Antony touched his forehead in the most approved style.

"I thank you, sor," he responded.

Doctor Hilary smiled. "Well, good luck to you. It will be better--of course, from now onward, we must remember that you are Michael Field, under-gardener at the Hall."

"'Tis a good name," said Antony solemnly. "Sure, I'm downright obliged to me G.o.dfathers and G.o.dmothers for giving me such a one."

Again Doctor Hilary smiled. "Oh, and by the way," he said, "how about money."

Antony felt in his pockets. He produced two florins, a sixpence, and a halfpenny. He looked at them lying in the palm of his hand. Then he looked whimsically at the Doctor.

"I don't know whether the possession of these coins breaks the spirit of the contract. I'm thinking 'twill hardly break the letter. 'Tis all I have."

The Doctor laughed.

"I fancy not," he replied. "I'd better give you your first week's wage in advance. You'll need to lay in provisions. There's a general store in Byestry. Perhaps you'll want to do a little in the purchasing line.

Remember, to-morrow is Sunday."

He laid a sovereign on the table, and a moment later the garden gate clicked to behind him.

Antony went back into the little parlour.

CHAPTER XIII

A DISCOVERY

The morning broke as fair, as blue-skied, as sunny, as the previous day had been gloomy, grey-skied, and wet.

The song of a golden-throated lark was the first sound that Antony heard, as he woke to find the early morning sunshine pouring through the open cas.e.m.e.nt window. He lay very still, listening to the flood of liquid notes, and looking at the square of blue sky, seen through the window.

Now and again an ivy leaf tapped gently at the pane, stirred by a little breeze blowing from the sea, and sweeping softly across b.u.t.tercupped meadow and gorse-grown moorland. Once a flight of rooks pa.s.sed across the square blue patch, and once a pigeon lighted for an instant on the windowsill, to fly off again on swift, strong wings.

He lay there, drowsily content. For that day at least, there was a pleasant idleness ahead of him, nothing but his own wants to attend to.

The morrow would see him armed with spade and rake, probably wrestling with weeds, digging deep in the good brown earth, possibly mowing the gra.s.s, and such like jobs as fall to the lot of an under-gardener. Antony smiled to himself. Well, it would all come in the day's work, and the day's work would be no novel master to him. The open air, whether under cloud or sunshine, was good. After all, his lot for the year would not be such a bad one. He was in the mood to echo the praises of that brown-feathered morsel pouring forth its lauds somewhere aloft in the blue. Suddenly the song ceased. The bird had come to earth.

For a moment or so longer Antony lay very still, listening to the silence. Then he flung back the bed-clothes, went to the window, and looked out.

He looked across the tiny garden, and the lane, to a wild-rose hedge; fragile pink blossoms swayed gently in the breeze. Beyond the hedge was a field of close-cropped gra.s.s, dotted here and there with sheep. To the left a turn in the lane, and the high banks and hedges, shut further view from sight. To the right, and far below the cottage, across meadows and the hidden village of Byestry, lay the sea.

It lay blue and sparkling, flecked with a myriad moving specks of gold, as the sunshine fell on the dancing water. He had seen it at close quarters last night, from the little quay, seen it smooth and grey, its breast heaving now and then as if in gentle sleep. To-day it was awake, alive, and buoyant. He must get down to it again. It was inviting him, smiling, dimpling, alluring.

He made a quick but exceedingly careful toilet. Antony was fastidious to a degree in the matter of cleanliness. Earth dirt he had no objection to; slovenly dirt was as abhorrent to him as vice.

Josephus, who had slept in the parlour, accorded him a hearty welcome on his descent of the narrow steep little stairs, intimating that he was every whit as ready to be up and doing as was his master. The sunshine, the blithesomeness of the morning was infectious. You felt yourself smiling in accord with its smiles.

Antony flung wide the cottage door. A scent of rosemary, southernwood, and verbena was wafted to him from the little garden,--clean, old-fashioned scents, English in their very essence. Anon he had more commonplace scents mingling with them,--the appetizing smell of fried sausages, the aromatic odour of freshly made coffee. Josephus found himself in two minds as to the respective merits of the attractions without, and the alluring odours within. Finally, after one scamper round the garden, he compromised by seating himself on the doorstep, for the most part facing the sunshine, but now and again turning a wet black nose in the direction of the breakfast table and frying-pan.

An hour or so later he was giving himself wholeheartedly to the gra.s.sy and rabbitty scents dear to a doggy soul, as he scampered in the direction of Byestry with his master. Occasionally he made side tracks into hedges and down rabbit holes, whence at a whistle from Antony, he would emerge innocent in expression, but utterly condemned by traces of red earth on his black nose and white back.

There was a lazy Sundayish atmosphere about the village as Antony pa.s.sed through it, with Josephus now at his heels. Men lounged by cottage doors, women gossiped across garden fences. The only beings with an object in view appeared to be children,--crimp-haired little girls, and stiffly-suited small boys, who walked in chattering groups in the direction of a building he rightly judged to be a Sunday-school.

