiffly erect, and
as the old agent stepped from the dog-cart and stood aside, hat in
hand, she passed him without the slightest sign of recognition.

It was like a blow in the face to the proud old man. Still bareheaded,
he stood gazing after the retreating carriage as in a dream, and when
Deb laid her fingers on his arm he pushed them off with a shaking hand.

“And that’s what I’ve earned from Crump!” he cried at last, hoarse and
trembling. “I was William Lyndesay’s right hand for twenty years, and
now his widow cuts me at my door! It’s time I was under Crump sod when
Crump no longer knows me!”

Then he turned to his daughter in a sudden blind access of
helplessness, the tears running down his face.

“She _did_ know me, didn’t she, Deb? She couldn’t mistake Roger
Lyndesay at the very gate of Kilne? She must have known me,--she
couldn’t have taken me for somebody else?”

“It’s getting dark so fast, dad,” Deb said quietly, but cut to the
heart and bitterly blaming herself for his pain, for was not this
moment of humiliation the direct result of that in which she had
engaged herself to Stanley, not a hundred yards from where they stood?
“It’s so easy to look at people without seeing them, if you happen
to be thinking of something else. And there isn’t any reason why she
should cut you. She knows what she owes you too well for that. Don’t be
upset. It was only an accident, dad, I’m sure!”

But it was not an accident, and she knew it, and Roger knew it, too.
He took her arm, and let her lead him into the house, walking like an
old, old man who had had a heavy fall; and after a moment’s hesitation
Callander whistled up the Kilne man to his horse, and followed them in.

He stood just inside the parlour door in the dusk, watching Deb as she
leaned comfortingly over the distressed old figure in the arm-chair,
and listening to that note in her voice which was never struck for any
one but her father.

“It isn’t true that you’re forgotten at Crump! Why, it’s only a few
days since Christian spent the whole evening with you! He sent you the
new photograph of the house on your birthday,--don’t you remember?--and
the old servants gave you the walking-stick of Crump oak with the
inscription. Don’t fret, dear. There isn’t any need,--really there
isn’t!”

But all Roger could say was--“Crump passed me by! Crump passed me by!”
beating his old hands against the chair, and catching his breath like a
struck child. Deb looked round despairingly, and saw Callander, big and
burly, outlined against the shadowy wall. He was scribbling something
on a folded note. Then he stepped forward.

“There’s a special meet at Crump to-morrow,” he said casually, “to
finish the season; the first since the hard weather. Mr. Lyndesay’s
hunting himself. He sent you this notice by me, sir, and hoped you’d
come along. It should be a fine day, I fancy, by the sun.”

He laid the twisted paper on the table, and the old man’s eyes fixed
pathetically upon it.

“Read it, Deb!” he told her, quieting a little, his face clearing,
and after one quick look at Callander, she took it up and opened it.
It was merely the ordinary notice that Christian was in the habit of
sending to keen followers of the hunt, together with an invitation to
lunch, but there was a Lyndesay signature at the foot of it, and that
was enough for old Roger. He sat with the paper in his hand, his fine
dignity gradually reasserting itself, while Callander went on talking
in his usual unemotional manner.

“Hounds are in fine condition, this season, and they’ve done pretty
well, too, so old Brathay tells me. He was fit to tear his hair during
the hard spell, and if it freezes at midnight he’ll be nearly out of
his mind!”

“It will not freeze,” the old agent put in, with weather-wise
certainty. “The wind’s too low, and there is too much water in the
land. It was kind of Christian to send me word. I have business
to-morrow morning, or I might at least have attended the meet; but
Deborah will go, of course, in any case.”

Deb started violently.

“I’m afraid it isn’t possible--I shall be busy----” she began, in
protest, taken aback utterly, but he stopped her with a courteous
gesture.

“One of us must go,” he said decidedly. “We cannot both refuse, and as
I shall not be at liberty, it will have to be you, my dear. You have no
appointment on your own account, I suppose?”

Deb shook her head, at a loss for excuse, realising that her engagement
and its consequences had faded from his mind, leaving nothing clear and
certain but Christian’s courtesy.

“Then that settles it!” he said, rising and laying the paper on the
table. “You will be able to give me an account of the day’s sport. The
meet is at ten, I believe.” And, drawing himself slowly to his great
height, he walked shakily but with restored serenity from the room.

When he had gone, Deborah picked up the note once more, and turned it
over. Christian had never sent them a hunt-notice, and she knew well
enough what delicacy of feeling had prompted the omission. She did not
need the scribbled “R. Lyndesay, Esq.” in Callander’s hand to tell her
that the note was Callander’s and not theirs.

“I doubt I’ve only made things worse!” he said apologetically, joining
her by the fire. “But it satisfied him for the time being, and that
was the chief thing, wasn’t it? He’ll have forgotten all about it by
to-morrow, and you needn’t go.”

“I’ll have to go,” Deb said wearily, dropping the note into the fire.
(There must be no risk over that “R. Lyndesay.”) “He might forget
anything else in the world, but not a thing like that. It doesn’t
matter. You were very kind and quick, and it comforted him. Anything
was better than seeing him cry!” He caught the gleam of tears in her
own eyes as she leaned against the mantelpiece in the firelight. “You
couldn’t possibly know what you were letting me in for, and after all,
it only serves me right.” She laughed shortly, drawn out of her reserve
by the intimacy of the dusk. “I’ve made a nice mess of things for
him,--poor old dad! This will happen again, of course; and you won’t be
there another time to label Christian’s notes!”

He was silent, wondering how far it was safe to follow her lead. By
now, most of the local gossip had come round to him--(he was that
silent type of man with whom people are apt to let their tongues run
loose)--and he knew what was said of the girl who had engaged herself
to Slinkin’ Lyndesay, merely to be mistress of Crump. Instinctively he
felt that there was something in the background, some powerful motive
in the strong, self-contained nature that never gave a hint or made
appeal for pity. He had had a gentle mother, and clinging, backboneless
sisters, now married, and the stubborn, still strength of this young
creature standing alone roused in him a sudden impulse of chivalrous
admiration. He would back her if he could, but it behoved him to walk
warily, for she would be helped by nobody, and she would reveal nothing.

“Then you will go?” he repeated at last, returning to the point on
which he had fallen silent, sure of that ground at least.

“Oh, yes, I shall go!” she threw at him recklessly. “It’s a special
meet, so half the neighbourhood will be there, and they will have such
a painful time, poor things, pretending not to know me! Will Mrs.
Lyndesay have me turned off the drive, do you think? At least I can
take refuge in the middle of the pack! _They_’ll be glad enough to
welcome me, and old Brathay will see me through.”

Her voice was terribly bitter, and Callander stirred uncomfortably,
thankful for the deepening twilight.

“But you will go with me, won’t you?” he asked, rather awkwardly.
“I shall be there, of course, and I had hoped for the pleasure of
escorting you. I had meant to ask you, in any case. We could wait for
hounds at the top lodge,” he added innocently, and was taken aback when
she faced round on him like a young tigress.

“If I go, I go alone!” she told him, passionately. “Straight across
the park and into the thick of the crowd! You mean well, I know, but
do you think I’ll crawl to Crump steps at the back of a stranger?
The invitation was yours, remember,--not mine; so I must go unasked,
since my father wishes it. I can take my place with the rag, tag and
bobtail. At least I have a standing invitation from the dead!” She
dropped her head on her arms. “If only Stanley were here!” she added
bitterly. “You’d none of you dare to be ‘kind’ to me, _then_,--you
wretched Samaritans!”

“And what about Mrs. Stanley?” poor Callander asked, in his
matter-of-fact way, and Deb’s sense of humour stirred, and she laughed.

“How beautifully sane you are! I’ve made a fool of myself, I suppose,
but I’m glad it’s to you and nobody else. You won’t give me away. I’m
going alone, as I said, but you can come and unhook me if you see me
sticking in a hedge.

“Though it would be wiser if you didn’t,” she added, with a fresh touch
of bitterness. “I’m meat enough for the gossip-cats as it is. You
should see them crowd to their doors and put out their ear-trumpets
when Christian stops me in the street! But Father will want to know
every yard of the run when we get back, so perhaps you had better keep
near me, and then I can tell you things.”

“You know Crump like a book!” he said, smiling, and cursed himself, for
she was back into her shell at once.

“Oh, indeed I don’t!” she replied curtly. “I’ve just picked up things
through listening to Father, that’s all. They’re in the air--there’s no
getting away from them, as you can see for yourself. It’s like having a
chemist for a father, and learning all about pills. And it’s equally
boring!” she added defiantly.

“That isn’t Roger Lyndesay’s child speaking!” he answered bluntly,
preparing to take his leave. “Crump names are music on your
tongue,--one’s only got to hark. Some day you’ll show me your real
self. I can guess at it already, but some day I’ll see it whole!”

“And some day I’ll know why you would have married Stanley!” he added
to himself, as he went away.




CHAPTER XIV


Deb opened her window to the soft, damp breath of a real hunting
morning. The trees on the hillside showed weirdly through the gray
mist. The river below looked like a tarnished ribbon run through an
ancient cobweb veil. When the sun broke, it would be smooth silver, and
the tree-trunks would be black, and the wet slope of the hill green as
an emerald sheath.

From the kennels she could hear the eager hounds, already scenting the
day’s sport, and smiled to find she could still distinguish between
them--from the deep-throated note of old Conquest to Chanter’s steady
baritone and the hysterical tremolo of young Mornington. The quiet air
thrilled with the promise of vivid life soon to be unleashed upon its
quest of death.

As she had prophesied, the meet was still uppermost in her father’s
mind, and he looked approval when she entered the room in her short
skirt and nailed boots. He had a stout ashplant in his hand, which he
pushed across the table as she sat down to breakfast.

“It’s the stick I used to take hunting in William Lyndesay’s time,” he
told her. “I kept it for rough work, and I haven’t seen it for at least
ten years. You may not believe it, but it fell upon me out of a corner
as I came downstairs!”

“It must have heard hounds and got hankering!” Deb laughed, picking
it up and running her finger appreciatively down the good grain. “The
wind’s that way, you know. Poor old thing! It shall have its day out
all right. It shan’t be left at home to hanker in the dark. It has good
taste in weather, too,” she added gaily, “for it’s going to be a grand
day.”

“Yes--perfect!” Roger’s eyes went round to the window, to see the first
pale gold of the sun climbing the shoulder of the hill. “I feel very
much inclined to postpone my appointment, and come with you to the
meet, after all.”

“It wouldn’t be very wise, would it?” Deb asked hurriedly, keeping
her eyes on her plate, for she knew he was only waiting for the
slightest sign of encouragement, having evidently forgotten the episode
of the night before. “It will be very damp underfoot, I’m afraid,
and you haven’t worn your biggest big boots for some time. I’m not
quite certain where they are, to tell the truth! And if we make for
Monteagle, as we’re nearly sure to, it will be pretty bad going, you
know.”

Roger Lyndesay nodded, disappointed but acquiescent.

“I thought I might just have walked up to the house,” he said
wistfully, and again Deb longed passionately for a resuscitated
Slinker, at whatever cost to herself--“but I should only want to follow
when once I was among hounds, and I don’t feel equal to that. I’ve done
that Monteagle run in all weathers; ay, and seen the hare swim the
river with hounds no more than a yard behind! It’s hard to keep indoors
when their music’s in the air.”

“I’ll tell you everything when I come back, dad. We’ll follow every
ring, and cover every yard, and struggle together through every spiky
fence. You’ll feel as though you’d tramped every inch, you’ll see,
instead of sitting quietly in your own arm-chair. And you’ll be able to
correct Mr. Callander about all sorts of things when he comes for his
next lesson in Crump geography. Nothing is so upsetting to your sense
of locality as running rings round the same hill and crossing the river
every ten minutes.

“And even if we were both dumb, the ashplant would have plenty to say,
anyhow!” she added lightly, flourishing it as she went out. “It feels
as though it were ready to walk out on its own. I could almost swear it
was alive!”

She walked quickly across the park, a straight, slim figure in her dark
jersey and close cap, and waved her hand to her father standing at his
window on the other side of the fast-running water. Not until she was
half-way to Crump did she realise that she had crossed the old bridge
without a second’s hesitation, and with never a whisper of Slinker’s in
her ear.

Sportsmen were approaching from all directions, cycles, traps and cars
hurrying up and converging at Crump front; small boys playing truant,
with shining eyes and sticks much taller than themselves; all classes
and kinds and species, from the High Sheriff to half the loafing
element of the village, who were only equal to an hour’s good work
under pressure, but could pant after hounds all day on a crust of bread
and the dregs of a split soda.

The keenest spirit of this last contingent caught Deb up on the narrow
track. They had hunted together in the old days, and he was confident
of her smiling greeting as he touched the remains of a cap. He had
the plans for the day by heart, as well as any amount of private
and possibly valuable information, gleaned from keeper, farmer and
beck-watcher; and he remained beside her, pouring out eager opinions as
to their chance of sport, and the best means of obtaining it.

Hounds were at Crump door, by now. They could see old Brathay sunk
in a climbing sea of black and white and tan, and at the reiterated
throaty chorus they quickened their steps instinctively and at the same
moment. Deb, looking at the ragged figure beside her, half-starved,
consumptive, little more than a log any other day, but alive to his
finger-tips on this, wondered what could be the real nature of the
spell that summoned them both alike. Not merely the lust of death,
surely, for hares were scarce and exceedingly cunning, and a kill was
rarely in the day’s programme; moreover, she loved every animal, and
the little man at her side owned a miserable mongrel who was always
fed, even if his master went hungry. Something higher must lie at the
back of that eager response to pack-music and winded horn--something
born of the smell of the good earth and the soft, spring morning, the
clean air and the quick movement--some great wine of joy that Nature
keeps for those who have the soil and the chase in their blood. Deborah
Lyndesay and the loafer had this heritage in common, and the godlike,
unforgettable days it gives. They came to the steps of Crump sporting
equals.

Hounds were grouped a little to the right, round Brathay and the young
whip, and Deb paused to say good-day and to pick out her favourites,
while her ragged escort stood on anxious guard as wheels rolled
perilously near.

Close to the house the crowd was thickening, and among the group on the
steps she could discern Nettie, lending an inattentive ear to Rishwald,
while her eyes strayed eagerly over the press in front. They sought for
Dixon of Dockerneuk, in vain.

Savaury of Tasser had come in a brougham and a buttonhole, and was
fearfully bored. He kept pulling out his watch and remarking that the
best of the day was going, and was positively rude to Mrs. Lyndesay
about the hall-clock.

“We must wait for Larrupper,” Christian said soothingly, looking very
young and fair in the rough green of the hunt. “He’s late, of course,
but then he always is, and we can’t leave him to follow, because he’ll
make such a howling nuisance of himself all over the county, asking his
way.”

His eye fell suddenly on Deb, and he made his way to her at once,
nodding brightly on all sides. The Bracewell girls, who had turned
well-cut backs upon Deborah, while endeavouring to collect the wordless
doctor for a subscription dance, had the same trap set for the Master,
but he evaded it smilingly and passed on. The Honourable tapped him on
the shoulder from her majestic landaulette, and inquired if he intended
standing for the County Council, but again he escaped; and after
skirting several other dangerous dowagers, and a farmer or two bent on
shippon repairs, arrived at last at his destination.

“I’m ever so glad you’ve turned out!” he said eagerly, acknowledging
her attendant’s anxious salute with a kindly nod. “Callander told me
there was just a chance you might. I’ve often wondered if you would
care about it, but I knew you’d be there if you did. Lyndesays don’t
need invitations from Lyndesays, do they?” he added, smiling, veiling
the reason he could not speak.

“Father wanted me to come----” she began, and coloured sharply, for the
sympathy in his eyes told her that he was in full possession of the
facts.

“I wish he could have honoured us on his own account,” he answered,
stooping to respond to the earnest pleading of a sleek head at his
knee. “I’m coming in, to-night, if I may? I want some advice. And look
here, you’ll stop out to lunch, of course? We’re making straight along
the river to Monteagle, and probably round by Bytham to Halfrebeck.
It’s a grand day, and we should have some sport.”

Here Swainson broke in breathlessly with information, and Christian
listened attentively, putting in a word from time to time. Then he
turned to Deborah again.

“You haven’t seen Larry anywhere about, have you? He’ll look after you,
of course--and Callander. And Nettie wants to know whether _you_’ll
look after _her_, though I expect Rishwald will take that as his
prerogative. I wonder if he’s returned that fish-thing of Savaury’s,
yet!” Their eyes met, and they laughed. Then he lowered his voice. “May
I see you home when we draw off?”

“Certainly not!” Deb answered quickly, turning hastily to look for
signs of Larrupper. “You’re wasting too much time on me as it is--Mrs.
Stalker thinks so, at least. And the Master’s place is with hounds
until they’re safely back in kennels--surely you ought to know that!”

“Yes, but Brathay can take them all right, and he simply loves walking
them along the road, with all the kiddies in the place admiring behind.
And you know I want to see your father.”

“Then you can come after tea, when I shall be busy writing to
registry-offices,” she told him unkindly. “And if you intend to hunt
to-day, you’d better get started, especially as I can see a streak of
mud in the distance that is probably Larry.”

It was. He came racing through the crowd just as Christian snatched the
last word of the conversation. “I’m coming!” he insisted, in a tone she
had not heard from him before, and gave her no chance of reply, turning
away to drag his tardy cousin out of the splashed car.

“No end sorry, Laker--shouldn’t have waited--sprintin’ like the deuce!”
he gasped, throwing off his leather coat, and beckoning to a groom in
the stable-yard. “Grange goin’ huntin’, too, old man,” he explained
kindly. “Awful sport, Grange. S’pose your chap can shove the beastly
thing in somewhere?”

Without waiting for an answer he fell upon Deborah, and with his arm
through hers marched her off at the tail of the pack in full view of
all present, as Christian started up the avenue.

“I’m badly in want of soothin’, Debbie dear,” he announced plaintively,
bending his black bullet head to her cool cheek. “I ran over for
Verity--she’s always been a nailer at huntin’, you know--but there
was no gettin’ her off the spot, she was so busy slavin’ for that
evenin’ shout of hers. She was sittin’ round sortin’ hanks an’ hanks
of white piqué an’ a stack of black, fluffy bobs; and all the time I
was persuadin’ her to come huntin’ she was fixin’ a skirt-thing on me,
an’ tryin’ the bobs up an’ down it, to see where they looked best. It
was no use tellin’ her what a rippin’ day it was, an’ plenty of scent,
an’ real interestin’ news like that. All she said was--‘Yes, dear, just
an inch or two to the right’--an’--‘Yes, dear, five, I think, instead
of six’--all that sort of irritatin’ piffle. So at last I got rattled
an’ cleared out to go huntin’ without her, but old Grange grabbed me
half-way down the drive an’ said I’d forgotten to leave the skirt-thing
behind; an’ just as I was rushin’ back, blushin’, two of the squawkers
arrived for a mornin’ sing-song, an’ giggled fit to kill themselves.
Of course I pretended I was used to goin’ about like that, but I felt
dancin’ mad, I can tell you, and I want soothin’ very badly, Debbie
dear, so you can just start in an’ do it!”

“Oh, Larry, I _wish_ you’d come in the skirt!” Deb laughed blissfully.
“What a dear old crackpot you are! I’m sure Verity must be frantically
busy; these things take no end of trouble and arranging. I’m going
over, to-morrow, to give her a hand. The concert will soon be over,
now, so try not to worry her until she’s recovered.”

“Worry her?” Larry exploded, dreadfully injured. “_Worry_ her? Why,
I’m her right-hand man and the L.N.W.R. and the Army and Navy Stores
combined! I spend my days shootin’ into Witham after music, an’
droppin’ notes on the squawkers, an’ judgin’ patterns an’ huntin’ up
words that look a bit rocky in the programme. D’you suppose I find it
amusin’ playin’ errand-boy and encyclopædia, an’ all the rest of the
tommy-rot?”

“Why, yes, you simply love it!” Deb said firmly. “You like being
ordered about by Verity and told to do things, because it saves you the
trouble of thinking. You care for each other all right, but you don’t
take the matter seriously enough--either of you; that’s what’s wrong,
Larry dear. Some day you’ll have a big row over something that goes
deep, and you’ll not be able to get back. You should stop away from
her, and refuse to be played with any longer. She’d soon find that she
couldn’t do without you.”

“How can you turn your head one way an’ your heart another?” Larry
asked reproachfully, “or keep away from the fire when you’re freezin’,
or lock up the ginger-beer when you’re thirsty? You’re not a bit
soothin’, dear old thing! An’ I don’t see that I’ll ever quarrel with
Verity, in spite of your interestin’ prophecy. She’s not playin’
Queensberry, I’ll admit, but she’s as straight as a regiment, for all
that, an’ she’ll never do anythin’ that I’d be ashamed to own up to in
my little girl!”

Deb’s maternal heart warmed towards Verity’s black donkey.

“You’re just the very nicest person that ever was, Larry!” she
exclaimed affectionately. “And Verity knows it as well as I do. You’re
both dears. But oh, _do_ be careful not to crock up things by accident!”

As they quitted the road for the river-bank, Mrs. Slinker lined
up with them in thankful haste, leaving Rishwald to propel the
Honourable through the narrow stile. Larry knew her, of course--he
knew everybody--(especially the members of that interesting force, the
County police)--and greeted her with a pumping handshake.

“I hope you’re soothin’?” he inquired pathetically. “I’ve had a nasty
jar, an’ Miss Lyndesay’s out of practice, this mornin’.”

“I should have thought the morning itself would have been sufficiently
soothing,” Mrs. Slinker replied, looking at the quiet, brown-hedged
land with the river curving from field to field between the white
gleam of snowdrops, and the faint sun gilding the green in patches.
Christian was in front with hounds bunched close at his heels, walking
easily yet with that covering swing that must be followed to prove its
pace. The whips were a yard or two behind, keeping a stern watch on any
sudden desire after a stray rabbit. Then came the field at a respectful
distance, here and there a red jersey or a blue wing standing out on
the soft background. Horses came to the fences and lifted surprised
heads. Cattle lowered theirs anxiously, and followed awhile in mild
curiosity, while the sheep in meadow after meadow, within sight or out
of it, huddled together, facing outward, with the unerring prescience
that warns them of any canine close at hand.

Nettie, looking nervously behind her, saw Rishwald shuffle the
Honourable on to the doctor, and with a wild signal of distress to
her companions, slid through a hedge before their astonished eyes.
Scouting by means of a gate, they discovered her on the far side,
sitting in a bramble.

“I hadn’t any conversation left about tea-caddies,” she informed
Deborah, when Larry had extricated her. “And I was quite right about
kleptomania being in the family. He’s always talking about ‘collecting’
things. It’s the modern form, you know. I kept a strict look-out when
he lunched at Crump, but he didn’t actually make off with anything
except a few match-boxes and a handkerchief of Christian’s; though as
we haven’t been through the inventory yet, there’s no knowing what may
have happened to the drawing-room silver!”

Hounds found in the marshy bottom by Guard Hill, and were over the
ditch and half-way across the big meadow before the field had got into
its stride. Deb found Callander beside her as she measured her distance
for the slippery jump into the thorny arms of the well-laid fence in
front.

“Well, was it very bad?” he asked bluntly, when he had engineered her
through the prickins, and they were racing side by side over the short
grass. “I didn’t see you hanging out any signals of distress, so I kept
away. And I rather think myself that you’re enjoying it!”

She laughed, turning a glowing face towards him.

“Swainson took me under his protection,” she said breathlessly, as
they climbed the hill. “It’s an honour, though it may not exactly jump
to the eye! And the people who cut me are wallowing in that last
ditch, which is distinctly cheering. No, it wasn’t so bad, except when
Larry marched me out at the head of the procession. And of course I’m
enjoying it!” she added, as they stopped at a closed gate. “It’s good
for the soul to run up and down the earth in the spring of the year,
and come home covered with mud and scratches and full of fresh air.
It’s a pity one can’t always do it.”

“You’re stopping in too much,” Callander growled, arguing with a
Westmorland method of securing gates that had not as yet come under his
notice. “You stick in that pretty little house of yours and mope. You
should get out, and stop out. Things are right enough, out of doors. Do
_you_ know how the confounded thing works?”

Deb solved the problem for him, and they hurried on, for hounds had
vanished round a plantation.

“Life sounds so simple with you Men of the Land!” she said, smiling.
“Your recording Angel doesn’t need to use shorthand! And of course
you’re right. It’s a true gospel, at least, for us who ‘belong.’”

