Golding would naturally think that he had taken leave of his senses.

"Under the impression you're master here, perhaps?" Golding might say.

Anyhow those were the words Antony put into his mouth.

"I just happen to have that notion," Antony would reply pleasantly.

"Since when?" Golding ought to ask.

"The _notion_," Antony would reply slowly, "has been more or less in my mind since a year ago last March. I am not sure whether the _fact_ dated from that month, or came into actuality this morning."

There his imagination would fail him. There would be an interim. Then the scene would conclude by their having a drink together, Golding looking at Antony over his gla.s.s to utter at slow intervals.

"Well, I'm jiggered."

It was so possible a little drama, so even probable a little drama, it is small wonder that Antony found himself chuckling quietly every now and then as he considered it. The only thing was, that he wanted it to hurry up, and that not solely for his own sake, nor for the sake of his secret hopes, nor for the sake of watching Golding's amazed face during the enactment of the little drama, but quite largely for the sake of the big grey house, which lay before him.

It looked so terribly lonely; it looked dead. It was like a flower-surrounded corpse. That there actually was life within it, he was aware, since he had once seen a white-haired man at a window, who, so a fellow-gardener had informed him on being questioned later, must have been the old butler. He and his wife had been left in charge as caretakers. All the other indoor servants had been dismissed by Doctor Hilary on his return from that fateful journey from London. Somehow the man's presence at the window had seemed but to emphasize the loneliness, the odd corpse-like atmosphere of the house. It was as if a face had looked out from a coffin. Antony never had nearer view of either the butler or his wife. Tradespeople called for orders, he believed; but, if either the man or woman ever sought the fresh air, it must be after the work in the gardens was over for the day.

Antony liked to picture himself restoring life to the old place. Now and again he allowed himself to see a woman aiding him in the pleasant task.

He would picture her standing by the sundial, looking out towards the sparkling water; standing by the marble basin with white pigeons alighted at her feet, and peac.o.c.ks strutting near her; walking among the marble statues, with a book; pa.s.sing up the wide steps of the solitary house, taking with her the sunshine of the garden to cheer its gloom.

His heart still held hope as its guest. He had put the thought of that possible emergency from him on the same afternoon as he had decided on his course of action, should it arise. He never crossed bridges before he came to them, as the saying is. He might recognize their possible existence, he might recognize the possibility of being called upon to cross them, even recognize to the full all the unpleasantness he would find on the other side. Having done so, he resolutely refused to approach them till driven thereto by fate.

He found a delight, too, in his little English cottage, in his tiny orchard, and tinier garden. Each evening saw him at work in it, first clearing the place of weeds, reducing it to something like order; later, putting in plants, and sowing seeds. Each Sunday morning saw him walking the lonely beach with Josephus, and, when Ma.s.s was over, seeking the little church where the d.u.c.h.essa had formerly worshipped, and would worship again. Added to the quite extraordinary pleasure he felt in sitting in her very chair, was strange sense of peace in the little building. Father Dormer became quite accustomed to seeing the solitary figure in the church. Of course later, Antony knew, it might be desirable that these visits should cease, but till the end of June, at all events, he was safe.

On Sat.u.r.day and Sunday afternoons and evenings he took long walks inland, exploring moorland, wood, and stream, and recalling many a childish memory. He found the pond where he had endangered his life at the instigation of the fair-haired angel, whose name he could not yet recall.

The pond had not shrunk in size as is usual with childhood's recollections; on the contrary it was quite a large pond, a deep pond, and he found himself marvelling that he had ever had the temerity to attempt to cross it on so insecure a bark as a mere log of wood. Possibly the angel had been particularly insistent, and, despite the fact that he was a good many years her senior, he had feared her scorn. He found the wood where he and she had been caught kneeling by the pheasant's nests.

It had been well for him that the contents had not already been transferred to his pockets. The crime had been in embryo, so to speak, performed, by good chance, merely in intention rather than in deed.

Now the wood was a ma.s.s of shimmering bluebells, and alive with the notes of song birds. Antony would lie at full length on the moss, listening to the various notes, dreamily content as his body luxuriated in temporary idleness. As the afternoon pa.s.sed into evening the sound of a church bell would float up to him from the hidden village. He had discovered by now another church, on the outskirts of the village, an old stone edifice dating from long before the times of the so-called reformation. It never claimed him as a visitor, however: it held no attraction for him as did the little barn-like building on the quay. The sound of the bell would rouse him to matters present, and he would return to his cottage to prepare his evening meal, after which he sat in the little parlour with pipe and book.

Thus quietly the days pa.s.sed by. May gave place to June, with meadows waist high in perfumed gra.s.s, and hedges fragrant with honeysuckle, while Antony's thoughts went more frequently out to Woodleigh and the d.u.c.h.essa's return.