A little farther on, a priest was standing by the door of a small barn-like-looking place with a cross at one end. Antony vaguely supposed it to be a church, and thought, also vaguely, that it was the oddest-looking one he had ever seen. He concluded that Byestry was too small to boast a larger edifice.

On reaching the quay he turned to the right, walking along a cobbled pavement, which presently sloped down to the beach and a narrow stretch of firm smooth sand, bordered by brown rocks and the sea on one side, and a towering cliff on the other. The tide was going down, leaving the brown rocks uncovered. Among them were small crystal pools, reflecting the blue of the sky as in a mirror. Sea spleenwort and ma.s.ses of samphire grew on the cliffs to his right. No danger here to the would-be samphire gatherer; it could be plucked from the safety of solid earth, with as great ease as picking up sh.e.l.ls from the beach.

After some half hour's walking, Antony turned a corner, bringing him to a yet lonelier beach. Looking back, he found Byestry shut from his view,--the cliffs behind him, the sea before him, the sky above him, stretches of sand around him, and himself alone, save for Josephus, and sea-gulls which dipped to the water or circled in the blue, and jackdaws which cried harshly from the cliffs.

He sat down on the sand, and began to fill his pipe. It was extraordinarily lonely, extraordinarily peaceful. There was no sinister note in the loneliness such as he had experienced in the vast s.p.a.ces of the African veldt, but a reposefulness, a quiet rest which appealed to him. The very blueness of the sky and sparkle of the sunshine was tender after the brazen glitter of the African sun. Turning to look behind him, he saw that here the cliff was gra.s.s-covered, sloping almost to the beach, and among the gra.s.s, hiding its green, were countless bluebells, a sheet of shimmering colour. Two lines of Tennyson's came suddenly into his mind.

And the whole isle side flashing down with never a tree Swept like a torrent of gems from the sky to the blue of the sea.

The island of flowers and the island of silence in one, he felt the place to be, and no fear of fighting, with himself as sole inhabitant. So might the islands have been after Maeldune had renounced his purpose of revenge, after he had returned from the isle of the saint who had spoken words of peace.

He lost count of time. A pleasant waking drowsiness fell upon him, till at length, seeing that the sun had reached its zenith, he realized that it must be noon, and began to consider the advisability of retracing his steps.

He got to his feet, whistling to a white speck in the distance, which he rightly judged to be Josephus, and set out on his homeward route.

The village appeared deserted, as he once more reached it. Doubtless the Sunday dinner, which accounts so largely for Sunday sleepiness, was in progress.

Coming to the small barn-like-looking building which he had noticed earlier in the morning, and seeing that the door was open, he looked in.

The air was heavy with the scent of incense. It needed only a moment's observation to tell him that he was in a Catholic church. A curtained tabernacle stood on the little altar, before which hung a ruby lamp. The building was too small to allow of two altars, but at one side was a statue of Our Lady, the base surrounded with flowers, since it was the month of May. Near the porch was a statue of St. Peter.

Antony looked curiously around. It was the third time only that he had entered a Catholic church, the second time being at Teneriffe with the d.u.c.h.essa. Ordering Josephus to stay without, he walked up the little aisle, and sat down in one of the rush-seated chairs near the sanctuary.

He hadn't a notion what prompted the impulse, but he knew that some impulse was at work.

He looked towards the sanctuary. Ma.s.s had been said not long since, and the chalice covered with the veil and burse was still on the altar.

Antony hadn't a notion of even the first principles of the Catholic faith, not as much as the smallest Catholic child; but he felt here, in a measure, the same sense of home as he knew the d.u.c.h.essa to have felt in the church at Teneriffe. Oddly enough he did not feel himself the least an intruder. There was almost a sense of welcome.

From looking at the altar he looked at the chairs, and the small oblong pieces of pasteboard fastened to their backs. He looked down at the piece which denoted the owner of the chair in which he was sitting. And then he found himself staring at it, while his heart leaped and thumped madly. On the pasteboard four words were written,--The d.u.c.h.essa di Donatello.

He gazed at the words hardly able to believe the sight of his own eyes.

What odd coincidence, what odd impulse had brought him to her very chair?

It was extraordinary, unbelievable almost. And then another thought flashed into his brain, making his heart stand still.

A door to the left opened, and a priest came out. He looked momentarily at Antony, then went into the sanctuary, genuflected, took the covered chalice from the altar, genuflected again, and went back into the sacristy, leaving the door partly open.

Antony got suddenly to his feet. He went towards the sacristy. The priest, hearing the sound of steps, opened the door wide.

"Excuse me," said Antony, "but can you tell me where Woodleigh is?" His Irish brogue was forgotten.

"Certainly," replied the priest. "It is about two miles from here, inland." He looked rather curiously at the man, who, though labourer by his dress, yet spoke in an obviously refined voice. He waited, perhaps expecting some further question.

"That was all I wanted to know," said Antony. "Thank you." He turned back into the church.