He glanced at her sideways--that “belong” had been a revelation--but
she was watching eagerly for the reappearance of the first smooth
head, and was evidently unconscious of her last words. She did indeed
“belong,” he thought, looking at the alert figure, the lightly ruffled
hair and sparkling face. She was part and parcel of the picture rolling
away beneath them--plough and meadow, hedge, river, plantation and
snug-laid farm, backed beyond and beyond by mountain and sea. She
had been made of the warm, living earth, the crisp wind, the soft,
gray-blue sky. Given every tie that binds a human to the soil, she
“belonged” to the land by heritage, by affinity and by love.

Nettie and Larrupper were at their heels by the time they reached
the top gate of all, which Larry fastened with great deliberation in
the face of a panting horde behind, while his companion stamped with
impatience and entreated him to come on, for hounds were still in full
cry below.

“Etiquette of huntin’!” Larry reproved her gravely, fumbling with the
chain, and placidly ignoring the shrieks in rear, faint but pursuing.
“Looks a bit wantin’ in feelin’, perhaps, but it’s etiquette, all
the same. Leave a gate ajar, an’ you’ll have all the field scuttlin’
through without so much as givin’ it a hitch. That’s how a huntin’
crowd gets itself disliked. An’ you needn’t get worryin’ about hounds,
I assure you. They’re certain to lose her in the long covert. They
always do.”

They did; and there followed a long check, during which Rishwald
resumed his private chase with a discourse upon snuff-boxes, much to
Larry’s disgust, as he was finding Mrs. Slinker distinctly “soothin’,”
he informed Deborah, aside.

“Of course I’m not sayin’ she’s in the same street with you, Debbie
dear!” he added apologetically, “but she’s so sportin’--you _do_
think she’s sportin’, don’t you? An’ she’s simply burstin’ with good
sense, almost as bad as old Grange. She makes you feel the world’s so
clinkin’ all right, doesn’t she? I expect that’s why Slinker took a
fancy to her. Slinker was always pessimistin’ about things. Lyndesays
are generally grousin’ an’ wantin’ a leg-up.”

“Yes, we’re a depressing crowd,” Deb answered cheerfully. “We want a
desperate amount of encouragement. And you needn’t apologise, Larry. I
admire Mrs. Stanley myself.”

They moved along by Quinfell and into Winderwath, and there they
chopped a hare in the first five minutes. Mrs. Slinker instantly
disappeared round the nearest corner, her fingers in her ears, but
Deb stood rigidly where she was, though Callander saw the hand on the
ashplant quiver when the quarry screamed.

“Mrs. Stanley said we were all brutes, both hounds and men,” he
observed. “Is that your opinion, Miss Lyndesay?”

“I suppose so,” Deb said slowly. “I’d choose a sharp death in the open,
myself, rather than lingering misery in a sick-room. But a hare is so
soft and so--afraid----” She stopped, shutting her lips determinedly.
This man was getting to know too much.

Larry came up with a long face and an air of having been warned off the
premises.

“Mrs. Stanley’s been callin’ me names!” he informed them, desperately
wounded. “Says I thoroughly enjoyed seein’ the poor brute chopped!
It’s very disheartenin’. I’m afraid she’s not as sportin’ as I thought.
I offered to borrow a herrin’ an’ let hounds have a shot at collarin’
me, just to see how it felt, but she thought I was simply foolin’.
Rishwald’s car’s followin’, an’ he’s goin’ to take her home--just at
lunch-time, too! Laker will be ravin’. It’s very upsettin’.”

The lunch-cart was in the lane close by, with the butler already at
work, the field standing about in groups or scattered haphazard on wall
or bank. Christian seized Deborah as she looked longingly towards the
near plantation.

“You’re coming to lunch!” he said firmly, piloting her to a spread rug.
“I’ll not have you sneaking away and eating biscuits in the hedge, or
pretending you’re not hungry. Callander, keep an eye on her while I go
and forage!”

“Did you know that you were a favourite of Parker’s?” he added,
when he returned. “He was quite snubby to me on your account, over
the sandwiches. ‘Miss Lyndesay, sir, doesn’t eat potted rabbit!’ he
informed me, coldly. How on earth do they know these things, the dear
old Marconis?”

The next moment he was beside Rishwald’s car, looking up at Nettie with
his face full of concern.

“You’re not really going, are you? Won’t you stop for lunch, first? Oh,
very well--you’ll be in time at Crump, if you fly; and take Rishwald
in with you, will you? I say, dear, you’re not ill, or anything else?
Didn’t like the worry--was that it? I suppose we’re a lot of ravening
savages, but that’s hunting, you know--the sport of gentlemen, they
call it! I’m frightfully sorry if you’re upset!”

“I must be getting old,” Mrs. Slinker answered, smiling with rather an
effort. “It hurts me to see things harried out of life. I just hate
making a fuss, so let me slip away quietly, Youngest One, there’s a
lamb. I reckon this sort of game’s got to be in your blood. I liked the
running and the scrambling all right--but oh, Laker, why didn’t you
warn me that a driven hare screams like a frightened child!”

Rishwald thought himself in clover all the way to Crump, and covered
four miles with descriptions of a pet jug, to which he referred
familiarly as “my little Toby”; but he was a little downcast when they
stopped to find that she had understood him to be talking about a dog.

The field fell off sadly in the afternoon, Honourables and other
notabilities vanishing like clouds upon the horizon, and sport
improved--perhaps accordingly. Grange had gone back with the
Crump cart, and, later, spent a trying hour chasing his master up
inaccessible lanes. Larry had a dealing practice at five. He was on the
point of offering Deborah a lift back to Kilne, when café diplomacy
suddenly prompted otherwise, and he faded silently through a hedge into
Grange’s thankful embrace, feeling very mean and destitute of manners.

Deb, however, did not notice his departure, for she herself had
designs upon a hedge in a totally opposite direction, the situation
having suddenly taken on a very awkward complexion. The last halt had
been called near the Bracewells’ house, and the girls were inviting
the tail of the field in to tea. The dumb doctor, whose patients had
finally decided to die without him, was swallowed up in an instant; and
even wary Callander was collared before he realised that Deb was not
of the party. She was well across the next field, keeping close in the
shadow of the fence, when Christian dropped beside her.




CHAPTER XV


“I suppose you were flattering yourself you’d lost me!” he observed,
falling into step, “but I took care to notice when you scurried away.
It’s no use trying to disguise yourself in the hedge--the flowers
aren’t out yet!” he added quaintly, clinching the compliment with a
whimsical smile. “Are you sure you’re not too tired to walk? It’s been
a long day, you know. I had the cart sent back, in case you preferred
to drive--Clark’s with it in the lane by the Bracewells’. I told him to
wait about for another ten minutes.”

“I’d rather walk, thanks,” Deb replied. “There’s a short cut out of
Halfrebeck over Linacre. It’s not very far, really, and very straight.
Why didn’t you go in to tea?”

“Because I’m coming to tea with you,” he said easily. “I want to sit on
your big fender-stool with my feet on the fire-irons, and drink tea out
of a brown tea-pot. The Lyndesays always have brown tea-pots. It’s a
rule of the house. The Bracewells have a silver Queen Anne with a crest
grown in Edward VII, and you sit on somebody Chippendale or somebody
else Adams, and scrape their elegant legs with your muddy boots.”

This was not like Christian, and she wondered greatly what had occurred
after her abrupt departure. She could not guess that, when he joined
her over the hedge, he had been hot with resentment at the treatment
she had received.

“Oh, yes, we’ve got the brown tea-pot,” she responded curtly. “Father
wouldn’t dream of countenancing any other. It’s very silly, of
course--no, it isn’t! Father’s quite right. He’s always right. Except
when he goes hunting by proxy!” she added rather wearily, for the
excitement of the day was passing, and the strain beginning to tell.

“I’m awfully sorry about last night!” Christian said hurriedly.
“Callander told me everything. You don’t mind, do you? I’m afraid
my mother must have meant it, though I’d give anything to prove I
was wrong. It was a cruel thing to do--nothing can excuse or condone
it, but we’ve got to remember that she is still breaking her heart
over Stanley and--and all that happened. She has nothing against Mr.
Lyndesay, of course.”

“She has--me!” Deb answered bitterly. “Oh, it’s I who have been to
blame, all through, I suppose! _I_ earned him that blow in the face. I
ought to be shot. Yet I’d do it again!” she added hardly, setting her
teeth. “You none of you understand, except perhaps Mr. Callander, but I
don’t care. I’d do it again!”

They had paused at a gate on the last slope dividing them from the
road below, where the dead beech-leaves stood out in bright strips
on the black hedges. The land was darkening fast against the evening
sky. The earth-line opposite, rising again gently, was fringed with a
border of feathery brown fingers etched against the opal. The fresh
morning breeze had dropped. The long, straight road was empty except
for a plough-boy whistling piercingly sweet. In the uppermost bough of
a thin young pine, straight as a lance of God, a thrush flung them its
largesse of golden song. And always the rooks went home, flying high
with the promise of good weather.

“We must put things right, somehow,” Christian said with determination.
“We can’t allow him to be hurt again. But I haven’t much influence with
my mother, you know. She was wrapped up entirely in Stanley--she had
nothing left for me. And yet they were unhappy together--we were all
unhappy. It seems a bit hard that we Lyndesays should never be allowed
the every-day home contentment of other folk.”

“There is more than one curse on Crump!” Deb said, frowning. “We are
dreamers of dreams, all the lot of us--even Larry--and we carry sorrow
in our hands like a guarded gem. Your mother, too, although she seems
so cold. And my father is the King-Dreamer of us all. I sometimes think
he is the Dream of Crump itself.”

Christian nodded assent. “But Slinker--Slinker had no dream,” he said
slowly.

“I’m not so sure about that! It was a long way off, perhaps, but he
would have come to it in the end. He would have sold Dockerneuk without
compunction, but he left us Kilne. I once saw him half kill a keeper
for starving the deer, though he kicked his own spaniel the moment
after. The herd is so old, you know. He used to take off his hat to
it, laughing. And you remember that he wouldn’t allow the Antiquarian
Society to search the Pixies’ Parlour? It wasn’t just disobligingness,
as you all thought. He didn’t want strange hands digging up his
ancestors’ soil, though he stripped the woods to pay his betting-book.
There were other things, too----” She stopped, frowning again. “What
does it matter? He’s dead--poor Stanley! But Father’s alive, and I’ve
got to keep him happy, and you must help me.”

“There is a way,” Christian said hesitatingly, “though perhaps you may
think I have no right to suggest it. We’re good friends, aren’t we?
and I believe we feel the same about things, though it isn’t often you
show me the real Deborah. We can take care of your father between us,
if you’ll give me the right to take care of you, too. You would have
married Slinker. Can’t you make up your mind to marry me?”

She stepped back, staring at him, the colour leaving her face, but
the surprise was too great to allow any room for self-consciousness.
In all her thoughts of Christian, friendly and even tender as they
had often been, such a possibility had never entered her mind. Their
intercourse had struck the note of comradeship--no more. Even the tie
of their distant relationship had taken them no further. Accustomed as
she was, by now, to his cheerful, impartial friendliness and apparently
unthinking serenity, she had never even vaguely pictured him in love
with her. Nor had she thought of loving him. He was something aloof and
apart, an integral but indefinite part of her dream.

“You cannot be speaking seriously!” she said at last, keeping her voice
even with difficulty. “How could it possibly happen? You know nothing
about me, to begin with--and Stanley hasn’t been dead a year. Mrs.
Lyndesay wouldn’t consent, under any circumstances. And the County----”

“Need we take the County into consideration? As for my mother--she may
rule me in other things, but at least I will choose my own wife!”

He lifted his head, and for the first time she guessed that he, too,
had his share in the strain of iron running through the Lyndesay blood,
in spite of the drifting acquiescence with which he seemed to accept
life. This was the Christian who, as Nettie had prophesied, would some
day learn to stand alone. “As for Slinker”--his voice quickened--“why
should Slinker come between us? God knows we owe him nothing, either
you or I!”

He took her hand as they stood by the gate in the growing dusk, two
lonely young souls caught in the endless maze of temperament and
heritage.

“It all sounds so cold-blooded, doesn’t it, dear? It’s new and strange
at present, but you’ll think it over, won’t you? I’m giving you what
Crump owes you, that’s all. And I’d be good to you, you know that. I’ve
not made much of my life, yet, but you can help me to it, if you will.
I’ve never wanted any woman before, but you leave a blank even when
you pass me in the street. Perhaps you think I haven’t known you long
enough to care, but I do. I want you for my own sake--not for Crump or
your father or any other reason--only for Christian, Debbie dear!”

She listened to the kind voice speaking Larry’s cousinly endearment,
yielding to the clasp of the kind hand, but she did not look at the
earnest young face. This was not love--yet--whatever it might become.
He was reaching out to her, half from quixotic chivalry, half from
an impulse born of affinity and race, but not with the overmastering
desire to which alone a true woman lays down her arms. If she took
him, she would take him as she had taken Slinker, notwithstanding the
deep tenderness in her heart towards him. He was too good for that; a
thousand times too good; and yet--and yet--She looked up at the tired
rooks, slowly forging dimly through the dusk. A few more miles, and
they would be nested safe behind the Hall, in their haven of immemorial
antiquity; and for all the quiet night their rest would be in the home
they loved.

“Crump folk going home!” she observed irrelevantly, her wistful eyes
following their faint flight. “The villagers call them that--did you
know? They say it every night, when they watch them for the weather.
‘Crump folk going home!’”

She repeated the words under her breath, as the last bird dropped
behind the hill; and he took both her hands in his, for the night was
coming, and they must go. He spoke again, but she did not hear him,
nor the golden singer still swaying on the young pine. All she knew
was that Crump folk had gone home, leaving Deborah Lyndesay behind,
and that never in all her life would she find her way thither. At her
father’s death she would have to go south, and that would be the end of
things for her. If she married Christian, rightly or wrongly, she would
still belong to Crump. It was the one way left; yet she fought hard,
for she knew she was wronging him--and always the land cried to her in
answer. The power stronger than herself drove her as she looked him in
the face at last.

“I’m not brave enough to refuse,” she said wistfully. “Surely we care
enough to make it right? But oh, Christian, I doubt you’re patting me
on the head!”




CHAPTER XVI


Verity put a hand round the curtain and waved wildly, and Larruppin’
Lyndesay, who had been at the beck of those fingers too long not
to recognise them under any circumstances, stopped trying to sell
programmes to people who had them already, and shouldered his way on
to the stage, where a crowd of piqué nightmares, rather terrible in
their exaggerated make-up, were busy settling themselves upon insecure
pedestals.

The gas smelt vilely, and already the whole place was hot and airless.
Larry tugged uneasily at his stiff collar, and wriggled uncomfortably
in his evening clothes. He was frightfully sleepy too, having been out
on the moor all day, and he wondered how on earth he should ever pull
through the sing-song without a snore. He met Verity’s agitation rather
unsympathetically, looking gloomily at the dainty little figure in its
short skirt and coquettish hat, and wished she were out in the rain
with him in a Burberry, and only the painting of Nature on her face.
Billy-boy Blackburn, it seemed, had not yet put in an appearance, and
Verity was beginning to be alarmed.

“Oh, of course I can start out an’ hunt for him, if you like,” Larry
said morosely. “I shan’t have to go scoutin’ very far. The Red Lion
is his favourite restin’-place. If not, there’s the Brown Cow,--just
as soothin’. Never say die. But if he doesn’t turn up without bein’
booted, I should say leave him where he’s roostin, an’ plank along
without him.”

“We can’t! He’s the making of the whole thing. Everybody depends on
him.” Verity looked worried and rather helpless, a totally fresh
attitude to which the young man’s heart warmed. “Do have a look for
him, Larry! We ought to start in a minute.”

“All right. I’ll see where the bounder’s hidin’,”--Larry turned,
obedient though disapproving,--“but I warn you I shall make a point of
usin’ my own discretion. If I find him goin’ strong, I shall detain
him on licensed premises, an’ you can send old Grange runnin’ at ten
o’clock to shove us both under the pump!”

Verity’s heart smote her for a moment. Perhaps it was scarcely fair to
send young Lionel Lyndesay scouring after a doubtful blacksmith through
a series of equally doubtful pubs; and moreover she was a little afraid
of her black donkey, to-night. He looked older, and, being tired, much
less sunny and complaisant. Indeed, there was something almost grim
about his bullet head and big shoulders and his grumbling bass. For the
first time she felt him tug at his leading-strings.

She laid her hand rather timidly on his arm, and he wanted to kiss
her on the one bit of eyebrow which had escaped the pencil, but the
whole effect was distasteful to him, and again he thought longingly
of Burberries and a certain bog on the moor that had played him
desperately false.

“You’ll do no more of this sort of thing, do you hear?” he added,
almost roughly. “It’s not fittin’! This isn’t the time for jawin’, but
I’ve been meanin’ to say somethin’ for weeks, an’ the Lord only knows
what it’s been like, holdin’ it in. This is goin’ to be the wind-up of
your private Hippodrome, so you can just be makin’ the most of it, an’
gettin’ ready for shuttin’ down!”

He stumped off again, and fell almost into the arms of Grant, sitting
in the middle of the front row. He greeted him moodily.

“Goin’ to start an opposition meetin’, old man? Verity’s agitatin’
somethin’ alarmin’ because that prize squawker of hers hasn’t turned up
yet.”

“Do you mean Blackburn?” Grant got up, paling slightly, and Larry
nodded.

“He’s found missin’, an’ I’m off Sherlock-Holmesin’ round the village
pubs, an’ if he’s not in drawin’-room form I’ll have an amusin’ evenin’
entertainin’ him on my own. You can trust me for that.”

“I’ll come with you,” Grant said impulsively, but Larry would have none
of him.

“Thanks. I can stand up to Billy all right without any parsons holdin’
my hat,” he returned unkindly. (Larry, as well as Christian, had
figured in the ring, but had been pronounced unsafe.) “If you’re
hankerin’ after bein’ useful, you can start in sellin’ the programmes,”
he added, thrusting the pink papers into Grant’s hands, “an’ be sure
you’re on the spot an’ throwin’ flowers if any of the squawkers gets a
really bad drop.”

He disappeared beyond the fast-filling seats; and as he went out at
the main entrance, Billy-boy slipped in by the stage-door. A minute
earlier, Larrupper would have discovered him, as he had prophesied,
fortifying the artistic temperament in the Red Lion; but he was still
sufficiently sober to read a clock, and an ironic Providence steered
him safely past Verity with a respectful salute to his place beside
the piano. The curve of the grand formed a comfortable prop, and his
trainer, beholding him decorously seated, breathed a sigh of relief and
took a final glance at the audience before ringing up the curtain.

The room was full now, the whole district being well represented, from
the dear old things who had known her from childhood and thought her
amazingly clever, to the dear young ones who were being brought up in
the same belief and the fear of Cantacute. They had come prepared to
enjoy themselves, confidently looking for a good programme. Verity
knew the standard they expected, and thought uncomfortably of one or
two doubtful items; then recollected Billy-boy’s magnetic genius for
keeping stragglers together, and took heart.

Christian and Mrs. Stanley were sitting in the second row, with
Rishwald within “collecting” distance just behind, and Callander,
looking uneasily for fire-exits and ventilators. The Bracewell girls,
inspired by the atmosphere, were trying to persuade the doctor to
join a choral society. Perhaps they remembered Garrick’s advice to
his tongue-tied acquaintance,--“If you c-c-c-c-can’t s-_speak_, why
d-d-don’t you _sing_?”

Deb had come with the Savaurys. Roger Lyndesay had a horror of stuffy
rooms and noisy entertainments. He liked best his own fireside, with
a pipe and some queer old book of Westmorland history that had long
“s’s” spiking up and down the page. Savaury purchased three programmes
from the somewhat abashed parson, and asked if the living required
supplementing; then buried his nose in the pink sheet, snorting
contemptuously as he recited the items aloud.

“‘I know a lovely garden’--h’m--that’s the chemist, isn’t it? Verbena
hairwash, I suppose, and camomile tea. ‘I see you on every side’--the
policeman’s wife with the squint. Mrs. Andrews--‘Come where my love
lies dreaming’--as if one _could_, when he’s been in the churchyard
these last ten years, and a very good thing, too! Here’s another
garden--‘Beautiful Garden of Roses’--(so _tiresome_ never to get away
from Nature!) and--dear, dear! This is really _too_ much--‘Leaving yet
Loving’--duet by the schoolmaster and the assistant teacher who has
just given notice. I shall complain to the County Council!”

Christian leaned back to ask Deborah some question about the
performance, and she answered casually, without lifting her eyes from
the programme. She had been stopping at Heron, helping Verity with
her preparations, so had only seen him once since that mystic hour
in the gloaming which had entrapped them both. The “once” had been
but a lightning interview snatched in the street while Verity threw
skirts at various squawkers’ doors, and they had had little chance of
improving the situation, either way. She had impressed silence upon
him rather fiercely, and had stayed awake half the night, recalling
his hurt and puzzled face. It was all wrong,--she felt it in every
nerve--and wondered how long the situation would last. She had started
at least half a dozen letters that would have brought it to an end,
but always some little thing had stopped her,--some chance word or
thought that sent all the springs of longing flowing back in the same
direction. How easily things might have been so graciously otherwise,
had those fatal words never been spoken on the old bridge! They cared
enough,--she almost believed,--understood enough, to have been happy
together, with the promise of something greater to come; but Slinker
stood between, and across the dawn of the new hope the old doubt
lingered in Christian’s eyes. She was taking him as she would have
taken Stanley--for Crump. His mother’s words--“You would have married
Christian on the same terms!”--haunted him, sleeping and waking,
torturing him past endurance. The affinity born of the long day in the
open and the quiet evening at dusk had vanished, leaving only a sense
of upheaval and strain and helpless bewilderment. Things _could_ not be
right, as they were; yet how to mend them? They groped for each other
in the dark, and, touching hands, found each a stranger where had been
a friend.

Going wearily over the same ground, her eyes resting miserably on the
back of Christian’s head, she became suddenly conscious that Callander
was watching her, and wrenched her attention back to Savaury and the
programme.

Callander had called, the day after the meet, to apologise for his
desertion.

“I thought you were coming, too,” he said bluntly, “or they’d never
have got me inside! I was just backing out when Lyndesay told Miss
Bracewell he was on his way to tea with you, so I knew you were all
right. He said something about a fender-stool and a brown tea-pot, and
made off after you. I suppose he caught you up?”

“Yes,--in the next field. What did he say about the tea-pot?”

“I didn’t quite grasp it. Something about you having one at Kilne. Miss
What’s-her-name said--‘Oh, I _quite_ understand! How sweet of you to
admire your poor relations’ tea-pots!’ and Christian looked at her for
a whole minute. Then he said--‘Miss Lyndesay and I have an ancestor who
made tea for his Queen in a brown tea-pot. Since then, it has been
the fashion in our family,’--and went away very politely; and Miss
What-d’you-call-her snapped at me for forgetting to shut the gate. She
must have put his back up, for Lyndesay never shoves his ancestors down
your throat. When we got inside, Miss Braces sent the silver tea-pot
back to the kitchen, and ordered an enamel thing with a cracked spout
that poured all over the place. Were you long in getting home?”

She forgot how she had answered that. Perhaps not at all. She knew by
now that Callander didn’t always need an answer.

“Everybody’s here from everywhere,” Savaury was saying, waving his
eyeglasses and turning to stare, as only he could stare, at the people
behind. “It’s astonishing how we all turn up at these tiresome old
things,--almost as if we couldn’t help it. I suppose we get into the
habit, like standing up for the National Anthem, and ordering the usual
Christmas dinner even if everybody in the house has dyspepsia. Of
course, Verity is quite clever and all that kind of thing, but she’s
not very good at taking suggestions. It’s so _tiresome_ when people
won’t follow really valuable advice. I often send her heaps of music,
but she’s never used a note of it yet. I see Mrs. Gardner is here in
her cinematograph dress,--sequins, you say?--oh, possibly, but just as
upsetting to the optic nerve. And really, somebody ought to tell Mrs.
Broughton that green velvet is unlucky, and you can’t be too _careful_
when you’re just out of the Divorce Court,--well, Petronilla, I
suppose Deborah has _heard_ of such a thing in this enlightened age,
and you’ve broken that fan over me once already!”

The curtain went up, then, and he settled himself blissfully to fresh
criticism.