He had seen the little place from the moorland, looking down into it where it lay in a hollow among the trees. He had seen the one big house it boasted, white-walled and thatch-roofed, half-hidden by climbing roses. Before many days were pa.s.sed the d.u.c.h.essa would be once more within it.

CHAPTER XVI

A MEETING

And as the end of June drew nearer, Antony found himself once more contemplating a possible meeting with the d.u.c.h.essa, contemplating, also, the worst that meeting might hold in store.

An odd, indefinable restlessness was upon him. He told himself quite plainly that, in all probability before many weeks, many days even, were pa.s.sed, there would be a severance of that friendship which meant so much to him. He forced himself to realize it, to dwell upon it, to bring consciously home to his soul the blankness the severance would bring with it. There was a certain relief in facing the worst; yet he could not always face it. There was the trouble. Now and then a hope, which he told himself was futile, would spring unbidden to his heart, establish itself as a radiant guest. Yet presently it would depart, mocking him; or fade into nothingness leaving a blank greyness in its stead.

Uncertainty--though reason told him none was existent--tantalized, tormented him. And then, when certainty came nearest home to him, he knew he had still to learn the final and definite manner of its coming. That it must inevitably be preceded by moments of soul torture he was aware.

Yet what precise form would that soul torture take?

He put the query aside. He dared not face it. Once, lying wide-eyed in the darkness, gazing through the small square of his window at the star-powdered sky without, an odd smile had twisted his lips. Pain, bodily pain, had at one time been his close companion for weeks, he had then fancied he had known once and for all the worst of her torments. He knew now that her dealings with the body are quite extraordinarily light in comparison to her dealings with the mind. And this was only antic.i.p.ation.

One Sat.u.r.day afternoon he started off for a walk on a hitherto untried route. It was in a direction entirely opposite to Woodleigh, which he now wished to avoid.

Half an hour's walking brought him to a wide expanse of moorland, as lonely a spot as can well be imagined. Behind him lay Byestry and the sea; to his left, also, lay the sea, since the coast took a deep turn northwards about three miles or so to the west of Byestry; to the right, and far distant, lay Woodleigh. Before him was the moorland, covered with heather and gorse bushes. About half a mile distant it descended in a gentle decline, possibly to some hidden village below, since a broadish gra.s.s path, or species of roadway bearing wheel tracts, showed that, despite its present loneliness, it was at times traversed by human beings.

Antony sat down by a gorse bush, whose golden flowers were scenting the air with a sweet aromatic scent. Mingling with their scent was the scent of thyme and heather, and the hot scent of the sunbaked earth. Bees boomed lazily in the still air, and far off was the faint melodious note of the ever-moving sea. The sun was hot and the droning of the bees drowsy in its insistence. After a few moments Antony stretched himself comfortably on the heather, and slept.

A slight sound roused him, and he sat up, for the first moment barely realizing his whereabouts. Then he saw the source of the sound which had awakened him. Coming along the gra.s.s path, and not fifty paces from him, was a small pony and trap, driven by a woman. Antony looked towards it, and, as he looked, he felt his heart jump, leap, and set off pounding at a terrible rate.

In two minutes the trap was abreast him, and the little Dartmoor pony was brought to a sudden standstill. Antony had got to his feet.

"Mr. Gray," exclaimed an astonished voice, though very a.s.suredly there was a note of keen delight mingled with the astonishment.

Antony pulled off his cap.

"Fancy meeting you here!" cried the d.u.c.h.essa di Donatello. "Why ever didn't you let me know that you were in these parts? Or, perhaps you have only just arrived, and were going to come and see me?"

There was the fraction of a pause. Then,

"I've been at Byestry since the beginning of May," said Antony.

"At Byestry," exclaimed the d.u.c.h.essa. "But why ever didn't you tell me when you wrote, instead of saying it was impossible to come and see me?"

"I didn't know then that Woodleigh and Byestry lay so near together,"

said Antony. And then he stopped. What on earth was he to say next?

The d.u.c.h.essa looked at him. There was an oddness in his manner she could not understand. He seemed entirely different from the man she had known on the _Fort Salisbury_. Yet--well, perhaps it was only fancy.

"You know now, anyhow," she responded gaily. "And you must come and see me." Then her glance fell upon his clothes. Involuntarily a little puzzlement crept into her eyes, a little amazed query.

"What are you doing at Byestry?" she asked. The question had come.

Antony's hand clenched on the side of the pony-trap.

"Oh, I'm one of the under-gardeners at Chorley Old Hall," he responded cheerfully, and as if it were the most entirely natural thing in the world, though his heart was as heavy as lead.

"What do you mean?" queried the d.u.c.h.essa bewildered.

"Just that," said Antony, still cheerfully, "under-gardener at Chorley Old Hall."

"But why?" demanded the d.u.c.h.essa, the tiniest frown between her eyebrows.

"Because it is my work," said Antony briefly.

There was a moment's silence.

"But I don't quite understand," said the d.u.c.h.essa slowly. "You--you aren't a labourer."