“Now, did you ever--! I ask you--_did_ you? Is it paint or mortar, I
should like to know? And why white powder on a chin receding at least
45 degrees,--not to speak of ruddy rouge on a nose that certainly
shouldn’t be encouraged? Oh, of course Verity is quite charming,
but I’m not altogether sure that it’s quite the _thing_ to look as
stage-finished as all that. Too suggestive of our new peerage, don’t
you think? The singing? Oh, fair, yes, _fair_. A little unsteady,
perhaps, and a shade of difference in opinion as to---- Surely there
must be something wrong?”

There was certainly something wrong, and everybody in the room was
beginning to realise what it was. Verity had grasped it from the start
of the opening chorus, for Billy-boy had roused suddenly from his state
of somnolence and dashed spiritedly into his part. She could feel him
lurching against the piano as he put on pace with each verse. At first
there was merely an added swing to the usual rather tame opening, but
as the speed grew, and Verity’s fingers began to race along the keys,
the choir took fright. The last verse found everybody in a different
bar, and Billy finished first in a triumphant bellow, topping a
crashing discord that made Savaury jump clean out of his seat.

Verity hurriedly dragged out the next song, trying to look as if
nothing had happened, and beckoned to Harry Lauder to begin, praying
that her fallen star might recover during the next item, but the
soloist had barely got to his feet before the black-haired giant was in
front of him, pushing him aside.

“Now don’t you get shoving where you’re not wanted, Tom m’lad!” he
reproved him genially, barring his progress with a piqué arm. “My song
this--‘Honish’--you know ‘Honish,’ Tom m’lad? Men not shinging all to
sit down!”

He waved his arm pleasantly, and Harry-Lauder-Tom-m’lad sat down
instantly, not on his pedestal, unfortunately, but very sharply and
suddenly on the floor; while Verity, afraid to interfere, yet still
more afraid to let him continue, tried to order the rebel back to his
place.

“Your turn next after this, Billy!” she observed, with as
Pélissier-like ease as she could command. “It’s ‘Queen amang the
Heather’ now, you know. Give Mr. Bell a chance!”

But alas! Billy was beyond even her influence. He staggered to
the front of the stage and treated the scandalised audience to a
confidential wink.

“Goin’ to shing ‘Honish’!” he announced sweetly. “Honish my girl, as
everybody knowsh. Everybody got a honish, like me,--everybody in thish
room!” Here he fixed a pleasantly meaning gaze on Savaury, who went
pink all over and waved his glasses, and would have stood up and argued
the point had not Deb on one side, and Petronilla on the other, held
him firmly in his seat.

Billy-boy set his feet squarely apart, and contrived to look over
his shoulder at the piano without actually taking a header into Mrs.
Andrews’ lap.

“Now then, come on, Honish, my dear!” he addressed his petrified
leader, with a particular brand of smile that had never yet come within
her experience. “Give us the twiddley-bitsh at the start, an’ we’ll
show ’em all whatsh what,--see if we don’t! Good little Honish--come
along!”

He filled his big chest without waiting for her, and let out one long,
pure, golden note, just as Verity, wringing the hands of her soul for
Larrupper scouring beer-shops, beheld Grant’s thin fingers snatch the
curtain-ropes from the paralysed attendant, and snap it down before
Billy-boy’s open mouth and astonished eyes. Christian and Callander
had risen to follow him when he made for the steps in a single bound,
but he frowned them back as he slid behind. Billy could give him half
a dozen inches and as many stone, but he had him off the stage and
into the green-room before the audible gasp of horror had died away.
“Go straight on!” he threw at Verity as they disappeared, and as the
audience broke into kindly applause which was none the less hopelessly
ironic, the curtain went up again on a bruised but heroic Harry Lauder.

He was trembling in every limb, and Verity’s hands shook as they struck
the keys, her eyes filling with tears of relief; but between them they
sang “Queen amang the Heather” into the very heart of the crowd, so
that the sixpennies, even at this early stage, caught the infection and
plunged into the chorus. This time, the applause covered no awkward
situation, and Verity smiled gratefully at the shaking station-master
as he trembled back to his seat, at the same time beckoning to a shy
bunch of curls to carry on the programme. In spite of Harry Lauder’s
gallantry, she had little hope of averting failure. The star’s
magnetism and the star’s songs were alike lost to them, and with them
the glory of the concert; and Curls, whose memory was as circuitous as
her hair, was scarcely likely to fill his place.

Her recitation was inaudible to any but the first four rows, and
Savaury so far forgot himself as to prompt at one of her many
sticking-points, to Petronilla’s utter confusion and shame; while the
last verses had an accompaniment of yawns and ribald remarks from the
sixpennies, who found this dull fare after the Highland lover. She was
not much more than a child, and she finished in a series of gulps, her
father and mother holding hands in the background and looking as though
they would cry themselves on the slightest encouragement, in spite of
their paint and giddy Pierrot hats; and though Christian tried to save
the situation by throwing her a large azalea which his housekeeper
had forced upon him at the last moment, a deadly panic fell upon the
unfortunate troupe. Indeed, the next “item” flatly refused to come
forward at all, and Verity, beseeching him in an imploring undertone,
was making up her mind to provide half the concert on her own account,
when a miracle occurred. Grant, in full Pierrot costume and armed with
a banjo, got Heaven knows where, marched gracefully on to the stage.

The first long moment of intense and unbelieving surprise was followed
by a thunderous burst of appreciation, in which the unhappy performers
joined with one accord; and having acknowledged it with a smiling bow,
the new comer utilised the tail of it as cover for a few quick words
with the stupefied lady at the piano. Then, stepping to the footlights,
and accompanying himself on the banjo, he sang the promised “Honey.”

Nobody but Savaury noticed that Billy-boy’s large clothes hung
painfully loosely upon the thin young parson. Nobody but Savaury had
a shock when they saw the clerical collar bravely announcing its
profession above the frivolous Pierrot frill. And even Savaury forgot
to gasp at the wicked little cap cocked above the ascetic face, in the
extreme excellence of the performance.

Such was the spectacle that greeted Larry, returning tired and cross
from his fruitless search,--fruitless, indeed, since Billy was
slumbering happily in the green-room, while Grant, in his astounding
costume, held the audience in close and sympathetic attention, backed
bravely enough now by the chorus, strung to action once more. Only
Verity sat silent by the piano, with her hands in her lap, and her eyes
on the floor, and in her heart a fighting mixture of thankfulness,
admiration, relief and shame.

“So the minutes slip away--” Grant sang sweetly, twanging the banjo
mechanically in the terrible nightmare which had suddenly caught him in
its grip; then missed Verity’s pretty voice behind him, and threw all
the soul of him into the refrain.

      “’Nother night we’ll both be dead:
      ’Nother couple dance instead:
      Honey! Lift your pretty head--
  Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!”

He not only sang, he danced, danced like a leaf, like a feather, an
indiarubber ball,--danced as even Billy-boy had never danced! And from
that moment his clerical reputation was gone for ever.

Larrupper dropped into a chair beside Callander, and let out a volley
of demand, ejaculation and applause.

“Wish I’d been on the spot!” he muttered worriedly, when the other
had briefly put him in possession of the facts. “I’d have taught Mr.
Billy-boy an interestin’ sing-song with a dog-whip! But I was busy
crawlin’ behind settles an’ peerin’ into parlours, an’ gettin’ myself
disliked somethin’ amazin’, lookin’ for the drunken squawker. I’ll have
some charmin’ moments alone with him, by an’ by! But can’t old Grant
just sing an’ twiddle that banjo! Who’d have thought he’d got it in
him? You don’t look a bit like shoutin’, old man. One might think you
were used to it!”

“So I am,” Callander answered calmly. “I knew Grant intimately before
he was ordained. He was the crack entertainer of our particular
neighbourhood,--always figuring on somebody’s charitable platform. I’ve
heard him sing ‘Honey’ scores of times,--seen him as Pavlova, too, in
frills. He can play anything and sing anything that he’s once heard.
Mean to say you folks didn’t know? You’re mighty slow at picking up
facts! He’s as clever as they’re made, though he’s a little bit out of
practice--for him. Been starving himself for his thankless village, I
expect, poor little chap! I wonder what the Bishop will say when this
gets round to him?”

But Grant had left the Bishop in the green-room with Billy-boy and his
parson’s clothes, and had sunk every other consideration before the
success of Verity’s concert. And a success he made it indeed! Never
deliberately asserting himself, he was yet definitely behind each
performance, blending, guiding, smoothing over awkward places; and
once, when an accompaniment disappeared, he sat down at the piano and
played it by ear. At the end, dropping his banjo, he sang his mother’s
cradle-song, and when he had persistently refused demands for an
encore, some enterprising soul requested a speech. The cry was taken up
at once, and after a moment’s hesitation he got up and came back to the
footlights.

“I hope to Heaven he’s not goin’ to say anythin’ about Billy!”
Larrupper agitated, nearly pushing Callander off his chair. “So
upsettin’ for Verity, don’t you know? Hadn’t I better stop him jawin’
by callin’ three cheers?”

“Don’t you worry!” Callander said tranquilly, levering him gently
back into his own seat. “Grant knows the right thing to do as well as
anybody. He wasn’t _born_ a parson. And your Miss Verity may be jolly
thankful she had him at her back!”

Grant spoke in a rather low tone, looking pale against the painted
faces round him, and also rather exhausted. He was out of practice, as
Callander had said, and a young, unmarried parson has the poor very
much always with him, as well as (most often) a more or less inadequate
housekeeper.

“I want to thank you very much for your kindness,” he began, hugging
his banjo rather nervously. “We’ve all done our best,--I’m sure you
know that,--and your kind encouragement has helped some of us to do
better than our best. I expect some of you are a little surprised
to see me here to-night in this position,--perhaps even a little
shocked--so I should just like to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed it.
Some people think a parson doesn’t enjoy making a fool of himself
anywhere but in his own pulpit, but it isn’t true. ‘’Nother night we’ll
all be dead,’ and perhaps even a parson will be glad then that he had
a last dance. In any case, this parson is proud and happy to have
had a chance of serving Miss Verity Cantacute. You none of you need
telling what Miss Verity does for Cantacute; it’s before you every day,
speaking for itself. A gentleman of my acquaintance--and of hers--said
to me the other night just this--gave me this very pithy and definite
summing-up. ‘Miss Verity,’ he told me, ‘is top-dog here in Cantacute!’
That was his tribute to her--‘Miss Verity is top-dog in Cantacute.’
Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to subscribe to that tribute. In kindness,
in charm, in sweetness and sympathy, in our affection, our admiration
and our respect, Miss Verity is indeed top-dog in Cantacute!”

He stepped back, and Larry grinned delightedly, stumbling to his feet
at the call of the National Anthem.

“If that doesn’t send my little girl scootin’ Arevar way,” he told
himself gleefully, “all the Larry Lyndesays in the world will never do
it!”




CHAPTER XVII


They were left alone on the empty stage--Verity and her champion at
need, shut in by the thick curtain from the ebbing crowd beyond. She
had closed the piano, but she still sat beside it, looking at the
polished lid, while he stared tensely at the heavy drapery, afraid to
stay and yet unable to leave her. When she began to speak, he turned
quickly and took a step towards her. She was still looking at the lid,
running a finger along the bevelled edge.

“Will you tell me why you did it?” she asked in a low and unemotional
tone; but he did not answer--only stood in the middle of the stage,
looking at her very intently and very tenderly. If she had raised her
eyes at that moment, she would not have needed to repeat her question.

“You won,” she went on, in the same curiously flat voice. “You were
right and I was wrong. I should have thought you would be glad to see
my concert spoilt--to hear me blamed on Billy’s account. You need not
have saved me. Why did you do it?”

“You can’t _really_ think that I should have been glad to hear you
blamed,” he answered gently. “You don’t know much about me but you know
a little. You can’t think that!”

“It would have been natural. It is true that I have set myself against
you ever since you came to Cantacute. I was afraid of your influence. I
was afraid that the people would learn to think more of you than they
did of me. I meant to keep them at all costs; and the cost was----”

“Billy-boy Blackburn’s soul!” he finished for her, and there was
silence. Then--“You didn’t understand,” he added presently, searching
pityingly for excuse.

“Oh, yes, I did!” Verity answered proudly, raising her head at last,
quickly. “I knew that you were doing Billy good--that you were keeping
him straight in a way absolutely beyond my power. I knew that he hadn’t
been drinking for months, and I couldn’t bear that he should owe it to
you. I never meant to lead him back into temptation, but I _did_ mean
to show you that he would follow me if I chose to call. I thought I
could hold him--I felt certain of it. In my vanity I believed that he
might fail anybody else, but never Verity Cantacute. I was wrong and
you were right. You’ve won!”

“Ah, don’t speak of it like that!” he remonstrated in a pained voice.
“We might be enemies, you and I--and surely--_surely_ that isn’t the
case! It’s all been a wretched misunderstanding, and now we must make
it our business to put Billy back on the right road between us. I don’t
want you to feel that I owe you a grudge, or that you are under an
obligation to me. Either would be intolerable! Just be friends with
me, won’t you, and let us forget the sadness of to-night?”

She did not answer, and he went on earnestly, leaning a hand on the
piano.

“I should just like to tell you, Miss Cantacute, what was the ‘job’ I
was so loth for Billy to shirk. I had got him to sing to the old folk
at the Workhouse, two or three times a week, and you should have seen
how they loved it, and how he enjoyed doing it! He went regularly,
and he was always sober. Generally he sang hymns, but not invariably,
and the old people used to join in with their shaky old voices. It’s
difficult to think of Billy as an angel, isn’t it, Miss Verity, but I
can assure you he looked like one, then! He was so happy in his ‘job,’
and because he was happy he took peace and happiness with him, and
left them behind him. And then _you_ called him, and the ‘job’ went to
the wall. The old folk sit and wait for him, night after night, and he
does not come. There is one old woman he used to call his mother, who
puts up her wrinkled hands and cries as the hours go by----” He took a
quick step to her side, his voice breaking into passionate contrition.
“Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I never meant to hurt you like that!”--for
Verity had given way at last, and was weeping her heart out on the
piano lid.

Tentatively he put out a reverent hand, and laid it gently on the
bright hair peeping from under the foolish little cap, his voice
shaking with love and tenderness and pity.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you! I only wanted to show you a little how
things looked on the other side. You mustn’t be unhappy. I can’t bear
to see you fret. We’ll have Billy back at the Workhouse to-morrow, and
between us we’ll put things right again, God willing! Don’t cry. It’s
dreadful to see you cry. _Oh, Honey, lift your pretty head!_”

He had never meant to say it, but it had been cradled in his mind so
long, it came to his lips before he knew, and with it all the incense
of his love. It brought her to her feet instantly, and as she stood
staring at him with wet, startled eyes, the man behind the parson drove
him forward and caught her hands. So Larrupper found them, dashing into
the wings after seeing the Savaurys to their carriage--the pale Pierrot
and the painted Pierrette, standing together on the darkened stage.

“Parson or Pierrot, I love you, Verity!” Grant was pleading, but Verity
stopped him with a quick movement.

“Don’t say any more, Mr. Grant!” she said clearly, looking straight
at him with the courage born of her pity and shame. “I am engaged to
Lionel Lyndesay.”




CHAPTER XVIII


“I’m comin’ home with you,” Larrupper announced, stepping after her
into the Heron brougham. His face was quite colourless, and he did not
look at her. “Old Grange is followin’ behind with the car, but there’s
somethin’ I want to say to you, an’ it won’t improve with keepin’. Then
I’m goin’ back for a chin-chin with Blackburn.”

“You’re not to say anything to Billy!” Verity exclaimed angrily. “Leave
him to Mr. Grant. You’ll only make things worse.”

“That’s just what I want to make ’em!” Larry responded grimly. “I mean
to make ’em so bad that there’ll be no dancin’ except on crutches for
the next six months. It’s no use arguin’, my dear girl. This is a man’s
job, so you may as well stop worryin’.”

“Oh, but don’t you understand----?” Verity began piteously, and
stopped, for she had seen his face by a passing lamp, and she was
afraid. They drove back to Heron in silence.

Mrs. Cantacute was already upstairs when they got in, and they went up
together to tell her how things had gone. She worshipped every hair of
Larry’s head, and he spent many an hour with her, cheering her after
his own peculiar fashion.

Oh, it had been a complete success! they informed her, carefully
leaving awkward details to be broken later. A crowded house and a most
appreciative audience. Everything, in fact, that could be desired.

“And how did my favourite song go?” gentle Mrs. Cantacute inquired
eagerly. “You know the one I mean, don’t you?--the song with the pretty
refrain--‘Honey.’”

Verity coloured to the roots of her hair under her paint, for Larrupper
was looking at her mercilessly across the bed.

“Oh, it was the song of the evenin’!” he answered easily and with
effusion. “Went like steam an’ took like influenza. Everybody in the
place goin’ away hummin’ it, even carpin’ old Savaury an’ his pampered
darlin’ of a coachman. I mustn’t stop, though, dear old sweetheart.
Grange is outside, waitin’, an’ he’ll be hungry after all that yowlin’.”

“Send him in for something,” Mrs. Cantacute begged, as he stooped to
kiss her. “And mind you get what you want yourself, Lionel. You know
you are at home here, don’t you?”

“Thank you, old dear!” Larry answered gently, without looking at her;
but when he was downstairs again, he refused Verity’s hospitality
brusquely.

“I don’t want anythin’ in that line,” he said rather roughly, “and
old Grange can go on starvin’ a bit longer, for a change! I told you
I’d somethin’ to say to you, but I don’t fancy talkin’ to a painted
marionette, so suppose you go away an’ wash your face!”

“I’m not in a mood for being ‘talked to,’” she replied, flushing
indignantly under his disapproving gaze, “and if you can’t be even
moderately polite, you had better go away and let me get off to bed,
for I’m simply dead tired.”

“You’ll have to keep awake, anyhow, till I’m through,” he said
doggedly. “But I want to talk to the girl I’m used to seein’, an’ not
to a music-hall turn. You’d better do what I say, or there’ll be all
the more time goin’ beggin’ for Billy.”

When she had gone, he remained beside the dying fire, alternately
staring moodily at the flickering coal and addressing himself gloomily
in the overmantel. Deborah had been right, he told himself, miserably.
The crisis in their light love-making had come at last, and neither he
nor Verity knew how to meet it. Would the bond between them really bear
the strain? Or would to-morrow see the beginning of a new and empty
life, separated from the old, happy, laughing one for ever?

She came back presently without her cap, her little face faintly
flushed, her shining hair brushed in smooth waves from its Madonna-like
parting.

“Now what is it?” she asked peremptorily, anything but Madonna-like in
demeanour. “You seem in a shockingly bad temper, and I can’t think why.
After all, Billy-boy is no concern of yours in any way, and you’ve got
to promise me before you go that you’ll leave him alone.”

“It’s every decent man’s concern when a low cad’s insultin’ a lady,”
Larrupper answered stubbornly. “I ought never to have allowed you to
have anythin’ to do with him, but you’re always so set on havin’ your
own way, there’s no movin’ you. Well, you can have any way you find
pleasin’ when I’m through with Billy.”

“No, no, Larrupper--_please_!” she begged, growing alarmed before his
steady grimness. “It’s true I ought never to have asked him, but I
thought he would keep straight for me--indeed I did! He’s never failed
me before. There seems to have been a sort of fate in it. Oh, I know I
did wrong in not leaving him alone, but you won’t improve matters by
going for him or--or hammering him. He’ll only turn nasty, and never
look at any of us again. That’s the way to send him to the dogs for
life.”

“An’ the best place for him!” Larry added heartily. “It’s no use
bullyin’ me. This is man’s work, as I told you before. An’ I’m not
starvin’ old Grange for the pleasure of talkin’ about Blackburn.
There’s somethin’ else. That parson was makin’ love to you!”

Verity crimsoned for the third time, slowly and painfully. She had
never before known a moment’s embarrassment with Larrupper, but
to-night he seemed like a stranger, with his black brows drawn
together, and his gloomy eyes searching hers. There was something
menacing about the set of his heavy shoulders and the droop of his
bullet head.

“Yes,” she admitted in a low tone. “He--asked me to marry him. It
doesn’t seem fair to tell you, but I think you know, without it. You
needn’t be jealous,” she finished quickly, following an hysterical
impulse to say the most hopelessly wrong thing possible.

“Jealous?” Larry’s dark face flushed violently. “Jealous of old
Grant? Did you think I came bargin’ in at this time of night just
to tell you I was jealous? Then you’re wrong. I came to ask you a
straight question, an’ if you can give me a straight answer without
any shilly-shallyin’--and the right one, mind you!--I’ll make a night
of it with old Grange over the ’84 port. But if you can’t--if you
_can’t_----!” A dog-like anticipation of trouble came into his dark
eyes as he looked at her, and his hand shook on the mantelpiece, for
everything hung on that question, and he was afraid both of the answer
and of himself.

“It’s just this!” he said heavily. “A man doesn’t go askin’ girls to
marry him without thinkin’ about it a bit beforehand, especially when
he’s tuckered out like an Aunt Sally an’ a bit of Barnum mixed. Old
Grant isn’t the sort, either, to be plungin’ into proposals without
so much as a twinge of warnin’. He must have been goin’ that way for
weeks, poor old chap, an’ gettin’ worked up for the jumpin’-off. Now
I’m askin’ you--did you know he was fallin’ in love with you, or did
you not?”

“Yes, I knew,” Verity answered, quietly but without hesitation, as
he paused for breath. “It isn’t difficult to know a thing like that,
Larry, whether one wants to or not.”

“No, I suppose it’s generally shoutin’,” he agreed moodily. “I’d have
seen it myself if I’d gone to the trouble of lookin’. But there’s
somethin’ more. A girl can’t help a man carin’ for her, but she can
play fair, all the same. Did you do right by old Grant, my dear--or
did you lend him a hand to makin’ a fool of himself, leadin’ him on
with your smiles an’ your pretty little ways? Did you play fair by the
parson, old girl--that’s what I’m wantin’ to know?”

She said nothing, this time, only turned her head away from him,
and slid a hand over her eyes, while he stood beside her, breathing
heavily, doggedly demanding the truth he hated but had already guessed.

“Oh, darlin’, can’t you lie to me!” she heard him say under his breath,
passionately beseeching, and she shook her head without turning,
knowing there was no need of words. He uttered a curious sound,
half-sob, half-exclamation, and after that there was a long pause. Then
she felt him leave her and move across to the door.

“I must be gettin’ off,” he said easily and cheerfully. “Old Grange
will be freezin’, I’m afraid, an’ he’ll not get the ’84, after all,
dear old thing! Hope you won’t be too dog-tired in the mornin’.”

She straightened herself then, and swung round, looking at him with
miserable eyes.

“I always knew this was bound to happen,” she said. “I knew a day would
come when you would see me as I am, and not just as you chose to see
me. You’ve always made an idol of me, though I’ve tried hard enough, in
all conscience, to undeceive you! I’m not a goddess to be worshipped
or a baby to be petted and soothed. I’m simply a woman chock-full of
faults, and if you’d shown me you knew it and didn’t mind, you could
have had me long since. Now--I’ll never be your idol again. It’s true
that I knew Mr. Grant cared--true that I encouraged him. I won’t lie to
you. I was jealous of his influence in the village, and I knew that if
he fell in love with me he’d have to lay down his arms. So I led him
on. Do you hear, Larry? Take that home, and get it deep down into your
soul. _I led him on!_”

Larrupper winced sharply and unmistakably, but he smiled quite
pleasantly.

“What’s the use of worryin’?” he replied, falling back upon his usual
formula. “We’ll all be feelin’ better, to-morrow, an’ we’ll swim along
somehow without smashin’ one another, you’ll see! You’ll not think me
rude to be goin’, will you? I’m sure I can hear old Grange weepin’
outside.”

He opened the door; then paused again.

“There’s just one other thing, if you don’t mind my mentionin’ it? You
told old Grant that you were goin’ to marry Lionel Lyndesay. Well, it
isn’t true about Lionel, whatever it may once have been about Larry.
Larry’s wantin’ you with every little bit of him, but Lionel isn’t
goin’ to take the risk!”




CHAPTER XIX


A threatening sky was scudding before a fast-rising gale, and an
ominous dread lay over the marsh, but Roger Lyndesay walked in a
sheltered corner at Kilne between borders of yellow crocus. The hill
behind stood like a giant screen between him and the rough weather
coming straight from the sea. There was a stone seat let into the side
of the fell, where he rested every now and again, looking through the
swaying veil of budding branches to the creepered house where he and
his forefathers had lived so long, and from its windows had watched
ceaselessly over Crump. Even now, though the years were passing, the
prestige of the agency still remained with old Roger. Any old tenant,
questioned in a hurry, would still have given his name. Rent-day found
most of them still besieging his door. Even Callander had a curious
feeling that he himself was no more than pupil or assistant to the fine
old man.

Pacing slowly in his shelter, Roger found himself wishing, with the
ache of an old hurt apparently long healed, that Deborah had been a
boy. With his own death, and her possible marriage to a stranger, their
particular branch would be cut from the old root for ever. It hurt
him to think that Kilne would pass into other hands, that others, not
of his blood, would sit in his window and look across the river with
different eyes. They would never know the myriad faces of the land as
he knew them; nor watch as he for the continual miracle of the sun
springing red over Cappelside, or dropping yellow behind the Hall, or
flinging long shafts of gold down the shadowed aisles of beech. In
how many years would they learn the perfect moment when the avenue
was at its best; the time of year when the rooks held parliament on
the hill; and just what trick of wind brought the clearest music from
the kennels? In how many generations would they come to pass the deer
without seeing a single head raised in fear, or stretch an empty hand
for the gentle nibbling of the collared King of the Herd? Would they
heed the kingfisher at his evening drink, or the corncrake calling the
scythe all night long, or the sleek head of the otter rising from the
deep pool under the old bridge? And would they sit in the dark, alone
and perfectly content, watching the lights of Crump across the black
water as men watch shrine-candles in the dim church of their worship?
These things, that made the life of his soul, were the natural heritage
of a son of Kilne, who needed scant initiation into their mysteries.
But there was no son at Kilne; only a daughter, into whose hands the
birthright of love and service could never fall.

He was roused from his brooding by the sound of hoofs stamping
at the gate, and with some curiosity he trod slowly round to find
Slinker’s wife on the point of slipping from the saddle. His mind had
been so much in the past that his fast-fading memory failed to put a
name to her, and as she stooped with a smile to hand him a letter,
mourning-edged, his courtly old heart warmed to her grace and spirit.

“For Deb,” she told him, as he took the envelope, and was on the point
of asking to see her when her horse, which had been plunging and
backing, swung her across the road and almost on to the iron railing.

“He’s girthed too tight, I think,” she explained, when she had brought
him back and slid to the ground. “He’s a perfect mount, as a rule,
but he’s been behaving badly all the way, so I think there must be
something wrong.”

She pulled off her gauntlets and lifted the flap, but Roger Lyndesay
interposed with a courteous movement.

“Allow me!” he said gently, and she stood aside while he loosened the
girths, the horse standing quietly enough, even turning his head to
push softly at Roger’s shoulder. And she knew, as she watched, why
Deborah’s hands were so like Christian’s.

When he had settled things to his satisfaction, and dropped a last
caress on the smooth neck, the old man turned with a smile and
gallantly offered his palm to mount her; but she stepped back, shaking
her head, the embarrassed colour rising to her eyes.

“Not that!” she said firmly, as he stared in surprise. “I can’t allow
you to do that. That sort of thing’s for gentlefolk, Mr. Lyndesay, not
for old Steenie Stone’s daughter!”

A faint flush swept over the ivory face, and the proud old back made an
effort after its ancient dignity.

“You are Stanley’s widow--Mrs. Lyndesay?” he asked coldly and with a
touch of resentment, as if she had entrapped him, helpless, into an
impossible situation.

“That’s what they call me here.” Mrs. Slinker nodded, with her hand
on the stirrup. “I don’t call myself that, you may be sure, least of
all to _you_, Mr. Lyndesay! You think I’m an interloper, I know, and
you’re quite right. I’ve no business at Crump--I know my place well
enough for that. There are plenty of folks ready enough to cocker me
and tell me I’m a fine lady, but for all that I don’t forget who I am.
And I remember you, Mr. Lyndesay, ever since I could walk. You used to
come over to my father’s, often, and you always had a look and a kind
word for me--_then_. I can see you now, cantering into the yard on that
grand chestnut of yours--they’ve always had chestnuts at Crump, haven’t
they?--and all the stable doors flung wide for you to have your pick.
You did all the choosing for William Lyndesay, I’ve heard Father say,
and he kept a fine stud up at the Hall in those days, didn’t he?”

Old Roger was half-turned to the gate, looking down at the road, but
she could tell that he was listening.

“Old days are best, after all, aren’t they?” she went on, with a
wistful drop of her voice. “I used to stop up at Dockerneuk when I was
a girl--many a happy time I’ve had there; I’ve had nothing like it
since. Now I’m stopping at the Hall--it’s queer, isn’t it? My father
made a lot of money, you know, and he had me well-educated--when he
could get me to leave him and his horses! And when he died, I went
abroad for a bit; my sister had married in Canada, and it was pretty
lonely for Nettie Stone. I’d known Stanley as a boy, and I came across
him again at Taormina--well, we needn’t talk about that, need we? But
I’d like you to know that I haven’t forgotten my place. My father
thought the world of you and your judgment, and he taught his daughter
to do the same. I’ll always have that picture of you, riding into
Hundhow, straight as an arrow, on Crump Clever Lass, with all the doors
flying open, and my father on the step, smiling and touching his hat.
I may seem a rank outsider, Mr. Lyndesay, an impertinent upstart to an
aristocrat like you, but I’m touching my hat to you all the time in my
heart!”

Roger turned slowly and looked at her as she stood fumbling with the
stirrup, her pleading eyes fixed on him, and the deferential sentences
hurrying each other from her lips. Then he swept his hat very low, and
offered his hand a second time for her foot. She accepted it, now, with
a tremulous smile; and as he put it up, the next moment, to straighten
her habit, she caught it between her own, palm upward, looking at it.
“Only a little dust,” she said, very tenderly and reverently. “Nothing
to hurt even a Lyndesay! And I didn’t weigh much heavier myself, did
I? I shall always remember that you paid me the greatest honour of my
life!”

She turned her horse and rode away quickly, for the tears were in her
eyes, and Roger Lyndesay went slowly into the house with the note.

He found Deb in the pantry, polishing the silver candlesticks which
had been William Lyndesay’s last gift to him; and again, as he looked
at her bright youth and alert grace, the longing came to him that she
had been a boy. He passed his hand lovingly over the shining metal, and
along the inscription with its sincere words of recognition.

“They are yours, Deb, remember,” he said, laying down the letter, as
she put the leather back in its place. “If I had a son, they would be
his, of course, but as it is, they are yours. Keep them always. Don’t
let any of the Morton people have them.”

“Just let them try!” Deb answered defiantly, hugging her treasure
jealously in her arms. “Don’t be afraid, Dad. I’ll never let anybody
else put a finger on them. And I’ll stick to them if I’m starving in
the street, with the pair of them tucked safely under my shawl!”

“You should have been a boy!” he sighed, giving vent to his insistent
thought at last. “As it is, you will have to leave Kilne when I am
gone. If you had been a boy, you would have had the agency, and stayed
on here for life. You would have taken on the work as a matter of
course.”

“Should I?” she asked, with her eyes on the candlesticks.

“Why, certainly--if you had been a boy. You would have belonged to the
old place like the rest of us. As things are, you cannot be expected to
feel the call.”

“Can’t a girl feel it, then?” Deb enquired, without lifting her eyes.
“Does a girl never hanker after her father’s profession, and feel that
the rest of life is nothing beside it?”

He smiled faintly with a touch of amusement, shaking his head.

“How should a girl hear a call of that kind? It’s the men that count in
that, not the women--never the women. If I had had a son, _he_ would
have heard it. You have been a good daughter to me, Deborah, but it
takes a man to understand these things.”

He went back into the garden after that, forgetting that he had said
nothing of Mrs. Stanley, and for a long time Deb stood rigid, gazing
into vacancy, the candlesticks clasped in her arms. All the hidden
longing of her childhood, all the repressed passion of her later
years, rose and swept over her in a flood, and sobbed and tore at
her heart. Not even her father, living in such close communion with
her, had guessed at the motive of her whole being. If only she had
been a boy--ah, if only she had been a boy! But she was nothing but
a helpless, useless, girl, and soon, very soon, perhaps, she would
be in exile, as the boy need never have been. She was a girl, and
she would have to go. She gripped the candlesticks tighter. In that
moment she swore to marry Christian, no matter what the rash act might
bring--pain, shame, or lifelong remorse; and the ironic gods, who await
our flashes of complete decision to hound on their instant refutation,
loosed their leash.

She had avoided him since the concert, disappearing along side-roads
and sending down messages of excuse when he called; but all that was
over. She would avoid him no more. This one means of restitution was
left to the girl who ought to have been a boy.

At last she drew a long, sobbing breath and stirred, setting down the
candlesticks and reaching for the forgotten note. Its contents came as
a sharp surprise, for they requested her attendance upon Mrs. Lyndesay
at her earliest possible convenience.

Her first impulse was to let the command--for it was nothing
less--pass unnoticed, but she reflected that, under the circumstances,
such flagrant independence would scarcely be wise. She could marry
Christian, of course, in the face of his mother’s opposition, but the
situation was more than likely to be sufficiently unpleasant, in any
case, and only folly would deliberately add to it. She dressed slowly,
knowing she would go, but debating the point impatiently, nevertheless,
and turning even at the gate on a sharp impulse of resentment and
defiance. An old hawker, passing, lifted his ragged whip and shook it
at her with a toothless smile.

“Never turn back, lady!” the old voice creaked across the wall. “It’s
bad luck to turn when you’ve once started. You’ll not prosper, lady!
You’ll rue it before morning!”

She laughed, waving her hand after the rattling cart, and forgot the
superstition on the spot; but later--that very night--the warning came
back to her, knife-edged.

Still, the incident had shaken her out of her morbid self-introspection,
and she walked rapidly to Crump, refusing stoutly to fear what lay
before her. It was foolish to cross bridges until you came to them, and
the unexpected might prove pleasant, after all. Perhaps an apology for
the slight on her father--but even her sudden change of mood could not
show her Mrs. Lyndesay apologising to anybody about anything.

Nettie appeared from the stable-yard as she approached, and came to
meet her. She wondered whether Deborah knew of her recent interview,
but as the girl said nothing, she guessed that the old man had not
told, and she held her peace. Not until years after he was dead, did
she tell Roger Lyndesay’s daughter of the little scene she had held
sacred so long.

“I don’t know why you were asked,” she observed, as they went up the
approach together. “She never mentions you to me, you know, and I can’t
exactly make a point of discussing you. I was just asked to deliver the
note, that was all. It’s ripping of you to come, _I_ think. Wild horses
wouldn’t have dragged me if she’d treated me as she’s treated you.”

“I was born at the beck of Crump,” Deb answered, looking up at the
old house. “It’s in the blood, and I can’t help it. _You_ can afford
to snap your fingers at it, but Kilne must come running if it lifts a
hand.”

“I wish to goodness I _had_ snapped my fingers at it!” Mrs. Slinker
said sadly, as they went in. (She had not seen Dixon for a month.)
“Rishwald dines here to-night,” she added, in a lighter tone. “I’m
getting rather worried about him, to tell the truth. I fancy he
thinks I’d make a nice match for his Tobies and Queen Annes. No--not
there”--as Deb turned instinctively towards the library. “Upstairs, in
Stanley’s own room--horrid little smoke-pot! You know it, of course, so
I’ll let you go alone; but if she gets really rampant, just let out a
yell, and I’ll come up at a gallop.”

She let go the girl’s hand rather reluctantly, for Deb had
unconsciously gone white; and then, on a sudden impulse, she stooped
and kissed her.

“I’m older than you,” she said, almost apologetically, “older and
harder, and I’ve got used to the atmosphere of this mouldy old place.
I won’t let it suck the soul out of me. It gets you by the throat,
doesn’t it, when you come in? It’s--it’s the old lady!”--she nodded
upstairs, a look half-mischievous, half-frightened, on her face--“Mrs.
Lyndesay and that vampire of a tree out on the lawn. When they’re gone,
please God, there’ll be a clean wind blowing through Crump!”

She disappeared, and Deb, ascending past an open window facing west,
was caught in a great blast of air, shaking the pictures on the walls,
and shrieking eerily round the eaves, as the tide rose and the gale
grew steadily from the sea. She drew in a deep breath of it before she
climbed the last stair and knocked at Slinker’s door.

Personality clings to a room long after the occupant is dead,
especially if it be left untouched, and as she entered, meeting the
portrait’s meaning smile, it seemed to her that Slinker himself was
there indeed. She had forgotten the picture, and the shock of it held
her captive for a moment, until, dropping her eyes, she met the same
disconcerting smile on the cold lips of his mother. Her first words
made her start, translating as they did the thought in her mind.

“Oh, yes, he’s here!” Mrs. Lyndesay said coolly. “You felt him when you
opened the door--don’t deny it. He is here, all the time, listening
when we speak.” She looked round at one of the big chairs by the fire,
and Deborah felt a sudden fear thrill the morbid atmosphere already
invoked. Yet the eyes that turned back to her were sane enough, and
hard as gems are hard, as the light on a new-drawn sword, and the line
of Lake hills before rain.

“People never die,” said Mrs. Lyndesay. “You think you’ve got rid of
them, but they come back--they always come back. Yet Stanley is dead in
the eyes of the world, and Christian follows him. That is sufficient
for you. You would have married Stanley; and now you mean to marry--his
heir!”

Deborah drew back, the blood surging to her face, for she had never
thought of this. Christian had passed his word to say nothing, and she
had given no soul on earth a clue to their secret.

“You wonder how I know?” Mrs. Lyndesay asked smoothly. “It is
simple--these things are always simple.” She indicated the window
looking towards the stables. “One of the boys was talking of you,
to-day. He had followed hounds, it seemed, the day of the Crump meet.
He informed an assembly of open-mouthed employees that he had seen
Christian holding your hand. Does it please you to be meat for gossip
in the mart of the stable-yard?”

Deb, beaten to the wall, looked helplessly round the room, only to be
conscious of enmity everywhere, from the politely-sneering portrait
to her late picture-postcard rivals. She wondered vaguely what had
happened to her own photograph, and concluded that Slinker’s mother had
destroyed it. Meanwhile the passionless voice went on relentlessly.

“It is a fortnight since the meet, and you have not as yet seen
fit to give me any information on this point. I must conclude,
therefore, that you intend to be married secretly, so that you can
snap your fingers in the face of disapproval, mine and that of every
right-thinking individual. For I know that you _do_ mean to marry my
son. I have known it--sub-consciously, I suppose--ever since the day of
Stanley’s death. You mean to marry Christian as you would have married
his brother--for Crump!”

There was a pause, and then Deb said--“It is true!” as she had said
once before on a similar night of storm, in the library downstairs.

The other looked at her with a certain cold wonder.

“Lyndesays are all ambitious,” she said, “all ambitious and all proud.
I myself am a Lyndesay born, as you know. But you are more ambitious,
prouder, surer of yourself than any of us. You would seize Crump in the
teeth of all right feeling, decency and respect, grasping an honour
snatched from the very hand of the dead. Was there not enough of the
scandal laid to your credit, that you must force another upon the
family?”

“The scandal was not of my making!” Deb replied, and the older woman
gave a curious laugh.

“Stanley is listening, remember! Perhaps _he_ could tell us how you
tempted him, how the force of your passion to be mistress of Crump
carried him off his feet and made him false to his vows--for a while.
He would have gone back to his wife--I, his mother, tell you that. Do
not flatter yourself that you would have had him, in any case, had he
lived. He would have gone back to his wife! You came at a time when he
was lonely and unhappy, and you drew him to you by the same spell that
you have thrown over Christian. But the one escaped you, and so shall
the other--ay, if he has to follow the same road!”

“Stanley came to me of his own accord!” Deb began hotly, and stopped,
for the insidious atmosphere crept upon her, filling her with doubt.
Perhaps, after all, she had drawn Stanley without knowing it. He had
ignored her at first, but later, when she had turned on him on the
subject of some ill-used servant, he had laughed at her and made
friends with her; and after that he had seemed unable to keep away.
His eyes had followed her hungrily and almost helplessly, and in her
presence he had been generally good-humoured and even kind. Had she
indeed a spell that drew these men to her whether she would or not? The
thought struck her sharply that even Christian had never said he loved
her. He did not love her, she felt that, but she had thought him near
it. Was it just the charm working, and no more--the attraction of her
longing, the magnetism of her passionate desire?

“Christian pities you!” the voice went on cruelly. “He realises
all that you lost when you lost Stanley. He thinks he owes you his
brother’s debt. He does not love you--surely you cannot imagine that?
Christian does not care for women. He is as cold as Galahad. But he
can give you as much as Stanley could have given you--his place and
his prestige, his house and his money, his carriages and horses,
his hothouses, hounds and men! He thinks you are breaking your heart
for these--all the things after which a poor relation naturally
hankers--and he is generous enough to wish that you should have them.
Christian would always have given his last coin to a beggar--and this
is yours. A delicate position, isn’t it?” she sneered. “Will you still
take Crump at the price?”

Deb said “Yes!” faintly enough, but clinging to her determination
and nebulous hopes in spite of the crushing opposition closing about
her. She had had a vision of things come right, up on the hill alone
with Christian, and its fragrant promise clung to her dimly even yet.
Moreover, she would never crawl to this woman.

Mrs. Lyndesay seemed puzzled. She had been so sure of her instrument,
and she wondered where her touch had failed.

“I thought not even you could have sunk to that!” she said at last.
“Will you marry a second man who cares no more for you than for a pet
horse or hound?”

Deb winced and looked away, and this time the other followed her glance
as it went back to the place where her photograph had hung. “Christian
took your picture,” she said casually. “I missed it one day just after
he had been in. It was last year--months since--when he hardly knew
and was scarcely interested in you, so you will not be able to flatter
yourself that he was in love with you _then_! I suppose he took it
because he was sorry for you--that is Christian all over. He always
hated this room, and you were obviously out of place among these birds
of a feather!”

She waved her hand scornfully at the cheap faces she hated, yet which
she permitted no one else to handle, and sat back, satisfied, awaiting
results. And she had every reason to be satisfied, for her last speech
had clinched her argument in full, though after a fashion of which she
did not dream.

Deb stood staring at the empty space, unconscious for the moment of the
evil presences lying in wait, seeing only the kindness in Christian’s
face as his hand went out to her, and the delicate chivalry that had
hastened to shield a girl he scarcely knew and could hardly respect. He
filled the room in spite of his brother--at that instant, Slinker was
certainly and praisefully dead--and the dream on the hill caught her
again in its rosy fingers. The inner meaning of her heart-searchings
came home to her in a flash of revelation, and she understood why she
had hesitated to wrong him and herself, as she had never hesitated with
Stanley--why she must give him up now when he had grown to fill her
whole world. For she knew at last that she loved him.

The room ceased to have any hold on her. The portrait’s eyes claimed
her no longer. She turned back to Mrs. Lyndesay, bewildering her with a
sudden smile.

“I will give him up!” she said definitely, in a tone that held neither
resignation nor defeat, but something brighter and braver than had ever
purified the atmosphere of Slinker’s lair. “I will give him back his
promise--not because you have badgered me into submission, nor because
I am afraid of gossip or the idle chatter of a few stable-boys, but
because I know something now that I did not know before. I could hold
him in spite of you, but I will not try.”

“I will not try!” she said a second time, and laid her sword at her
enemy’s feet.

There was a moment’s silence, while the mistress of Crump leaned across
the table, staring into the girl’s face; then pushed back her chair
with an abrupt movement.

“Why, I believe you love him!” she exclaimed incredulously, and as Deb
looked at her, saying nothing--“You poor fool!” she added harshly, and
at that moment Christian knocked and entered.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked pleasantly, looking from one to the
other. “Nettie told me Deborah was here.” He held out his hand, and she
put hers into it mechanically. “When you’ve finished, will you lend her
to me for a little while? Callander and I have been hammering away at
that boundary dispute, and Deb is sure to know the rights of the case.”

“Deborah is here to show you the rights of some other question,” his
mother replied curtly, rising. “I will leave you to discuss it.” She
moved to the door, but Christian put out his arm.

“Please explain!” he said gently. “What have you been saying to
Deborah? Anything that concerns her concerns me--now.”

“She is here to undeceive you on that point. I am aware that you have
foolishly allowed yourself to be entrapped into an engagement, much as
your brother was caught before you, but that, too, is at an end. You
have me to thank for your liberty. Deborah has given me her word to set
you free.”

Christian, his mind in a whirl, looked across at Deb, standing
motionless by the window, gazing down into the yard. Something had
happened, though he could not even begin to guess what it was, except
that in some mysterious way his mother had come to know of the contract
on the hill. But at least she should not interfere. She had taken
something from him once already in this very room, but she should never
take from him the man’s right to choose his own mate. His colour rose
as he still barred her exit.

“I don’t understand how you know anything about it,” he said quickly.
“Not that it matters. Of course we should have told you very soon. I
should have liked you to have been glad, but I want Deborah for my
wife in any case, and if she is willing to come to me, I will not let
anything else stand in the way.”

“You will find more than enough in the way,” Mrs. Lyndesay answered
strangely. “You will find--Deborah herself!” And at her imperious
gesture he lowered his arm and watched her pass from the room. Deb’s
heart followed her in a faint thrill of feeling towards a personality
she had always hated. At least she had not betrayed her, even by a
hint. For the first and last time in her life, she was grateful to her.

She stood by the window, thinking hard. It was plain that Christian was
not ready to let her go. His liberty would have to be forced upon him,
for she had passed her word and she meant to keep it. She might have
risked her soul for Crump, but she would not throw her new-born love
into the scale.

He came to her quickly, demanding--“What does it mean?” puzzled and
impatient. “Who can have said anything to my mother? Not you, of
course. But who can possibly have told?”

“That infinitesimal Sherlock--a stable-boy!” she answered lightly,
looking at the wide quadrangle of buildings below. “One of your small
fry saw us up on Linacre, and Mrs. Lyndesay overheard the result of his
observations.”

“Then that settles it!” he said definitely. “You must give me
permission to announce our engagement at once.”

But Deb shook her head.

“Your mother told you that I had thought better of it. It’s the truth,
so you may as well accept it without argument. I expect you’ll be
rather relieved, as a matter of fact. You’re too nice to be married for
your property, Christian, and I think I’m too nice to be married for
pity.”

“Pity!” He took her hands and turned her towards him, keenly searching
her face. “Why, Debbie dear, you can’t really think anything as silly
as that! We’re such good friends, you and I--don’t let my mother’s
bitterness wrench us apart.”

“We can still be good friends,” she answered steadily. “It isn’t as if
there had ever been any--anything that mattered--between us. These last
two weeks don’t count--not as they would have counted if we’d--cared.
You were feeling chivalrous up at Linacre, and I was lonely, thinking
of the day when I should have to leave Kilne. That’s not sufficient
foundation for a lifetime together, and we knew it well enough, even
then. Let’s go back to what we were. After all, no--no harm--has been
done.”

“No harm?” Christian echoed. “It depends what you mean by that. How can
we go back? And of course these two weeks count! Do you think a man
ever feels the same towards a woman after he has once thought of her
definitely as his wife, even for a day? It’s absurd to talk like that.
You’re mine, and I mean to keep you. Have I done anything unconsciously
to make you change your mind?--or is it just my mother’s influence
and no more? You don’t like me less than you did, do you?” he went on
earnestly. “I’ll cut my throat if you don’t go on liking me, Debbie
dear!”

She laughed, though the tears were behind.

“You’re as nice as ever you can be! I’ve told you that once
already--too nice to be handed over to anybody you don’t want so
frightfully that you’d climb the stars for her. And that isn’t how you
feel towards a ‘friend,’ Squire Lakin’ Lyndesay!”

“But I do!” he protested hotly. “I don’t only think of you as a
comrade, though you’re the best a man could want. I think of you as the
woman I love----”

“Ah, don’t say it!” She stopped him, her voice full of pain, and they
stood silent, staring out of the window.

Which of them was right at that moment he could not have told. He was
only conscious that she was necessary to him, that she filled an empty
place in his heart, strengthening his hand by the touch of hers. He saw
her as a kindred spirit upon whom he could rely, a fountain of that
sympathy of which he had been so stubbornly deprived, the dearest part
of the new life he had been called upon to lead; and he could not let
her go. He tightened his clasp on her hands and drew her nearer.

“You’ve been thinking things, all sorts of absurd and unkind things,
and my mother’s been thinking other things for you; but now you’ve got
to think with _me_ and listen to _me_! I want you for my wife, Deb, and
it doesn’t matter a jot _why_ you marry me as long as you _do_ marry
me, so tell me I still have your promise, and trust me to bring my
mother round, after a while.”

“It doesn’t matter?” Deb looked at him intently, sadly, yet with a
touch of mischief in spite of her aching heart. “It doesn’t _really_
matter if I marry you for a daily drive behind liveries, rather than
for the sake of belonging to you and being your wife?--not because I
want to be with you always, and because of the way you smile and speak,
and bring the sunshine with you wherever I happen to be, but because it
is a fine thing to be mistress of Crump, and to have the first place
at dinner parties, and all the County kowtowing to me, hat in hand? It
doesn’t _really_ matter?”

His face fell boyishly, and she drew a sharp breath of mixed relief and
pain, for if he had loved her he would have known how hopelessly she
had betrayed herself in that last speech. He would have caught her in
his arms and crushed her foolish argument into silence; not have stood
looking down at her doubtfully, as Christian was doing, half-smiling
and half abashed.

“But you _do_ like to be with me, don’t you?” he asked anxiously; and
she just answered, “Oh, Christian!” rather hysterically, trying to free
her hands, and after a moment’s struggle he let them go.

“I don’t believe that you only care for the flesh-pots,” he said, his
face very troubled. “You always make out that you do, but anybody who
knows you as well as I do can see that you’re not really like that.
It’s only natural, of course, that the place should appeal to you.
You’re not a Lyndesay for nothing. But you’re too fine a nature to
marry a man for whom you had no feeling whatever. If you care for me
only a little, Deb, we’ll get along all right and make life a success.
Others have done it who didn’t start with half as good a friendship as
ours. Tell me it’s not just the place and nothing else, and I’ll keep
you in spite of everybody, in spite of my mother, in spite of yourself.
Tell me you care a little!”

“As I cared for Stanley!” she answered steadily, making a last effort;
and as the portrait flashed back upon their consciousness, it seemed
to both that Slinker himself was in very truth standing there between
them.




CHAPTER XX


Callander was in the hall when they went down, and he took Deborah
home. He wondered a little at the ceremoniousness with which Christian
took leave of them at the door, but he was often puzzled by the mixture
of boyishness and dignity in the young man, and thought no more of it.
As for Deb, she was too busy holding to her hat in the teeth of the now
flying gale to yield any satisfactory psychological impression. He had
long since realised the affinity between the two, but exactly where
they stood he could not guess.

As they left the park by the lower lodge, the Whyterigg car turned in
at the gates, and roared past them in the fading light.

“There’s Rishwald,” Callander remarked, looking after it. “Christian
will be late. Mrs. Stanley was ready for dinner long since, and kept
coming out of her room and signalling me with hair-brushes to know
whether you were still in the house.”

“It was good of you to wait,” Deb replied mechanically. Her brain was
still numb after the late strain, and she felt dazed by the rushing
tumult around her.

“I wanted to walk home with you,” he said simply. “I knew Christian
was engaged, and it isn’t a night for a lady to be out alone,” and put
his arm before her as he spoke, for a torn branch came whirling heavily
to the ground at their very feet.

She could hear the big tide filling the river, and wondered if the
sheep were safe on the mosses, and whether the low-lying farms were
trembling for the sea-wall. She could not help remembering that on such
a night Slinker had gone to his account. On such a night Christian had
come into her life; and on this, its counterpart, he was going out of
it. A thought struck her, and she half-stopped, looking back to Crump.

“What is it?” Callander asked. “Have you forgotten something? I will go
back for it.” But she turned again, shaking her head.

“It was only an old superstition that came into my mind,” she
explained, when they came under the lee of the Kilne wall, and she
could get her breath. “They say Lyndesays of Crump always die in a
gale. I suppose it’s absurd, but it’s a fact that Stanley died on a
night like this, and William Lyndesay, too. Of course there is many a
storm which brings no disaster, and it can’t be anything but a curious
coincidence, but Crump has many a frowning fate against it, as you must
have found, by now.”

“Yes, the estate seems to reek with ill-luck,” Callander said
thoughtfully. “I’m always running up against samples. And how
firmly everybody believes in it, too! This field must not be
ploughed--nothing would spring in it. Sheep can’t be heafed on that
fell--they would die in a week. In a certain shippon the dobbie milks
first; and so on. It has a certain charm for an outsider, but it is
awkward from a business point of view, and must be decidedly trying if
you take it all to heart.”

“There’s a big wrestling-match on at the Academy, to-night,” he added
presently, “and Christian has promised to look in. I’m going up for
him, so can keep an eye open to see that the gale does him no harm!” he
ended laughingly, as they reached the gate.

“Thanks!” Deb returned, smiling. “It’s all nonsense, I suppose, and
you must think me very silly, but I’m just as governed by the old
traditions as all the rest.”

“I’m glad you came here,” she added, on a sudden impulse. “I’m glad
you’ll have Kilne when we’re gone. It knows you already--don’t you feel
it when you come in? I couldn’t have gone away, leaving the house to a
stranger.”

“There is no need for you ever to go away,” he answered quietly. “This
isn’t the time for speaking, but you may as well know it. Think it
over, my Lady of the Land!”

He went away without waiting for an answer, and she stood in the porch,
looking across to the lights of Crump starred steadfast on the frantic
night, and her heart reached piteously across the cleaving water. Then,
conscious of a great unwillingness to leave the wildness without, she
went wearily into the house.

       *       *       *       *       *

Even the most perfect of servants has his moments of temporary
aberration, and when Mrs. Slinker came lightly down the stairs in
clinging, gleaming, ivory satin, with pearls twisted round her head
and pearls shining from her throat, it was scarcely surprising that
the first footman should drop the steel poker and stare like a very
kitchen-maid.

“She’s a bloomin’ bride!” he informed the underworld, when he had
got himself (furtively staring to the furthest limit) safely out of
reach. “A bloomin’ bride--that’s what she looked, and no mistake about
it! Satin and ropes of pearls, and twinkly things on her shoes, and
a colour like the light shining through that there ruby sugar-bowl!
You take my word for it, she’s making up her mind to get married
again--_soon_!”

“Then it’s Whyterigg,” announced the second, who had just reached the
blissful stage at which he was permitted to make observations without
being unduly snubbed. “I hung up his coat when he came, and there was a
hard thing with corners in his pocket that couldn’t have been anything
else but chocolates. _He_ has a kind of white satin and ruby look about
him, too. Bet you what you like it’s Whyterigg!”

“Rishwald’s running her hard,” the cook agreed. “My young man says
his car’s always in the village, and Rishwald peering into shops and
looking lost, and then rushing inside to buy things he can’t want
anyhow if he thinks folks is looking at him. And last time he came
he never touched that vol-o-vong I sent up extra-special. There’s
bound to be something at the back of _that_. My aunt! she’s doing
well for herself--first Crump and then Whyterigg! None so dusty for a
horse-dealer’s daughter, is it?”

“I don’t believe she’ll take Whyterigg,” a quiet, refined-looking girl
spoke up from beside the fire. “She’s only cared for one man all her
life, and we all know who that is! I used to see a lot of Nettie Stone
before she was sent away to finish her education, and she was in love
with Anthony Dixon even then.”

“Go on--you and your Anthony Dixon!” the cook sniffed contemptuously.
“As if anybody with a chance of Whyterigg would be cracked enough to
give Dockerneuk a second thought! She’s travelled far enough from
her Dockerneuk days, I’ll be bound. Satin for Anthony Dixon! Pearls!
Twinkly things on her toes! A fat lot _you_ know about it, to be sure.
Rishwald it’ll be, you’ll see, and another slap in the eye for their
precious county!”

Rishwald was distinctly of the same opinion, judging from the
atmosphere of tender possession with which he instantly surrounded the
bridal vision. He even forgot certain tea-spoons of quite historic
importance, and was content to whisper illiterate nothings into a
charming ear, while the footmen eyed him through the open dining-room
door, and laid bets as to his probable chances.

Christian was late, as Callander had prophesied, and when he entered at
last it was with a double apology.

“You’ll think me frightfully rude, of course, and I’m wretchedly
ashamed, but I was unexpectedly detained; and to make matters worse,
I’m afraid I shall have to go down into the village, later on. I
suppose you wouldn’t care to come along?--a wrestling-match, you
know--some of your men are down,--yes, yes, you’d rather stop here, of
course--I quite understand! I seem to have made a muddle of things,
somehow--I’ve rather a knack that way,” he added, with a sudden little
laugh, at which Nettie looked up quickly.

Something had happened, she knew, upstairs in that detestable little
room which had never harboured anything but trouble; something that
had sent Deborah away without a word to herself, and set that hurt,
puzzled look in Christian’s kind eyes. To-morrow she would find out,
and by hook or crook things should be put right; but to-night was
_her_ night, and she could spare no thought for any one else. The gale
had set her blood racing in her veins--wild blood that came through a
questionable pedigree from lawless Border thieves of the North; and the
interview with Roger Lyndesay had carried her back with a rush to the
happy days of her early girlhood, when she and Dixon were stepping on
the borderland of love, and the shadow of Crump was far enough from
their young glamour. The old man’s courtly action had given her back
her self-respect as nothing else could have done, setting her free,
it seemed, for the future. For the second time she shook off her dead
husband’s clasp, and deliberately took her life in both hands, calling
on the gods of field and fold.

Dinner was a rapid meal, and when the ladies rose, the men followed
very shortly. Rishwald drew Nettie to the piano, but though she played
when he asked her, she would not sing, for in her ears was a rioting
song of hope and fear, so tempestuous that she marvelled others could
not hear it. His head swam as he bent over her flushed cheek and
shining gown, hungering for some response to his passion, and nearer
complete abstraction from self than he had ever been in his life, or
would be again.

Christian sat by the fire, sunk in a deep chair, his face hidden in a
cloud of smoke. Near him, his mother bent closely over a fine square of
lace, her thin, powerful fingers moving lightly among the threads. They
never looked at each other--these two. The veil of bitterness between
them was stretched to-night as far as the stars.

“If you would give us a week at Whyterigg,” Rishwald was saying quite
humbly, “I should be honoured to arrange an old-time concert in the
musician’s gallery. A harpsichord--viola da gamba, and so on--the
musicians in costume, of course. Does the idea please you?”

He bent nearer, and at that moment a bell rang, far at the back of the
house. Nettie started violently, her hands dropping from the keys, and
she half-rose, looking at the stairs, but before she could move, one of
the men entered with the message that Anthony Dixon wished to see Mrs.
Stanley.

Slinker’s wife came out from behind the piano.

“Bring him here, please,” she said quickly. “I will see him here. That
is, if you will excuse me!” she added, turning apologetically to her
hosts.

“My dear Nettie!” Mrs. Lyndesay’s eyebrows went up in cold disapproval.
“If you must see the man--and surely it cannot be necessary, at this
hour?--the hall is scarcely the place for an interview. The steward’s
room, Matthew, or the east parlour.”

The servant bowed and was turning away when Mrs. Slinker checked him.
She stood in the middle of the hall, a radiant, gleaming figure,
scattering the gloom of Crump like a high-held lamp, showing beside the
rigid blackness of her mother-in-law like a shining lily beside a bough
of yew.

“No--wait!” she said clearly, putting out her hand, and Christian,
through the smoke, saw that her wedding-ring had disappeared. “I prefer
to have him brought here--if you will forgive me. Do as I say, please!”
and the startled footman threw a frightened glance at the older woman,
and fled. For the first and last time in her life, Nettie Stone was
absolute mistress of Crump, and she never forgot it.

Anthony came into the hall shyly, but with his beautiful dignity
unimpaired. His hat was off, and his hand went up in salute as his
tranquil eyes travelled deferentially round the circle. Christian
nodded cordially through his screen of smoke, and Rishwald, though
deeply annoyed by the interruption, acknowledged his greeting with a
stiff bend of the head; but Mrs. Lyndesay merely stared at him in cold
surprise, and the quick blood rushed to his tanned face as he realised
her resentment at his presence.

“I’m sorry if I’m intruding, ma’am,” he said quietly. “I’m here by
order. Mrs. Stanley sent me word she had something to ask me.” And
Slinker’s wife, her face all laughter and tears, walked up to him and
said--“That’s so, Anthony! Will you marry me?” and laid her hands on
his breast.

In the mighty pause that followed they were still as stone, spectators
as well as actors in the swift little scene; and then came a soft,
final sound--the closing of the library door. Even Rishwald saw clear
at that moment, and he knew that he had lost. There was one thing at
least Whyterigg would never take from Crump.

Mrs. Lyndesay stood up and reached for the bell, but Christian slid his
fingers over the ivory knob before she could press it.

“Leave that, Mother!” he said with gentle force. “This matter is for
ourselves only. I’ll not have Anthony turned like a dog from Crump.”
He dropped his hand and stood up beside her, staring at the still,
concentrated figures, conscious only of themselves.

“Turn them out!” Mrs. Lyndesay said in a low, harsh voice, and suddenly
she began to shake like a leaf in the wind of her wounded pride. “Turn
them both out--the woman as well--the low-born thing that in my folly I
raised to our level! She shows her breeding at last, insulting us under
our very roof. Turn them out! If William Lyndesay were alive, he would
have them whipped from the door!”

The fierce words reached the culprit, and Slinker’s wife dropped her
hands and turned towards the furious voice, paling a little, though her
eyes were full of soft light.

“I’m sorry,” she said gently, “but I had to do it--it was the only way
to make Anthony believe I cared. Yes, turn me out--_please_ turn me
out--quick!--and then--he’ll take me in!”

She stretched out her hands, half-laughing, half-crying, and Christian
went across to her and caught them in his own.

“Oh, Nettie, how mad you are!” he exclaimed, divided himself between
laughter and tears. “You foolish, ridiculous, utterly adorable thing!
As if you’d ever be turned from here while Crump is Christian’s roof!”

But Anthony stepped forward with a certain dogged resentment, his quiet
face working painfully.

“All the same, it’s done, sir, asking your pardon! It’s not true that
William Lyndesay would have turned me out. He never gave me a wrong
word. But neither Anthony Dixon nor aught that belongs to him needs
telling to go more than once. Nettie comes home with me to-night to my
mother, and while I live she never crosses the door again!”

“Come, Anthony--take time to think----!” Christian expostulated, hurt
yet conciliatory, but Dixon waved him aside.

“Where’s your cloak, lass?” he said to Slinker’s wife, and with a low
laugh of pure happiness she caught up a rug that Christian had given
her at Christmas, and threw it round her, following Dixon to the door.
As he opened it, she turned abruptly, and took a last look at the rigid
figure by the fire, its scornful eyes following her with open hatred,
and for a long moment the two women stood staring at each other across
the hall. Then Slinker’s wife uttered a passionate little sound, part
sorrow and part justified relief.

“You never really loved me,” she said, “never, never--except as
Stanley’s chattel! I’m sorry, I think, but it makes things easier.”
Then she stepped back to Christian, caught his hand and kissed it.
“Good-bye, Youngest One! Don’t forget me. I’d stay with you if I could,
but I’m called home, and you won’t grudge me that. Oh, Laker dear, at
least there’s one lost dog no more a-seeking!”

At the foot of the steps he saw Anthony throw his arm around her,
and Nettie lay her face on his breast; and his eyes were wet when he
stepped inside and shut them out.




CHAPTER XXI


His mother had disappeared when he came back into the hall, but
Rishwald, emerging from the library, was struggling into his coat. He
asked for his car, checking Christian’s apologies with a certain amount
of dignity, and, in spite of his disastrous evening, shaking hands
warmly with his somewhat forlorn-looking host, who smiled dismally when
he had gone. No doubt he would find adequate consolation in his Tobies
and Queen Annes.

Racing upstairs, Christian changed rapidly into morning clothes, for
he expected Callander at any moment, and when he came down again he
noticed that the door into the garden was open. On a sudden impulse he
went out, to find his mother standing under the old cedar, looking up
at its swaying canopy.

The gale was at its height, now. The wind ran and roared through the
wood like a horde of yelling satyrs, and beat at the old house as if it
would rive the stones asunder. The cedar groaned as it wrestled in the
arms of its mighty antagonist, straightening its old limbs and lifting
its tossed head, only to be bowed to the earth anew. Sometimes, as it
bent, Mrs. Lyndesay was lost to sight beneath the straining boughs,
and Christian fought his way out to her, and laid a hand on her sleeve.

“You’d better come in!” he shouted, his mouth close to her ear. “It
isn’t safe out of doors--especially here. The wind’s taking the trees
all over the garden, and the old cedar’s rotten all through.”

She obeyed reluctantly, and as the full force of the wind met them
round the house, she staggered and caught him by the arm, and he
supported her across the lawn. It came to him, as he did so, that this
was the first time in his life that she had turned to him for help: the
first occasion since he had grown to manhood on which she had touched
him of her own accord.

Once inside, she sank panting on the window seat, while he put his
shoulder to the door and shut out the shrieking void.

“A Lyndesay’s Night!” she exclaimed, as he came back to her where she
sat, her white face framed by the oak of the wall and the wild night
without. “A Lyndesay’s Night! The tree is calling for one of us,
Christian. Shall it be you or I?”

“Neither, I hope!” he answered as cheerfully as he could, lifting his
coat from a peg near, and slipping it on. “Certainly not you. And for
me, I am not ready to go yet. I want much more of life before I follow
the Tree.”

“But I should be glad to go!” she broke out passionately. “I want
nothing more with anybody. Judases--Judases--the rotten world reeks
with them! I’ve only loved three people in the whole of my life,
and each of them played me false. Oh, God! is there no end to it?
Judases--Judases--every one!”

She wrung her hands together, rocking to and fro until her widow’s cap
touched the leaded pane. The ice was broken at last, and the torrents
of hidden anguish came racing into view, carrying all before them.
Christian shrank a little, appalled by the force of her unwonted
distress.

“All false!” she cried again. “That woman to-night--she lied when she
said that I did not love her. I had grown fond of her. She understood
me better than anybody; better than my own mother or my own children.
There was something frank and brave about her that got at my heart,
something that seemed mountains high above the mud of treachery. I
believed in her, in spite of the secret marriage; and all the time she
stayed with me for her own ends, not for my comfort--not because I
cared for her, but merely to gain a man who did not trust her--and with
cause! That was Nettie Stone. Let her go!”

She finished with her hands locked on her knees, her figure bent
forward, her staring gaze on the floor.

“She loved him,” Christian said gently. “She played a big stake, and
she took a big risk. And he trusts her, now.”

“Then there was Stanley,” she went on, apparently without hearing him,
“Stanley, who was the light of my eyes and my very soul. He was born
at a time when I had begun to think I could not go on living, and his
babyhood was the one bit of heaven I shall ever know. But as he grew
up, day after day I saw where he was going. I watched him grow from a
careless boy into a despicable, dissolute man. When once love sees,
it has the terrible lightning-clearness of the gods. I watched him
backing slowly into hell--the hell where I myself was already, with all
mothers in like case. When the Tree took him, I was glad, for I thought
everything was ended, and the long strain of deceit over. Then came the
last scandal. I knew most of the others, and he knew that I knew. But
this, the greatest thing in his life, the worst and yet perhaps the
best thing he had ever done, he kept from me. He was false to me as to
everybody else.”

“He is dead, Mother. Try to forget,” Christian put in, moved to a
sudden passion of pity. “We are left, you and I. Let us help each
other, if we can!”

She lifted wide, strange eyes to his pitying gaze.

“You help me? _You?_ I would not owe you a paltry kindness, or a single
kindly word!” She stood up abruptly, throwing back her head, and for a
brief moment he looked, shuddering, behind the Lyndesay mask. “I have
always hated you--you don’t need to be told that; but you need to be
told why. There was another I loved--your father. And you are William
Lyndesay’s son--William Lyndesay who was false to me from our very
wedding-day, and with whom I lived twenty years, holding my peace! Ay,
there is more than one curse on Crump. No wonder we are a by-word
in the countryside for all that spells sorrow and hate and death! We
are cursed down to the very soil we tread, and up to the roof of the
shambles where we die. Judases! Judases all!” She sank back, putting
her hands to her face. “Take your pity and your help elsewhere--you
who look at me with William Lyndesay’s eyes!” The hall bell rang, and
Christian stepped quickly between her and the approaching servant.

“Mother!” he pleaded earnestly, very low, bending over her. “I am
myself as well as my father’s son. I am your child--no treachery in the
world can alter that. Forget, if you can. In time you will forgive. We
are so alone, Mother, you and I!”

His voice shook as he put out a hand and laid it on hers, a passionate
need of sympathy strong upon him, and his heart drew to her when she
showed no outward resentment at his touch. She turned her head to the
window, where by the wild light from the hurrying sky they could see
the tree lashing to and fro.

“The Tree calls,” she said quietly, as Callander came in behind them
on the wind. “The Tree is hungry and calls. Now may the Tree take me
before I either forget or forgive!”

       *       *       *       *       *

During their breathless fight across the park, the two men had no words
to spend on each other, and Christian’s restless brain raced like
driven quarry through the twisted tangle of the day. His interview
with Deborah seemed already blurred and far-off; his mother’s fierce
monologue a nightmare to be shaken clear. Only one picture stood out
brightly on the crowded canvas, sweet and gracious against the troubled
bewilderment of the rest. He saw Anthony’s arm go round the woman he
loved, and Nettie’s head sink to its place at last.

_That_ was love, then--the thing of which Deborah had said he knew
nothing; the going into a place apart of two souls, for whom even the
dark avenue of death could hold no fear. Nettie had been his comrade,
his strong stay, but for Anthony she would be only a woman, weak for
the glory of his strength. Not in comradeship alone lay the secret, not
even in mutual reliance and support, unless crowned and welded by the
unpurchasable magic, lacking which the highest must stay sealed. Deb
had been right; he had not understood--but he understood now. Farmer
and horse-dealer’s daughter were priest and priestess of his vision.

“We’re late,” Callander observed, when at last they struggled into
the village. “But most of the men would be late too, I expect, so it
doesn’t really matter. The Whyteriggers must have had a tough fight for
it across the mosses.”

It was with a sense of relief that they stumbled out of the merciless
night into the warmth and brightness of the hall, packed from platform
to gallery, for it was a special night, and the Crump Silver Belt was
up for competition. Moreover, this was the first time that Christian
had appeared at a meeting since his brother’s death, and all his
admirers were there to greet him. They got to their feet as he came
in, and a shower of caps darkened the air on a mighty cheer for Lakin’
Lyndesay. The older men, who had known him from childhood, crowded
round him, grasping his hand, while the lads in the background eyed him
with reverent awe, for he held a record that could not be beaten by any
in the room.

He passed the gauntlet of outstretched hands by gradual degrees, and
came laughing to the platform, where a chair had been kept for him,
and a morose Larrupper greeted him with a dismal nod. The cheering was
still raising the roof as he took his seat in the centre, and the Crump
men came out _en masse_ to give him a final yell. Still the familiar
faces pressed upon him, and still the welcoming hands went out. Even
Larrupper thawed at last in the general enthusiasm, and clapped him
cheerily on the shoulder as the oldest Crump tenant worried his way
through for a word with the squire.

“Eh, Laker lad, but I be main glad to see thee back!” he quavered,
holding to the young man’s hand as much for support in his agitation as
for greeting; and Christian laughed and pushed him gently into his own
chair, while a dozen eager sportsmen fought and scrambled after another.

The umpires restored order at last, and the ring was cleared. The crowd
subsided, and presently the men began to come out in wrestling-kit,
white, yellow, or even purple, richly embroidered in many cases, for
there was a prize to be won by the best costume. At the edge of the
ring the ponderous, but still light-footed umpires, themselves old
wrestling champions, grunted curt orders at competitor and partisan
alike.

Christian leaned forward after the first clean fall, his breath
coming fast as the glamour of the game gripped him afresh. He had all
the names of all the great wrestlers by heart, from the Cork Lad o’
Kentmere, who won his Troutbeck home in a tussle before Edward VI, to
Jemmy Fawcett, Jackson of Kinneyside, and the best men of his own day.
Jemmy Fawcett was one of his favourites in history, a little ten-stone
man of five foot seven, who had been known to fell seventeen stone,
even with a handkerchief to lengthen his reach. Then there was Belted
Will; and Bone-setter Dennison, who dislocated his opponent’s shoulder
in a fall, and put it right again before leaving the ring; others, too,
whose names rose slowly to the surface of his mind as he watched.

This was not one of the weekly matches, but a competition open to the
district and to all weights, though the fact that the men were mainly
drawn from Crump and Whyterigg caused the party feeling between the
two villages to run high. The Crump men did well at first. Long John
Carradus had little trouble with young Harry Newby, a lightweight whose
favourite chip was the somewhat dangerous “hank”--dangerous because
it has the knack of felling the aggressor instead of the defendant.
Lowther disposed of his man with a swift back-heel; and the inside
click finished a Whyterigg favourite whose chances had been highly
assessed. The brawny Arevar cowman had done himself proud by drawing
the pick of the room, and was greeted with uproarious, derisive cheers
as his knotted arms went heavily round Gaskarth’s slender waist,
his coarse blue shirt and clumsy fustians in striking contrast with
the white elegance of the other. He made a great parade of finding
his hold, ramming his rough head against his opponent’s cheek, and
breathing heavily, while Gaskarth padded lightly round him, taking
his time, and smiling gently at the cowman’s mighty lumberings and
strenuous efforts to force him to close. He got his hands together
at last, swiftly and unobtrusively, and allowed his enthusiastic foe
to swing him about the ring for a few moments, for the amusement of
the spectators, smiling blissfully all the while; then, suddenly
striking inside and lifting at the same time, held the astonished
Samson helpless in his grasp before laying him gently and almost
affectionately on the mat. Christian uttered a sharp word of applause,
and Gaskarth, hearing it through the general laughter, acknowledged
it with a lifted finger. He had learned his quiet science from Lakin’
Lyndesay himself.

The following half-dozen pairs gave little sport, and Christian,
running his eye over the men, had already come to the conclusion that
Gaskarth had no need to fear anybody present, when the last couple of
the first round took the mat.

One of the two he knew, but the other, whom he took to be a
Whyterigger, was a stranger to him, a big, fair man scaling fourteen
stone, with a splendid pair of shoulders slightly overweighting the
rest of him, and a long reach. He had a sullen expression, and a temper
not thoroughly under control, Christian judged, noticing his restless
hands as the Whyteriggers went down before Crump. He strode on to the
mat aggressively and rather contemptuously, and made short work of the
young groom who fell to his lot, barely stopping to shake hands before
marching off again.

After that, Christian watched him intently as he lived through the
next few rounds, foreseeing that he and Gaskarth would meet in the
finals, and hoping to see him downed--not because he was an outsider,
but because the man’s attitude annoyed him, lacking as it did the frank
heartiness of the genuine sportsman. His science was creditable--he
knew more than a little--did not rely entirely, by any means, upon
his strength and lightness of foot; but it was evident that he was
not popular, though his favourite trick was the showy swinging hipe
which takes so tremendously with the crowd. And once, when he felled
Lanty Strickland, a beginner who had fought his way gallantly to the
last round, finishing him off with needless force, after a fashion
of which Gaskarth would never have been guilty, an ominous murmur
ran through the room, checked instantly and gruffly by the umpires.
Christian pricked his ears, looking more intently than ever at the
stranger. During the last eighteen months he had got out of touch with
wrestling-gossip, but he knew that behind that murmur was something of
older standing than to-night, a grudge born, not of the moment, but of
settled prejudice. He tapped one of the committee on the shoulder, and
learned the man’s name to be Harker; and when, as he had anticipated,
he came out with Gaskarth for the finals, he settled himself keenly to
enjoy the contest.

Gaskarth was not smiling, now. He knew he had big work before him, to
be approached seriously; yet that hardly accounted for the fact that
he offered his hand with less than his usual open good-will, or that
the crowd, while urging him to “Git on to him, Bob! Good lad, Bob! Mind
what thoo’s at!”--had scarcely a word or even a name for the other.

They fell to--Gaskarth quiet in all his movements, from the settling
of his chin to his easy, circling step and the swing of his sinewy
reach; but Harker closed and unloosed rather fiercely, in a manner
more suggestive of real combat than of scientific play. Gaskarth got
hold soon, too--it was only his cowman friend whom he played for the
fun of the crowd--but Harker dallied beyond all reason, irritating
the spectators and drawing reproof from the umpires, at the same time
wearing his opponent in a manner scarcely worthy of his superior
strength and weight. He got hold at last though--a greedy hold,
Christian noticed, that made Gaskarth bite his lip with annoyance,
and a brilliant struggle followed, during which the stout umpires were
harried from pillar to post by the indignant sportsmen whose view
they blocked. The hold was too much for Gaskarth, however, backed by
Harker’s greater power, and he went down at last before the swinging
hipe which had sent the others to the mat. He got back on him, though,
in the next round, taking very good care that holds should be fair this
time, and with his usual neat inside stroke flooring his man in a few
seconds. Harker got up frowning as the other pulled him to his feet,
and in the pause before the last round stood breathing hard, his thick,
fair brows drawn sharply together.

But it was not until the third round was well advanced that Christian
discovered the real cause of his unpopularity. Not only was he
maddeningly slow to “close for fair,” but when once at grips he
deliberately forced Gaskarth’s arms upward above his shoulders,
until their heads were set crown to crown, the deadlock ending in a
futile slipping of holds. Time after time this happened, earning the
disapprobation of the umpires and the open condemnation of the crowd.
Gaskarth, not a man of particularly powerful physique, depending more
upon his knowledge of the game than on sheer strength, began to show
signs of exhaustion as this senseless waste of energy continued.

Dripping with perspiration in the crowded, airless room, he looked
across to Christian, lifting his eyebrows meaningly, to be answered
by an infinitesimal nod, and Gaskarth was comforted, though he knew
he was done. His fine temper broke a little when he took hold for the
last time, and he endeavoured to force himself over his adversary in
a final spurt, but the edge had been worn off his delicate dexterity,
and instead he went hurtling over his opponent’s head, and lay panting,
looking up into Harker’s sullen eyes.

There was a pause for realisation, and then, as he dragged himself
up, grinning humorously and reaching out an ungrudging hand, a storm
of disapproval broke from the room. Shaking his head rebukingly at
the demonstration, he walked cheerfully back to his corner, but
Harker stayed doggedly on the mat, waiting for the winner’s ticket,
and staring defiantly round him when the paper was in his hand. The
discontent was so marked that the big referees looked appealingly at
Christian, who responded by rising to his feet and holding up his hand
for silence.

“Did you give the fall?” he asked quietly, when the last murmur had
died down, and, as the umpires reluctantly signified their assent, he
beckoned Harker forward, lifting the belt from the table beside him.
From the platform he looked down into the square, dogged face, and in
spite of his forced impartiality, his voice was cold as he spoke the
usual formula of presentation; but when he would have handed him the
trophy, Harker shook his head brusquely, and stepped back.

“I haven’t won it yet, sir,” he said, rather insolently, “though I
mean to have it in the end, all right! There’s one Crump man that
hasn’t come out against me, and that’s yourself!”

The colour flamed into Christian’s face as he stood with the belt in
his hands, lifting his head rather haughtily; and instantly from the
disappointed assembly a chorus of demand was flung towards him, the
more insistent pressing to the very steps.

“Take him on, sir! Give him a taste of the old stuff. Topple him over!
Lakin’ Lyndesay! Lakin’ Lyndesay! Give him Crump----!” and it seemed to
Christian that he himself was borne bodily upon the wind of tumult as
his name ran from mouth to mouth.

The men on the platform gathered round him urgently; the oldest tenant
clung to his arm, quaveringly imploring, eager to see him justified;
and even Larrupper added his pithy persuasion.

“Get along down, Laker, an’ break the beggar’s neck!” he growled. “Or
if it’s not dainty enough handlin’ for Lyndesay of Crump, I’ll sail in
an’ do it myself!”

“No, no, Larry! I can’t have you landing in the police-court,”
Christian laughed, torn between his hunger for the game and the memory
of an extorted promise. Perhaps, too, as Larrupper had so delicately
hinted, Lyndesay of Crump was loth to meet the upstart challenger, but
the primitive man at least was all agog to prove his mettle. He looked
hesitatingly round the urgent faces, the sea of entreaty surging in
his ears. The events of the long day had swung him far from his normal
temperate attitude, and at that moment he did not care greatly what
he did or by what influence he was led. More than one tie had been
definitely broken during the last few hours, and the promise might as
well break with the rest.

Only Callander hesitated, driven by his undertaking to Deborah,
and, curiously enough, his very protest clinched consent. Callander
had never seen him wrestle, Christian remembered suddenly, and his
boyish vanity rose to back his natural desire. Fate had used him none
too kindly, that day, leaving him with a sense of having been found
wanting, of having missed by an ace a gift he was not strong enough
to hold. He felt humiliated, sunk in his own eyes, and he longed to
set himself right at least on this, his own peculiar ground. Moreover,
Callander had never seen him wrestle! Afterwards, he remembered how
that touch of innocent folly had swung the balance on the fatal side.

He caught Harker’s eye and nodded, and instantly the hard-used caps
soared up once more; and as he shook himself free from the exultant
press, he saw old Parker beckoning him anxiously from a door behind.

“You’ll excuse me taking the liberty, sir,” the butler apologised,
trembling in every limb with excitement, “but I ventured to slip down,
just to see what was going on, and at the same time I brought the old
rig down with me! You see, Mr. Christian, I thought they’d like as not
want you to turn out, and I didn’t fancy the things not being on the
spot, so I hope you’ll excuse me having brought them along. Oh, sir!
It’s like old times, isn’t it?--and mind you give him a bit of Crump’s
best!”

That was sufficient, if any extra pressure were needed, and they
disappeared behind the stage, while the umpires growled the meeting
into a semblance of order, and Harker flung himself down to rest, his
heart beating fast in spite of his outward indifference.

It is always the dependants of an old house who nurse and keep alive
any feud that may be going--the family servants, the old keepers, the
workmen on the estate. Theirs it is to see that the bad blood should
be kept running, no matter how sweetly, on the part of the masters,
righteousness and peace may have kissed each other. Crump and Whyterigg
had shaken hands and buried the knife, but Christian’s old nurse would
not sit at meat with Rishwald’s chauffeur, nor the head gardener so
much as exchange a cutting with Whyterigg’s horticultural head. Harker
was well come for this sort of thing, being a son of the now-pensioned
Whyterigg coachman and a lady’s maid also bred on the spot, who had
handed on to him their lusty hate of Crump almost as a sacred duty.
“Whyterigg thieves” and “Crump liars” had constituted the common
interchange of courtesies between the boys of the two villages, and
though education and sport had done much to root out the old feudal
folly, the opprobrious term still rankled in Harker’s mind. He now
held a Whyterigg farm, but until the present year he had been with an
uncle in Cumberland, so that he knew nothing of Christian beyond his
sporting reputation, seeing him through the smoked glass of inherited
hostility more as a symbol than as a man. In his mind had always been a
half-formed determination to meet Lakin’ Lyndesay on this one possible
ground of equality, and now his opportunity had arrived. He meant to
make the most of it. The old coachman and the lady’s maid would surely
weep tears of joy if he could carry home a victory over Crump.

There was a stir on the platform, heads turning to the inner door
framing the illuminated countenance of the old butler; and then
Christian ran down into the ring, his nerves thrilling to the
affectionate recognition flung him from all sides. He wore the pale
orange they all knew, his fair head shining against the black Crump
cedar embroidered on the chest; and as he stood, waiting, the full
light falling upon his bright, frank expression and clean-limbed grace,
Harker, approaching, was conscious of unwilling and deeply heretical
admiration. And Callander’s heart warmed to his young employer, for all
that he guessed him to be the unconscious barrier to his dearest desire.

They shook hands quickly and got to work, and were barely into holds
before Harker realised that he was overmatched. He had placed his
opponent at Gaskarth’s valuation, or little higher, and for a few
moments he was conscious of a deadly helplessness under the other’s
superior skill. Christian seemed to read his purpose at the instant
it was framed, and his foot was changed or his weight thrown on the
opposite side in what appeared an impossible fraction of time. He
was cool, too, patient, and most terribly certain,--moreover, he was
unexpectedly strong. Try as he might, Harker could not raise his hold
as he had raised Gaskarth’s. Christian was always ready for him,
and any attempt to force things brought him perilously near his own
destruction. Once, indeed, he did go down, but with a powerful effort
he brought his man alongside, and the umpires gave it a dog-fall. He
got up trembling and breathing hard, but now he, too, was cool. He set
his teeth, doggedly weighing his chances. Christian scaled no more than
eleven stone, if he touched that, and he was out of training, while
the Whyterigger was in the pink of condition, having, too, the slight
advantage in years which tells so enormously at a certain age. But he
was nowhere near him in knowledge and lightning judgment, and he saw
that he must depend on his endurance and his magnificent lifting powers
if he were to come off victor. A few seconds later he was lying on the
mat, laid there as lightly as a child, sent down by a simple back-heel
accomplished in the one infinitesimal second in which he had advanced
his left foot an inch too far.

In the next round he held the advantage for some time, having managed
to secure his favourite monopolising hold, and after a hard struggle
he succeeded in forcing Christian over; but with beautiful dexterity
the younger man twisted from beneath before striking ground, and
reversed the positions. Harker saved himself likewise, by a marvellous
exhibition of strength which brought him a grudging cheer, but he
had lost his first supremacy completely, and when he put in the hank
desperately, the initiated knew he was at the end of his resources. A
dogged clinging together for several minutes almost without movement
ended in a sharp release and the dropping of both men, Harker under.

Three out of five had been the test arranged, but already the
spectators looked upon the match as won, and Harker, after a long
rest, stood up to what was probably the last round, filled with bitter
resentment and hot humiliation.

Yet he started carefully enough, schooling himself to patience, strung
to his highest point of wariness and ingenuity, and presently he became
conscious of a faint wonderment, for something was evidently the matter
with Christian. During one of the pauses when they drew apart before
clinching, he saw that his opponent’s eyes had a dazed and distant
look, as if his mind had ceased to concentrate on the game; and though,
when they closed again, he seemed still in full command of his science,
Harker’s hopes rose.

It was eleven o’clock. From the church hard by the strokes reached them
in spite of the wind, and the white-faced timepiece in the room replied
punctually to its greater brother. Christian knew that, at Crump, the
clock in the stable-yard would be equally faithful, for, only that
afternoon, crossing the park, he had heard the chimes mingle and clash.
His eye stayed mechanically on the white surface as he circled round
the watchful Harker, his hold already joined; and as the last vibration
died, a swaying blackness came over him, veiling his eyes. He was back
again under the ancient cedar, the big wind roaring in his ears, the
staggering giant threatening him with its monstrous, thrashing arms.
He felt them crashing upon him, so seemingly alive in the murderous
intensity of their purpose that he stepped back, desperately striving
to elude their reach; and in that instant Harker took hold. He closed
so fiercely, tautening his muscles and lifting in the same movement,
that Christian winced sharply, and the shock snatched him back to the
work at hand. Struggling to collect his scattered senses, he resisted
Harker’s repeated attempts to put in the hipe, and, anxious to finish
the round, tried both the outside stroke and the inside in quick
succession, but with no result. A demon seemed to have entered into
Harker, roused by the realisation of his opponent’s sudden weakness,
and he saved himself time and again, often without knowing how, as
they swung from end to end of the ring, twisting, lifting, wrenching,
straining, with hard-coming breath and scarlet faces, until even the
hardened watchers wondered that any men could last so long at such
a pitch. As in a dream, Christian heard the impatient--“Stir about,
umpire!” snapping like pistol-shots from every side.

There were pillars at the end by the door, stout, carved shafts,
supporting the heavy gallery; and as the combatants panted down the
mat for the last time, the close-pressing crowd parted a little before
their violent approach. Christian’s clouded eyes went back to the
clock, as if magically drawn, and at that moment Harker put in the
cross-buttock with a mighty heave, sending him flying through the air
clean off the mat and against the unguarded pillar. He struck the deep
carving with his head, and lay still. It was five minutes past eleven.

       *       *       *       *       *

Roger Lyndesay fell asleep when the wind dropped, but Deb, cruelly wide
awake, could not persuade herself to follow him upstairs. Instead, she
flung a scarf over her head, and went out to the gate. It was close
upon midnight, but to her surprise Crump lights were still burning; and
as she stood, resting in the quiet after the storm, she heard horses
galloping down the park. They turned out by the lower lodge and were
lost for a moment, then came on again, the hoofs beating nearer and
louder; and something fateful in their frantic speed sent her out into
the road to wait their approach. The black night hid the horsemen until
they were close upon her, but one had a lantern at his saddle, dancing
like a will o’ the wisp, and by its light she saw that he was Dixon
of Dockerneuk. She cried after him, then, and he checked violently,
swinging his horse completely round, while the other raced on into the
night.

“Is anything wrong?” she asked anxiously, coming quickly to his
stirrup, and he nodded, panting, as he bent towards her from his
labouring mount.

“It’s Mrs. Lyndesay!” he told her, when he could get his breath.
“The old cedar’s taken her at last, and it’s gone itself along with
her--just as eleven o’clock struck, they say. The servants heard the
crash and ran out, and they found her underneath. They were nigh
scared to death with that and the storm, and they sent for me. Even
Parker was down at the wrestling, and there was nobody else to see to
things. Yon’s a groom gone on ahead for the doctor, and I’m seeking Mr.
Christian to tell him, poor lad! You’d best keep it from your father
till morning, Miss Deborah.”

She agreed quickly.

“I won’t delay you, Anthony,” she added; and then, struck by a sudden
thought, stopped him a second time. “But where is Mrs. Stanley?” she
went on, puzzled, and got no answer, for Dixon, his ear bent towards
the road, was listening to the slow tread of many feet.

They came from the direction of the village, growing steadily louder,
and presently, after a questioning, anxious look at the girl, he
turned and rode slowly to the foot of the bridge, Deb clinging to his
leather. There they waited in a tense silence, straining their eyes
through the dark.

When at last the dim figures were limned on the night, it seemed to
them that the whole village was coming to Crump. Here and there a
lantern swung in the dense, hushed crowd, and in the midst, borne by
his own wrestlers, Gaskarth at his head, the master of Crump came home,
covered and very still--

Deb moved under the lantern, and a man in advance hurried towards her;
and when he saw her eyes, any hope that he had cherished for himself
fell shrivelled to the earth for ever. She looked up at him dumbly,
terribly.

“Hurt--not dead!” Callander answered with merciful directness. “He was
thrown, wrestling. We got the doctor at once. He has hopes----” He
stopped, for the doctor was at his side, and Dixon speaking hurried,
fearful news from his saddle. Suddenly Deb began to laugh very low,
making him shiver.

“It’s a Lyndesay’s Night!” she said. “A Lyndesay’s Night! They follow
the Tree! Christian, too--all of them--they follow the Tree!” And she
laughed again.

He put his arm round her and drew her into the blackness under the
bridge, and together they watched the procession pass, Larruppin’
Lyndesay walking with his hand on the stretcher. Anthony Dixon turned
his horse close behind, and followed his silent master. The dim,
voiceless crowd passed heavily into the park.

       *       *       *       *       *

All night long Nettie watched by Christian’s bed, while messages went
out to the nearest nursing-homes in the district. Anthony’s vow had
been broken in a few hours--she was back at Crump already. Indeed, she
had been waiting on the steps when the ghostly cortège had shuffled up
the drive.

In a far room the dead mother lay unaware of her son as he of her; and
out on the smooth lawn the uprooted cedar spread its huge branches
like a monster octopus flung dead. It had had a dramatic end, Nettie
thought, shuddering in remembrance. One Lyndesay it had carried with
it, and another seemed far on the road. It was certainly true that the
Lyndesays went out violently and not as other folk. Yet, if Christian
lived, surely the spell would now be broken for all time? If Christian
lived--! She looked at the still, fair head with earnest affection, the
tears rising to her eyes, and a past conversation floated back into her
mind. The gruesome link between the master and his forbears was gone
for ever. If Christian lived, he would be left standing alone.




CHAPTER XXII


Augustus began the afternoon by a dastardly theft. Meeting a lady
of similar age and costume (three years and a short serge frock),
inordinately inflated by the possession of a small Union Jack, he
took it from her by silent force, and without the slightest change of
expression on his deadly serious countenance. When she had been reduced
to dismal shrieks on somebody’s doorstep, he marched into the Bank
and demanded a copper from the manager, who, finding him intimidating
to the last degree, hastily handed him the required sum from his own
pocket.

Larruppin’ Lyndesay’s car was standing empty in front of the “Bunch of
Acorns,” at the mercy of any marauder, and Augustus did not hesitate
a moment. Even at that age he had a cultivated taste in cars. He did
not require telling that the long, shining monster was of the best
of its kind, and therefore worthy in all respects of his attention.
Leaving the Bank with the air of a man who had paid in fully a quarter
of a million, he crossed the road, flag in hand, and climbed with some
difficulty into the front seat.

The manager came to his door to watch developments. A ribald crowd of
small boys gathered round the car, pointing out the awful penalties
certain to befall the offender when discovered; but Augustus, unmoved
as the soft spring sky above him, sat serenely on the padded seat,
swinging his small, bare legs, and clasping his pirated Jack tightly to
his bosom.

Larrupper came out presently, followed by an obsequious landlord. His
air of reckless cheerfulness seemed to have vanished completely; he
looked older and thinner, and his eyes were tired, like those of a man
who has kept anxious vigils.

“Well, good-day, Mr. Lionel!” the landlord was saying. “It’s fine
news that Mr. Christian’s going on all right. We’ve all been terribly
anxious. I’ll see about those siphons you ordered, sir, and--oh, great
snakes!”

He had caught sight of Augustus.

“If it isn’t that there limb of Satan, making free as usual with other
folks’ property! Excuse me, sir, I’ll soon get him out of this. He’s
the worst boy in the place!”

“Boy?” Larrupper queried, looking at the petticoat and the silken hair.

“Boy, sir; and worse than fifty boys together, for all he looks so
blessed saint-like. Now, Augustus, this ain’t _your_ car! You’ve got to
quit. Come along, now, like a good lad. Your ma’s wantin’ you.”

Augustus awaited his approach with complete indifference; only, when
the landlord’s nervous fingers closed round him, he opened his mouth to
such an appalling extent and with such alarming suggestiveness, that
the enemy dropped him like a live coal.

“He do yell that powerful, sir!” he explained apologetically. “You’ve
no idea! I’m feared to start him. Seems as if he would bust hisself, at
times.”

He made way for various other acquaintances of the interloper,
including the policeman, who tried both blandishment and coercion by
turn, only to be similarly baffled, watched by Larrupper, leaning
against the doorpost, with listless amusement.

“Wantin’ a ride, perhaps,” he observed at last. “Well, I’ve plenty of
time for loiterin’. I’ll take him out a mile or two, as he seems to
think the old ’bus worth patronisin’. Somebody tell his mother I’ll
look after him.”

From the tonneau he unearthed a fur rug and a muffler which he wound
round his small passenger; then, scattering the crowd, started the
engine, and climbed past Augustus into his seat.

“Happen he’ll want to get out when he feels hisself moving!” the
landlord remarked hopefully, but he did not know his man. Augustus sat
like a rock. If his face changed at all, it was merely to allow a faint
expression of pleasure to find place upon it. So he was carried away,
his curls fluttering in the wind of the car, his solemn eyes fixed
steadily in front of him.

Larrupper stopped after a short run and suggested return, but found
himself met by strong opposition. He went on again, pausing every
mile to say--“Shall we be goin’ back, now? Aren’t you gettin’ fed up,
old man? Mother will be missin’ you,----” only to have his remarks
contemptuously ignored, while the least attempt to turn the car was met
by the silent opening of the dreaded mouth.

Even touching insinuations to the effect that he was tired, that the
car was tired, that Augustus himself was tired, proved useless, and
presently he gave up the struggle. He drove on, immersed in his own
thoughts, his cap pulled gloomily to his eyes.

The long weeks in a house of sickness had left him weary both mentally
and physically, but he stayed doggedly at Crump, like a hound refusing
to leave its master’s door. His affection for Christian had struck
deeper roots during this terrible crisis, and though he could do
nothing for him, he insisted on stopping near him, worrying the nurses
with endless questions, and distracting both Nettie and Parker by
declining to eat. Occasionally he drifted up to Dockerneuk, and every
day he took bulletins to Kilne, but he could not fathom Deb’s attitude.
If he was late, she met him on the road, questioning him with a
fierceness that almost frightened him, but when his news was once told,
even at its worst, she had seemed curiously indifferent.

To-day, however, things were changed. To-day Christian had taken a big
stride, and Larrupper had seen him for the first time. The unwonted
tears still came to his eyes when he reviewed the greatness of his
relief, paired with the shock of meeting the faint shadow that was his
cousin. He had been very quiet in the sick-room, a perfect marvel of
restraint, the nurses had agreed, much as they would have agreed if a
Newfoundland’s tail had tactfully missed the china; but when he had got
himself somehow to Kilne, the restraint had vanished, and he had let
himself go. How was a chap to do otherwise when at last he saw the old
look in Deb’s eyes, and heard Roger Lyndesay, standing at his window,
say “Thank God!” as a man before a High Altar? Deb had put her hand on
his head and soothed him in the quaint, motherly way she kept for Larry
only, and for the first time he found himself able to tell her of his
other trouble that had taken the brightness out of the sun. He had been
too chilled by her strange aloofness to mention Verity before, but now
he gave her as much of the story as he loyally could, and Deborah’s
intuition told her the rest.

“You couldn’t expect to go on smoothly for ever, Larry,” she said
gently. “Life isn’t just full tide and a ripple before the wind. But
I think you’re treating this too seriously--I do indeed! Verity _is_
straight, whatever nonsense she may talk about herself; and in any
case, eleven o’clock at night isn’t a particularly clear-headed hour
for discussing a question of ethics. Verity’s very highly-strung, you
know, and she’s always a bundle of nerves after handling a village
team. Billy-boy would have sent most girls into shrieking hysterics!
You should have gone home and slept on it before saying anything. You
would both have been saner in the morning.”

“Even the mornin’ couldn’t alter facts!” Larrupper stuck to his point.
“She went out of her way to hurt a well-meanin’ chap like Grant,
playin’ him gently till he was gaspin’, an’ then pullin’ him neatly up
the bank. You can’t say that’s bein’ well brought up. An’ it’s no use
your tellin’ me that she didn’t mean it, because she assured me honest
injun that she _did_, an’ besides, I heard old Grant askin’ her myself.”

“My dear boy, Grant would have fallen in love with her in any case!”
Deb said cheerfully. “How could he help it--seeing her every day? _Any_
man would--especially with a housekeeper with a squint. Verity doesn’t
need to lay herself out to attract. She’s one of the most fascinating
people that walk. Grant’s fate was sealed from the moment he accepted
Cantacute.”

“Of course I’m not sayin’ he should have had the rotten cheek not to
like her,” Larry returned, “but I do think he’d never have got as
far as proposin’ if she hadn’t started in assistin’. Old Grant’s so
almighty honourable, an’ so amazin’ humble in his own eyes.”

“Pooh!” Deb shrugged her shoulders lightly. “I dare say he’s got his
share of vanity, like every other man--let’s hope so, anyhow. Of
course, I’m dreadfully sorry for the nice little thing, and he was a
perfect brick over that concert, but he’ll recover all right when once
you’ve got Verity safely at Arevar. After all, he’s only known her a
very short time, and he was certain to fall in love with _somebody_.
People who don’t get enough to eat are always star-gazing after
something. Privation destroys their sense of proportion. Anyhow, it’s
perfectly absurd to talk as though Verity had committed a crime. Look
at all she’s done for Cantacute! It was only likely she should rebel
when he tried to take the lead. A woman has only one natural weapon,
Larry--you can’t expect her to fight on your particular lines. You may
not like it, but for that you must blame the Power that made her. I
wonder how far _your_ superiority would get you without brute force to
back you up in a hole! I think you’re a pig to be hard on Verity. Who
was it said he’d be waiting to console her when she discovered that
life wasn’t all beer and skittles? You’ve a short memory, my friend. I
don’t believe you love her one atom, so now you know my candid opinion
and can go away home!”

“I _do_! But she led him on----” Larry repeated doggedly, whereupon she
took him by the shoulders and put him out.

“I’d shake you if such a thing were possible!” she said. “You’re an
ungrateful, hidebound heathen! Now, see here. You can run over to
Heron with these handkerchiefs, and if you dare to come back without
making your peace with Verity, you needn’t show your face at Kilne
again. Oh, Larry, Larry!” her voice followed him to the gate, as he
went obediently. “Just be thankful she’s alive and loves you--not lying
crushed under a cruel tree or broken to bits by a clumsy brute! How
much would you care _then_ for a dozen misguided Pierrot parsons?”

But it was not until he was close at Crump once more that the true
inwardness of this speech dawned upon him.

Well, he and the handkerchiefs were on their way to Heron, but Heaven
alone knew what he would do when he got there. Not apologise, anyhow.
He might be a stupid sort of chap, but at least he knew what was
straight an’ what wasn’t, an’ he couldn’t say it was all my eye an’
Betty Martin when he was still blushin’ over what she’d done. It was a
sickenin’ business an’ very tryin’--tiresome, old Savaury would say.

He was passing Tasser at the time, and round the bend he came on
Savaury himself, industriously sprinkling the March dust with a large
watering-can. He was so astonished that he pulled up dead, or Savaury
would certainly not have recognised him, with his cap on his nose and a
companion of such tender years at his side.

“Where on earth did you pick that up?” he exclaimed, in his amazement
allowing the watering-can to expend itself upon his own boots. “And
where the dickens are you taking it, either?”

“I didn’t pick it up,” Larry answered gloomily. “It picked _me_ up.
And I’m not takin’ it. It’s takin’ itself. I’m allowed in the car on
sufferance, merely because I know a bit about drivin’. I say, hadn’t
you better be goin’ in an’ changin’ your boots?”

Savaury passed the insinuation scornfully, though he moved the can,
and put the question to which Larry had already grown so used. “How is
Christian?” he asked.

“Oh, gettin’ a move on at last, thanks very much! I saw him this
mornin’ for a few minutes. A bit gone to seed, of course, but they
tell me they’ll soon have him bloomin’. Had a narrow shave of goin’
out--poor old Laker!”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Savaury was obviously relieved. “Very glad! It’s
so tiresome when one’s friends are ill. One quivers every time the
bell rings. And Petronilla’s always coming in with false reports. She
collects them in the village--like measles. I haven’t had a meal in
peace since the poor young thing was damaged. One was never sure when
one might have to jump up and pull down the blinds.”

“I’ll wring your neck if you don’t stop jawin’, you callous little
blighter!” Larry flung at him, leaning forward threateningly, and
Savaury went pink and looked haughty; then came closer and put a hand
on the car, his tone changing.

“That’s all right, my dear boy. It’s only my tiresome way of putting
things. I’m more glad than I can say that he’s better. He’s a good lad,
and he’d be a loss to Crump.”

“If you’d seen him, this mornin’, as white as washin’ an’ as thin as a
window!” poor Larry got out with difficulty. “I don’t feel like jokin’
about it yet.”

“I’m not joking, Lionel. If I talk nonsense, it’s because I’m so
exceedingly relieved. I’ve known Christian since he was a little
blue-eyed morsel afraid to open his mouth before his mother. I used
to be terribly sorry for him--he seemed so lonely. He was always glad
to get away from Crump, and--I’ll tell you something--one day I stole
him! We had him at Tasser all day, Petronilla and I, and he played
with all Petronilla’s account-books, and had a steeple-chase over the
drawing-room furniture, and an auction of the old prints and the china.
We’ve a broken bit of Dresden in a glass case, that we still call
‘Christian’s Catastrophe.’ Petronilla won’t have it thrown away. I’m
very glad for Petronilla’s sake that the boy’s improving. Perhaps now I
shall be able to get her to sleep without having to count sheep for her
all night.”

“Have you seen Verity lately?” he added, stepping back. “_She’s_ been
weighing on my mind, too--she looks so depressed and--to tell the
truth--_cross_. I offered to send her a song, the other day, and she
actually said she hated music, and never wanted to sing a note again.
So tiresome when quite nice young people grow up ill-tempered and rude!”

“Perhaps she wasn’t feelin’ well,” Larrupper replied, his old loyalty
driving him to her defence. “I’m goin’ over to see her, now. No
message, I suppose?”

“Oh, my love, of course. My love!” Savaury responded loftily. “At least
she’s never refused that, _yet_, though there’s no knowing what she’ll
come to. And you can bring hers back--if you’ve any to spare!”

He smiled joyfully as Larry coloured to the eyes, convinced that with
him lay the clue to Verity’s “tiresome” behaviour, and sprinkled a
shower of blessing as the car moved forward. Then he went in to tell
Petronilla about Christian.

Augustus had sat still as the Sphinx through this interview, and
indeed Larry had forgotten him completely, until a finely-modelled
little hand crept presently into his line of vision, and planted firm
little fingers on the steering-wheel. He found himself staring at it
as if fascinated--it was so soft and round, so dimpled, and so--small.
The arm peeping from the muffler was soft and round too; it seemed
ridiculous that it should ever grow an iron bunch of muscle like his
own, handle a heavy car, or send a man to destruction by a wrestler’s
chip. Yet Laker had been such another as this mite--Savaury remembered
him, and had cherished an old pot for his sake; even he himself,
even _he_ had been a lovable little child once. It was queer how the
little beggars got round you, how out of proportion they made other
things appear, the little petty things which seemed so huge when you
brooded about them in your silly head. It was good for a man to have
to look after one of them--stopped him worrying about his own idiotic
troubles. It would be jolly to have one always at hand, he thought.
They were so attractive, too. That absurd arm--he was ashamed to find
himself wanting to stoop his head and put his lips to it. The fierce
ache in his heart lessened. Something tolerant and tender stirred in
his breast. Perhaps he _had_ been hard on Verity, after all. Savaury
had said she was cross, and that was a sure sign she was unhappy. It
was no use telling himself that she deserved to be--the fact that she
was miserable hurt him none the less. What had the frantic tragedy
been about, after all? Old Grant? Well, why in Hades shouldn’t old
Grant dree his weird like every other earth-bound brute? It was cruel
to think that Verity might be acutely unhappy. Why, she might even be
crying! His foot went to the accelerator. He had never seen her cry for
herself. It didn’t bear thinking of. Oh, why hadn’t he spoken to her
more gently! She was only a little thing, and so dear. There was nobody
like her in the whole world.

Rattling up to Heron door, he saw Verity on the lawn, and checked by
the big beech. When she recognised him she turned and walked quickly
away; and then just as quickly turned and walked back again. Augustus’
expression changed definitely; this time in the direction of annoyance.

“Mother is downstairs, if you would like to see her,” she said
politely. “Is that your latest thing in mascots? I hope the Cruelty man
isn’t on your track?”

“You’re a bit insultin’,” Larry observed distantly. “This trustin’
gentleman commandeered the car in Crump. He’s not takin’ any harm at
present, though I dare say he’d like a piece of cake or somethin’,
wouldn’t you, old man? I’ve brought you a note from Debbie an’ a rather
squabby thing in parcels.”

“Oh, the handkerchiefs, I suppose? All right. I’ll fetch the kiddie
some cake. Don’t trouble to get out unless you’re going in. Just throw
them over.”

“I’m not in the habit of throwin’ things either to or at ladies,” Larry
replied rather stiffly, climbing out. “An’ now I come to think of it,
you haven’t asked any charmin’ questions about Christian.”

“I don’t need to. I cycled to Crump, this morning, to inquire, and had
quite a long talk with Mrs. Stanley. We’ve sent over every day, of
course. I’m so delighted he’s on the right road, at last.”

“You came away without lettin’ me know?” Larry asked incredulously.
“You were actually in Crump, talkin’ to Nettie, without so much as
askin’ to see me? I must say you have a fetchin’ friendly way of doin’
things!”

“Well, but, Larry, one doesn’t call at a house for bulletins, and ask
to see a man who really ought to be living somewhere else altogether.
Besides,” she went on, in a lower tone, “I wasn’t sure you would care
to meet me. I knew--Lionel--wouldn’t, anyhow.”

“Lionel wants shootin’!” Larrupper observed thickly, very red and
embarrassed, kicking the front tyre nervously. “It’s all been Lionel’s
muddlin’ from beginnin’ to end--the grousin’, interferin’ blighter! He
gets attacks of thinkin’ he knows better than anybody else, an’ starts
makin’ himself a blatant, rampin’ nuisance. I’ve brought him over by
the scruff of his neck to lick your boots; but of course, as I keep
tellin’ him, he can’t expect to find you very forgivin’. Still, there’s
just the chance you’ll stretch the hand of blessin’ on Larry’s account.
Larry’s an ass, but he’s very well-meanin’, an’ if you can see your way
to lookin’ over things for his sake, I’ll promise you that skunk Lionel
shan’t ever get rampin’ round any more. I hope you’ll think it over,
an’ give us both a chance.”

There was a long pause; and then, just as she made an effort to
speak, Augustus, reaching too far in a vain endeavour to persuade the
steering-wheel to continue his journey, fell heavily to the floor.
Larrupper spun round on the instant and snatched him up, taking him in
his arms and soothing him with a skill very surprising in a young man
whose solicitude had hitherto been mainly expended upon motors. Verity
listened in amazement to nursery endearments apparently quite at home
on his lips, and a faint smile, first amused and then tender, came to
her own. This was certainly Larry in a new light.

“I’ll fetch the cake,” she remarked, turning hastily to the house, and
added, “Poor little man!” as Augustus resumed his seat, stooping to
kiss his tear-stained cheek. He looked so like a newly-escaped cherub,
with his solemn eyes and curling hair.

But Augustus hated women. He liked men-things with strong arms that
could hold you without hurting you, and send shining monsters along
the road at a deliriously exciting speed. Glancing at her stolidly, he
lifted a chubby hand and slapped her face. The next moment she was in
Larrupper’s arms, with her injured cheek against his coat. Augustus
stared solemnly at the gravel.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Seems almost as if he’d been sent on purpose,” Larry observed
presently, when at last they found time to attend to him again, “though
I’m not sayin’ he has a very elegant way of mendin’ things. Still, it’s
not for Larry Lyndesay to be findin’ fault with the gods. Run along in
for the grub, darlin’. It’s astonishin’ how we keep forgettin’ the poor
little chap!”

“Old Savaury sent you his love,” he went on, when she came out again.
“The dear old fuss-bird was soothin’ the dust with a sprinkler. He
seemed hurt in his mind because you’d given up singin’. You might write
askin’ for a song or two--he’s worth cultivatin’. How’s Billy-boy?” he
added suddenly, stooping to start his engine.

“He came and apologised. He was--oh, Larry!--almost broken-hearted.
I--what a heartless wretch I’ve been!”

“You’re my sweet sweetin’,” Larry answered tenderly, “an’ that’s all
you need get botherin’ about at present. I must take this blusterin’
pirate home to his mother, but I’m comin’ back this evenin’, so don’t
you go runnin’ to church or any nonsense of that kind. An’ when we’ve
settled our own future moorin’s, we’ll see what we can do for Debbie
an’ old Laker.”

“I’m very much afraid we can’t do anything,” Verity said sadly.
“There’s something there I don’t understand, and the only person who is
in the least likely to know is most certainly not in the least likely
to help. I mean Mr. Callander.”

“Why not, old dear?”

“Because he’s in love with Deborah himself.”

Larry whistled with understanding as he scrambled to his seat.

“So there’s another broken heart goin’ beggin’?” he observed
cheerfully. “It’s gettin’ to be quite the fashion, isn’t it, darlin’?
I’m sure I hope it’s consolin’ to old Grant!”

“Oh, Larry!” Verity smiled reproachfully, and went round to bid
Augustus good-bye.

“Shake hands, Mr. Cupid!” she coaxed. And Augustus shook hands.

       *       *       *       *       *

The car whirred back through Crump to the pink-washed house, where the
passenger actually allowed himself to be discharged without demur. His
mother, murmuring embarrassed thanks, was at a loss to understand why
Mr. Lionel should regard her erring son so tenderly. “You’ll be the
death of me!” she remarked despairingly, as the car slid away. And for
the first time that afternoon, Augustus smiled.




CHAPTER XXIII


“The land is positively hilarious!” Christian remarked, from the
library window, looking out on the April afternoon. “I’ve never seen
Crump smile before, but to-day the dear old thing is frivolling like a
child!”

Callander left his books at the table and came to his side.

“It’s like the rest of us--throwing up its hat because you’re about
again. Thank Heaven you’re on your feet at last!”

“I’ve been a horrid nuisance, I’m afraid,” Christian said remorsefully,
“but I’m not going to bother you any more. Even my head doesn’t dither
when I walk. You’ve all been frightfully good to me.”

“It’s just possible that we liked it,” Callander answered drily. “And
you certainly did your best to escape our attentions.”

“Yes, I suppose I had a narrow squeak. I wish my grandfather’s taste
in pillars had been less elaborate. The last thing I remember seeing
was the clock-face. I’ve been haunted by clocks all the time I was
bad--great, staring, white-moon-things, always striking eleven!
You’ll think I’m a morbid ass----” he turned his shoulder rather
nervously--“but I can’t help feeling that if she--my mother--hadn’t
been under the Tree at that hour, I should have been the one to go. It
meant to have one of us. I suppose, after a manner of speaking, she
saved my life.”

“More than time she did something for you!” Callander growled, and
apologised in the same breath, since she was dead and defenceless.

_That_ Lyndesay mask, at least, he had never seen lifted.

“You’ll be glad the tree is gone, surely?” he added. “It ought to be a
relief to feel that you have a decent chance of dying quietly of Anno
Domini like the rest of us.”

Christian shrugged his shoulders.

“I feel--lonely!” he confessed rather shame-facedly. “It’s absurd to
let a tree make any difference, and most people would think I was
talking off the top. But there’s a hole in my life like the hole in the
lawn. I can’t explain. It’s there, that’s all. You’ll have to prop me
pretty hard, Callander, old man!”

“I’ll send for another bottle of that tonic,” the other answered in
his matter-of-fact way. “You’ll take hold all right when once you’re
thoroughly strong. As for being lonely--that’s easily mended. Every man
crosses a desert sometime in his life, and you’ve passed yours. You’ll
be marrying before long, of course.”

Christian flushed violently with the transparent colour of the
convalescent.

“That’s hardly likely. Crump has a way of destroying the balance of
things. It either dwarfs or ennobles me. I want a woman to see me as I
am--not through a series of magic mirrors.”

“You’ve got Crump on the brain--you Lyndesays!” Callander grunted
impatiently. “Why on earth shouldn’t a girl be glad to marry you for
your own sake, I’d like to know? I’m not in the habit of throwing
flowers at people, but you must have a pretty good idea what I think
of you, by now. Try some decent girl, and see if she doesn’t think the
same.”

“I did try,” Christian replied quietly, “and the answer was as I told
you. Crump!”

Callander stared at him for a moment in silence.

“Queer!” he muttered to himself at last, turning away. He had not
guessed that things had gone as far as that, nor could he understand
why Christian should be so blind. Deb’s secret was plain enough to him.
She must have deliberately placed Crump as a barrier between herself
and the man she loved. But again why? Or did the matter lie at the door
of the inscrutable Lyndesay whom the Tree had taken? He stayed by the
window, puzzling, as Christian turned restlessly back into the room.

“She was quite frank with me. She told me that if she married me it
would not be for myself but for what I could give her, and she wouldn’t
do it. She said it wasn’t fair. I’m not blaming her--she was straight
all through--but it’s not very encouraging to one’s personal estimate,
is it? You see, I’ve not exactly had a surfeit of love. Nobody wanted
me as a child, and if you’re not loved as a child, you find it hard to
believe that anybody can love you afterwards. But we were good friends,
and we were in sympathy. I had begun to think she might care, in spite
of my background, even though she had taken Stanley----” He pulled
himself up sharply, and then went on again--“You know, of course, I
suppose? It can’t be a secret from you. There’s only one woman----” and
poor Callander echoed the words under his breath, looking out at the
calling spring day.

Why had she been at such definite pains to keep Christian in the dark?
he wondered, his mind revolving ceaselessly round the same point. What
held her back from all she needed most? Not fear of Mrs. Lyndesay or
of County tongues, he was sure of that; nor, indeed, any shirking of
the future. What _had_ held her? And at that moment Christian quite
unconsciously gave him his answer.

“She said I did not love her,” he continued from the leather arm-chair
into which he had dropped rather wearily, in spite of his boasted
strength. He might almost have been speaking to himself, and Callander
kept his back turned, guessing that nothing but the dependence of
recent illness would have led him to unveil his mind so frankly.

“Perhaps if you’re not loved, you don’t learn to love--no, that’s a
rotten way of looking at it! It’s a poor sort of creature that can’t
persuade a woman that he wants her. Yet I cared, and I couldn’t do it.
Or perhaps I didn’t care enough--_then_.”

Callander made no answer, for he heard steps along the hall. He saw now
what had happened; why Deb, who would have sold her soul for Crump, had
yet flung it aside. The decision had evidently been final--Christian
would not approach her again, nor would she ever attempt to bring him
back. The way was clear for himself, if he chose to take it. He, at
least, would have no difficulty in persuading a woman that he loved
her! The older, harder, stronger man shrugged his shoulders mentally,
and then reminded himself that Christian had scarcely had a chance,
since Deb had wilfully misled him. Yet in this, as in all similar
cases, it was up to each man to look to himself. He had only to keep
his mouth shut, and Christian would never know what he knew--what Deb’s
face had told him under the lantern on the old bridge. They were best
apart, too, these fated Lyndesays, with their fanatical harbouring of
terrible tradition and drear belief. It would be folly for them to
marry, he told himself, and was instantly reproached by the memory of
Christian’s frank eyes and the bright freshness of Deb’s presence.
Well, well--granted, however grudgingly--should a man yet be forced to
cut his own throat--to send another hot-footed to the woman he loved?
Need a steward serve his master beyond the limits of good business
faith? Only a fool would do it, or an idealist like Roger Lyndesay,
in whom feudal loyalty was little less than monomania. _He_ had no
forbears urging sacrifice, no passionate creed to draw his will;
nothing but his own ethical standard and the tender filament of a
woman’s happiness.

His unseeing eyes rested on the clean world outside, as he listened
vaguely to the stammering agitation of a voice behind him, and
Christian’s quiet, encouraging replies.

After all, it was not a question either of Christian or of himself, but
of Deb. Curious that he should have taken so long to compass that--he
who had sneered and shrugged at his master’s slackness in loving! He
had looked at it from the man’s point of view; suddenly he saw it from
the woman’s. At least both she and Christian must have their chance.
It was an ironic fate that had thrust the bestowal of it into his
hands--he had a sudden wild impulse to laugh aloud and beat at the
heavy glass before him. It was too much to ask--a thousand times too
much; yet the very passion that had created the situation clamoured to
him to comply. With characteristic abruptness and decision he yielded,
accepting, and turned his attention to the scene in progress.

Just inside the door Gaskarth stood, cap in hand, sponsor, it seemed,
for the dogged, miserable figure by the library table. Harker had had a
bad time since the wild March night that had ended so disastrously for
Crump. The still figure of his adversary had sobered his intoxication
of hate, and in spite of the threatening faces round him he had
insisted upon stopping for the doctor’s verdict. The latter’s shaken
head had roused the crowd to a frenzy from which Harker had had a very
narrow escape, but Gaskarth had got him safely out at last, shoved him
on his own bicycle and sent him home.

“Not because I care a foot of lead piping what happens to you,” he
informed him frankly, “but because I don’t want Crump Wrestling Academy
figuring in the police-news. You couldn’t see you were heaving him
at that d--d pillar, and you felled him right enough, though more by
good luck than good management, I’ll swear. I don’t like your game,
and I mean to keep wide of you, but I’ll not have you lynched on Crump
ground. _He_ wouldn’t have liked it. Me and Lakin’ Lyndesay--_we_ fight
fair!”

This was bad enough, but his reception at home was worse.

Harker had found himself up against a second feudal precept that seemed
curiously opposed to the first, yet ran with it amicably enough. “Hate
Crump, but leave it alone!” was the second article of the family
creed. The old coachman’s inbred respect for “quality” suffered a rude
shock at the news that his son had laid violent hands upon a Lyndesay.
Worldly diplomacy, too, had its say, and very much to the point. This
might mean the stopping of the pension and other disasters. Everybody
knew--everybody, that was, but a daft lumphead--that Rishwald had been
much at Crump of late, bent on friendly terms and even more, and he
was hardly likely to look favourably on the affair. It might mean that
the young man would have to leave the farm, and serve him right an’
all, _that_ it would! Nobody but a fool would have got himself into the
mess--this to an accompaniment of lady’s maid’s tears and a lament like
a soughing wind--“Poor Mr. Christian! Poor, dear lad!”

All this struck Harker as distinctly unfair, which was scarcely
surprising, and when, after a public reproof from Rishwald, he found
himself shunned not only in his own and the opposing village but also
at Witham market, the bitterness in his heart strengthened like a
fed flame. He hadn’t been given the belt, either, though, to do him
justice, that was not by any means his first grievance. Still, he had
won it. Taken altogether, it was an unrewarding world.

With Christian’s first move towards recovery, however, had come a
curt groom riding to the door with a shortly-delivered note, equally
shortly received. The address was in Callander’s hand, but the
faintly-pencilled words within were Christian’s own. Harker stared at
them sullenly, fiercely-drawn brows shading miserable eyes.

“Your match,” said the straggling letters--“not to blame--going
strong,”--the painful effort of them carrying to his hard wretchedness
a frank kindliness that was like the touch of a tender hand upon aching
eyes. He said nothing about the letter, but after that, he was found
time and again at Crump for news, the signed “C. de L.” in his pocket
giving him courage to face each hostile reception. And to-day he had
gone boldly to Gaskarth, and begged him to procure him an interview.
Lakin’ Lyndesay’s star pupil, adamant at first, had at last eyed him
with gradually relaxing hauteur.

“Of course, if you’re wanting to do the right thing, it’s not for _me_
to stand in your way!” he observed kindly. “I’m a sportsman myself.
And of course I can get you in to see Mr. Christian, if I choose. Mr.
Christian, he says--‘Geordie,’ says he, ‘you’re heartily welcome, night
_or_ day!’ Happen you could creep in along behind. I hope this here
mix-up will learn you not to go about getting yourself disliked in
future.”

He had engineered the introduction quite successfully, and now Harker
found himself stuttering unready, half-sullen apologies, desperately
wishing himself out of it, and cursing Gaskarth for his well-meaning
murmurs from the door.

“There’s no need for apology,” Christian stopped him quickly. “It was a
fair enough fight, and I’ve no complaint to make. Of course you didn’t
mean to throw me off the mat! Who but an idiot would think you did?” He
looked round sharply at Callander. “Has anything been said to him? Has
he been blamed?” and frowned at his agent’s lifted eyebrows. “If there
is any show of feeling, you can tell the offenders I’ll deal with them
myself. I’m not dead or likely to be, and I’ll have no more ill-will
grow out of this affair, so please let that be generally understood!”

“He has the belt, of course?” he added suddenly, and stared coldly as
Callander shrugged his shoulders, and Gaskarth, red to the roots of
his hair, glared at the carpet. “No? I’ll have something to say to the
committee about this! If it was forgotten on the night, it should have
been sent to him later. He won it, of course. Our match was merely an
exhibition. You must have known what my wishes would be; you should
have seen they were carried out. Where _is_ the belt, by the way?”

“Here, I believe,” Callander answered gruffly, opening a cupboard and
showing the prize within. The eternal Lyndesay revulsion had left him
staggered, as usual. This was not by any means the doubting boy he had
so casually despised. “Some of the committee turned up with it, next
day. Might have been a snake by the way they handled it! They wouldn’t
hear of anything being done until you could deal with the matter
yourself.”

“The apology is undoubtedly owed to _you_.” Christian addressed the
wrestler, standing up, but when he would have handed him the belt,
Harker shook his head again as he had shaken it before.

“I want naught with it!” he said ungraciously, yet with an undertone
that was almost pleading, and his sponsor in the background went
crimson a second time and drew circles with his boot-toe.

“You’ve got to take it whether you want it or not!” Christian said
decidedly. “It’s your property, and I’ll be hanged if I’ll have it on
the premises! And see here, my man, there’s something else that’s been
weighing on my mind all the time I was ill. We didn’t finish that round
in the orthodox manner. Let’s put it right, now!”

He held out his hand, and Harker, after a moment’s hesitation, sent
his own to meet it, his brain in a whirl. There must be something
hopelessly wrong with the universe if he could feel himself deliriously
honoured by a handshake from Lyndesay of Crump!

“I like that hold better than another of yours I’ve tried!” Christian
added cheerfully but with meaning, and Harker dropped his head as
Gaskarth dragged him out.

“An’ serve you darned well right!” he observed pleasantly, drawing a
breath of relief as they left the house. “Nearly wore me to chewed
string, that you did, sliding down me like a bloomin’ water-chute! It’s
a rotten game to be always slipping holds--water-chutin’ the other chap
into a wax! I don’t approve of your style no more than I like your
pretty way of taking prizes, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You come
down now and again of an evening for a bit of a friendly tussle, an’
happen I’ll learn you better ways!”

Callander shut the door after the men and strode back into the room.

“I’m sorry about the belt!” he said abruptly.

“Of course the fellow ought to have had it, but at the time we felt
more like using it to him than handing it over with a smile. Still,
as you say, I should have known your wishes. I am here to know them.”
Christian gave him a friendly nod of understanding, and he shut his
teeth hard, setting his will at the last fence with a desperate lift.
Then--“You must go to her!” he almost shot at him.

Christian stared for a moment, his mind travelling backward; then shook
his head.

“I have no right.”

“You have the best right of all. She loves you.”

“She loves--Crump.”

“Of course she loves Crump!” Callander burst out angrily. “Heavens,
man! You talk as though it were a crime! She loves Crump in a way that
you can’t even begin to imitate, for all it’s your own property. Don’t
you know _yet_ why she would have married your brother? Have you spent
hours at Kilne, watching her while the old man talked, and not guessed?
Or can’t you discriminate between mere vanity and greed and the pure
flower of devotion? If you think it’s money that draws her, you’re
wrong. If you think it’s even pride of race, you’re wrong! And it
certainly isn’t the trappings of riches, your servants and your forty
bedrooms and your oak staircases and all the rest of it. It’s every
blade of grass springing upon Crump land; it’s every furrow turned
in Crump soil; every tree that draws life from it, and every sunset
painted on its woods. She’s not the last of the branch for nothing, and
above all, it’s certainly not for nothing that she’s Roger Lyndesay’s
child. You’ll wonder how I know. Well, she didn’t tell me--not
consciously; but I _do_ know, just as I know she loves you, though it’s
needless to say she never told me _that_. She knows best why she denied
it to you--that’s no business of mine. Anyhow, it’s true, and you can
take my word for it. Anybody but a morbid, star-gazing Lyndesay would
have guessed it for himself!”

He stopped as abruptly as he had begun, picking up a bottle from the
mantelpiece, and turning to the door. “I’ll drop this as I pass,”
he went on, in his normal tone, and when Christian protested that a
servant could take it, putting out a hand to the bell, he checked him
brusquely.

“_I_ am your servant!” the older man answered, with a kind of grim
affection, and went out, slipping the bottle into his pocket.

       *       *       *       *       *

Roger Lyndesay was sitting in the porch, serenely content in the
tranquil spring evening, which was yet full of crying life, from the
lambs calling behind the house to the birds in the new green wonder of
the trees. Deb came behind him, and had to put her hand on his shoulder
before he turned his eyes from the fresh spring garment of the park.

“We did our best, didn’t we, Deb?” he asked, looking up at her with
a kind of mystic exaltation. “We gave it all we could. It hasn’t
suffered in our charge, has it?”

He was following out some silent train of thought, but she did not need
to ask what he meant. The pronoun set her heart beating. For once she
was included; for once he saw her definitely linked to the long Kilne
chain.

“Oh, yes, we’ve done our best!” she answered, with a thrill in her
voice. “We’ve put it first, always. We have given it--ourselves. And it
will never really forget, whoever may come after us!”

She stepped outside, and for a moment stood looking at the splendid old
man, framed like a delicate pastel by the clematised porch. Of those
dearest to us we have always one picture readiest to our hearts, and
this was to be her memory of him, returning all her life in times of
stress, with its atmosphere of fine achievement come to its evening
peace.

Turning at last, a sudden yearning took her towards the park. She
began to walk quickly, without knowing why, climbing the shoulder of
the hill, and when Nettie hailed her unexpectedly across the turf, she
had a curious feeling of having been checked on a definite errand. But
Nettie evidently had need of her, and she allowed herself to be drawn
across to the avenue and up towards Dockerneuk.

“I know you’re in one of your ‘back to the land’ moods,” Mrs. Slinker
said apologetically. “I could tell that by the way you were walking.
But do spare yourself to me just for half an hour. There is something
I must do, and I’m not brave enough to do it alone.”

In spite of her new happiness there was still about Slinker’s wife a
touch of the fear that had surprised Christian on Christmas Eve. The
late tragedy had left a sinister shadow upon her well-balanced mind
and splendidly sane outlook. The Lyndesay atmosphere had caught even
Nettie Stone in the mesh of its creeping dread. The old horror was upon
her, and she could not fight it. Not yet--not even _yet_ had she eluded
Crump.

“It holds me!” she said passionately, as they went up. “Twice I’ve
escaped from it, and twice it has brought me back. It can’t bring me
a third time, can it? Can it, Deb? But I’m afraid! Just because I’m
happy, I’m afraid. I remember scoffing at Christian’s morbid fancies,
but now I’m a hundred times worse myself. They’re his inheritance,
though,--and yours. You’re entitled to your imaginings, but a
horse-dealer’s daughter has no business to be jabbering about the
clutch of ghosts. They’re dead--I know they’re dead!--and yet I feel
that both Stanley and his mother would get between me and my happiness
if they could!”

They were folding the sheep at Dockerneuk, and the air was thrilling
with the deep call of the mothers and the tremolo answer of the lambs.
Dixon was by the farmyard wall, watching his flock come in, but he
turned at Nettie’s voice, and came to meet them, his slim little collie
pressing himself delicately against Deb for notice. The old farm had
the worn grayness of fine age set in the unutterably fresh youth of
earth and atmosphere. The same quality of patient dignity breathed
alike from Dixon and his background, making them one.

Deborah took the opportunity to wish him happiness, and the reserved
Northerner thanked her shyly, sending his quiet eyes back to his
fields, with the far-off gaze of those who look abroad from dawn till
eve.

“It’s grand to have Mr. Christian about again!” he observed presently,
changing the subject as soon as courtesy allowed. “He’s a bit
over-white and slender, yet, but he’ll mend of that. You’ve seen him,
of course, Miss Deborah?”--and all his native politeness could not
completely conceal his surprise when Deb shook her head.

“His own people haven’t had much chance of seeing him,” Nettie put in
quickly, coming to the rescue. “Half the County has been sitting on
the doorstep for weeks, and of course the people who knew him least
were the ones who came oftenest. Parker and I have had a fearful time
chasing the old worries off the premises. Lots of them brought things
to eat--Heaven alone knows why! Parker was simply raving, but the
under-servants enjoyed them frightfully. Other people left tracts, and
the Bracewells brought everything you could think of, from primroses
to puzzles--horrid little brain-stretchers that made Christian’s head
wiggle the moment he saw them. The Whyterigg car has been over, every
day----” She caught Anthony’s smiling, gently-chiding gaze, and dropped
her own, but went on firmly. “Mr. Rishwald’s dreadfully upset about
the whole affair--wrote Christian yards on the matter. He sent him an
old silver porringer for his beef-tea, and--do you know?”--she looked
laughingly at Deb--“it turned out to have the Crump crest on it!”

She drew the girl out of the yard with a gay nod to her lover, but
in the lane she was silent until they stopped at the gate of the old
Norman church.

“Do you mind coming in?” she asked. “This is where I was making for.
I’ll tell you why, inside.”

“Anthony is having the banns put up on Sunday,” she announced abruptly,
when they stood in the dimness of the ancient church, looking up, past
the stone pillars and the gloom of the screen, to the Dutch lamps
swinging before carved mullion and mellow glass. “I can’t stay on at
Crump, now that Christian is all right again, and Heaven knows I’m glad
enough to go but for him! But there’s a step to be crossed before I get
to Dockerneuk, and oh, Deb, I’m afraid to put out my foot!”

She drew her up the aisle and stopped, pointing down; and under her
finger Stanley’s name rose to them from the stone slab before the
chancel-steps. Over the family vault where Slinkin’ Lyndesay lay
buried, Nettie his widow would have to pass to her joy.

“I wanted to be married in a registry-office,” she went on--“another
church--anywhere--but Anthony’s mother has set her heart on being
present, and she’s too infirm to go far. How can I refuse anything
to his mother? But I’m frightened--fool that I am!--frightened that
Slinker will rise up and come between us, even at the last! Oh, Deb, if
I should never get to Anthony, after all!”

She sank into a seat, covering her face with her hands, but Deb stayed
in her place, looking down quietly at the freshly-lettered stone.
Here, in the stillness of the sanctuary, she found again the Stanley
whom she, and she alone, had known, and for whose sake she had been
justified in her own eyes, and on account of whose memory she had
never spoken a single bitter word against the man who had so basely
deceived her. Only in his own sinister little room did the evil side
of him, somehow kept fiendishly alive by his tortured mother, show her
to herself as something for ever degraded and unclean. But, standing
beside his grave, the balance of things swung true again; she saw her
act as dangerous indeed, but not ignoble, misjudged, perhaps, but never
sordid, and she took back her self-respect as a gift from the Altar.

Through her abstraction she heard Nettie’s voice, tense and low, like
that of one upon whom light has flashed, white and blinding.

“Perhaps it is because I wronged him that I am afraid! I never realised
it before, or perhaps I never cared. I married him rashly, I left him
heedlessly, and the vows I made are clamouring for their unpaid toll.
Looking back, it seems as if all this trouble and tragedy should be
laid at my door. If I had taken up my burden, you at least would have
been saved your share. I might have saved his mother--she had some
curious feeling for me; and--who knows?--I might have saved Stanley,
too!”

But Deb, in that moment of readjustment, without jealousy and without
resentment, knew that Stanley would never have touched the highest for
any but herself.

“I can’t atone--it isn’t possible. Anthony said there was never any
going back in this world, and I thought I had proved him wrong, but
every day I see more clearly what he meant. There’s no getting away
from the past. All my life Slinker will stand between me and the man I
love!”

She rose and slipped her arm through Deborah’s.

“It’s just a year since he died--had you remembered? I came here to ask
him to forgive me, to see if he would let me off, but he still hates
me--he’ll never let me go. If we could lift the stone, we should see
him smiling, so sure of himself and of his power--smiling--smiling----
Deb, I’m not mad, am I? Come home, now, will you, dear? It isn’t any
use.”

They turned slowly up through the Crump chapel to the side door, and
Deb laid her fingers in passing on the hacked armour of a couple
of warriors clasped in each other’s arms. Nettie looked at her
inquiringly, and they paused beside the mutilated figures clinging so
closely in the hour of death.

“They were Lyndesay brothers,” Deb explained, “and one slew the other
for a cup of water when they were lying wounded on some field of
battle. But when he saw what he had done, his madness left him, and he
would not touch the drink. Instead, he placed the cup on the dead man’s
breast, and lay looking at it through long hours until he died. And for
many a year after, if any one had wronged a Lyndesay, he placed a cup
of water, all unknown, upon his grave, and so the dead was appeased. Of
course, the custom vanished centuries ago. I read about it in one of
Father’s old books.”

She stopped, puzzled, for Nettie was gazing at her with a
curiously-arrested look, as men stare when the hand of a redeeming
angel is stretched to them from the skies. Yet she said nothing; only,
after a pause, smiled, and went out into the sun.

       *       *       *       *       *

But before night fell the verger, wondering, found an ancient symbol on
the worn slab at the chancel-steps, and for many a year after a cup of
cold water cried on Slinkin’ Lyndesay’s mercy. And Anthony Dixon’s wife
found peace.

       *       *       *       *       *

Released by the top lodge, Deb left the road and sped quickly across
the turf to the top of the park, like a light-footed thing of the woods
homeward bound for its lair. She did not ask herself why or where she
was going, only harried, hurried, hearing her heart beating and the
birds calling, and the thin, quickening cry of the lambs on every side.
Below, to her left, the stately phalanx of the trees descended to the
Hall, where the soft gray smoke lifted its delicate pillars in the
still, drawing evening, like folded cobwebs against the towering woods
behind. In front, over the dropping parkland and the wide sands, the
tranquil opal sky melted into the gauze-blue hills. To the right and
far beneath, the heavily-shaded river ringed Cappelside in its shallow
bed; and in the hollow by the buckhouse the deer lay close.

Crossing the ridge she dived into the plantation, clinging to the
steep face of the slope, and there, leaning against a tree, she found
Christian--on Cappelside.

He was looking towards her as she came down, standing with his back
against the tree and his head lifted, almost as if he expected her, and
she went straight to him without any pause of hesitation and surprise,
like one walking in a dream.

“Did you want me?” she asked simply, and Christian answered “Yes!”
just as simply, like children crying to and answering each other, and
a change he did not understand came over her face, as if some hidden
glory had set its lamp to her eyes and caught her whole soul in a
quiver of light. She turned from him swiftly and dropped on the ground,
hiding her face on her knees.

Puzzled and slightly alarmed, he stepped to her side and bent over her
with an anxious question, and she shook her head without raising it;
then threw out her arms and looked up at him with the same brilliant
eyes.

“I’ll tell you presently--presently!” she said. “Oh, Christian, you’ve
freed me--given me my right to my dream. All my life I thought I was
stealing, and it was mine all the time! It’s mine now as long as I
live.”

She gave a low laugh of pure ecstasy, and then, meeting his bewildered
glance, came back to the reality of things and to the memory of all
that had occurred since they had last met. The climb up the park had
wearied him and set violet shadows beneath his eyes, tired lines in
his thin face. His hands were thin, too, she noticed, pallid with the
whiteness of hands that have laid helpless on a counterpane, and in
his eyes was still the patient, inward look that comes with dangerous
illness. And beyond all that there was an air of desolation strange in
so young a man--almost the look of one bowing a beaten head to Fate.
Her victorious gladness struck against it, wondering, and with a heart
charged to the brim with pity, she stretched out both her hands.

“Oh, how ill you look!” she exclaimed. “How terribly ill and miserable
and lonely! What can I do to help you, my dear, my poor dear?”

And Christian, with her face blurred to his eyes, conscious only of his
desperate need of her and of her strength, clung to her tender hands
and dropped beside her, hiding his face on her lap.

“Debbie, why did you send me away?” he asked, from his shelter.
“Couldn’t you feel that I was yours, even if I didn’t know it myself?
You’re all I’ve got in the world, and all I want. You mustn’t send me
away again!”

“I’ll keep you till the stars fall!” she answered almost fiercely,
closing her arms round him. “I sent you away because I was
afraid--afraid for your happiness. I lied to you, but I loved you all
the time. I lied to you because I loved you, oh, blind and dearest
heart!”

She stooped and laid her lips to his hair, and out of the spring magic
every voice cried to her that she had ever loved; the chattering
water-voice that has the note of rung silver in it; the liquid gold
of the thrush, the diamond-clear whistle of the blackbird; and always
the lamb’s appeal and the mother’s anxious answer. The mighty dignity
of the ancient trees, foiled by the eternal freshness of springing
grass, the smell of the earth, the press of the turf--all that stood
for the heritage of Crump reaching forward and so far behind, fused
for the moment in the young, pathetic figure at her feet, summoned her
soul from the hidden covert where it had crouched so long, afraid; and
Christian, looking at her at last with clear eyes, knew that he saw her
for the first time.

“Tell me what it all means,” he said, “why you came to-night--your
real self behind the mask--Stanley--everything!”

“It reaches back to the beginning of things,” she answered, smiling.
“Won’t it tire you?”--but when he shook his head and sat up, drawing
her against his shoulder, she opened her heart with the passionate
relief that only those know who have carried locked lips through
hungering years.

“Do you remember what a queer little child I was, Christian? Lots
of people disapproved of me, and some kind souls thought I was what
Brathay would call ‘nickt i’ the head.’ I was allowed to do pretty
much what I liked after my mother died, and I spent most of my time
wandering about the estate, until I knew every corner of it as well
as Kilne itself. I wouldn’t take any notice of the ‘quality’--shut
my mouth tight when they spoke to me, and looked as though they were
trying to steal me; but anybody that worked on the land I took to my
heart on the spot. All the ploughmen were my friends, the hedgers
and ditchers, the beaters and beckwatchers, down to the poachers!
Even the fearsomeness of keepers I tamed, and they let me go where I
chose--they made me as free of the woods as any other wild fledgeling.
And old Brathay--ask him sometime what we were to each other in those
days--the queer little child and the big huntsman! There was Bowness,
too, a wild youngster kicked out of Whyterigg, whom my father shaped
into the finest keeper on Crump. And Moorhouse and Fleming--oh, and
heaps more--_they_ were my education! Do you wonder that I lived and
breathed Crump, with such surroundings, Father talking of nothing else,
and all the old books to my hand? I was bred to it, too.” She gave the
same ecstatic laugh. “I’m not afraid to say it, now. You’ve given me
the right!

“It didn’t mean anything special to me at first. It was just part of
me, that was all. And then, one day, as all the Lyndesays do, I found
my dream. I had been reading the list of Crump stewards, saying the
names aloud until I reached my father’s, and it came to me suddenly
that this splendid inheritance of service was mine--the birthright of
me, Deborah Lyndesay; and I ran out into the park and flung myself on
the grass, kissing it, and saying over and over again--‘I, too, will
serve Crump! I, too! I, too!’ sobbing for sheer joy. And then two
workmen passed up the path to the Hall.”

She paused a moment, and by the restraint in her tone when she went on
he guessed that the childish tragedy was as new and terrible to her
to-day.

“My father was riding below them on the road, and they touched their
hats as he went by. One of them stopped to look after him. ‘The last of
the Kilne Lyndesays!’ I heard him say. ‘The best and the finest--and
the last. It’s a sad pity!’

“‘There’s a lass, though, isn’t there?’ said the other, and the first
man laughed as though he had made a joke.

“‘Ay, and what use of that?’ he said scathingly. ‘What can a lass
do for Crump? As far as that goes, Roger Lyndesay might as well have
neither chick nor child. Nay, he’s the last, worse luck! The lass
doesn’t count.’

“Oh, Christian, it’s a long fall from Heaven! I’m broken and wounded to
this day. My dream shattered in my hands. I was my ancestors’ child,
but I could not follow in their steps. I had all the love, all the
courage, even the knowledge, but--I was a girl. I could not put my hand
to the plough and drive a single foot in the Kilne furrow, though the
heritage of desire was born in me as fiercely alive as in any son. Do
people never think that a girl may feel these things, too--suffer and
burn to follow in her fathers’ steps and make herself one with them in
her quota of good work? I never spoke of it. Nobody has ever known--not
even my father; but the longing of it drove back upon me, eating the
soul out of me. Even when I was away the thought of Crump was a more
vivid thing to me than the world around me; and when I came back it was
like a resurrection--the pain of resurrection, too! Oh, Christian--that
first year---- Each day I lived as a man before execution, knowing that
one of them would bring my real life to an end.

“Then at last came--the way out. Stanley. It was the woman’s only way
out. You’ll try to understand, Christian, won’t you--won’t you? I knew
what he was--it was impossible to live under Crump’s very shadow and
not know--but beyond and above all that he was something to me that he
couldn’t possibly be to anybody else. To begin with, he was Lyndesay
of Crump, and I, Roger Lyndesay’s daughter. With us lay the right to
give him anything we chose, our last coin to help him, our sword-hand
to save him--even ourselves. It’s a right that can only be bought by
perfect service--that’s why so few people know what it means. But _we_
know. Then, Stanley--needed me. Through me he reached out to the dream,
and I could feel him struggling. That is why I’ve never blamed him,
even in my thoughts. Because I loved Crump so much, I filled a want in
him that was sometimes hungry and cried; and after a while he could not
let me go. He--needed me.”

“As I need you!” Christian’s voice answered her, low and passionate.
For the first time, a thrill of sympathy vitalised the bond between his
brother and himself.

“The letter of your mother’s accusation was true; never the spirit.
I would have married Stanley for Crump--for the soil, the soul of
Crump--for _this_!” She struck her hand passionately on the turf. “Just
as I would have married you, dear heart, if I had dared to risk you one
single hour of remorse!”

He turned her face and looked into her eyes.

“Kilne does not lapse,” he said. “It comes home, that is all. The chain
ends at Crump where it began--you bring it there. Doesn’t that make you
‘count’?”

“Oh, yes, I count at last!” she answered, with the same vivid content.
“Your way and my way, I count in both. Didn’t you know what I meant
when I found you? It is said of Crump stewards that they can be drawn
to their masters by a thought. You wanted me, and I came at once.
Somebody stopped me on the way, and I chafed and ached until they let
me go. I didn’t know why I was coming or what drew me, but you called
me and I came. To-day I stand in my fathers’ place, and put my hands
between yours, and my homage with them. All those gone before know me
and own my claim. I, too, can serve. I, too, belong to Crump at last!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Under the hill the Hall sheltered, no longer a crouching thing of
menace but a man’s quiet hearth-place, breathing peace. The rooks
were coming back, calling their way over park and village, ploughing
steadily through the pure air to their nests in the dim woods. The two
lonely young figures followed them: Crump folk all--going home.




  RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
  BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.K.,
  AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

  New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
    public domain.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74603 ***