Part 7

"There's the money, take it and settle with them, mark where they come from and look up the fares in the A.B.C., Bletsoe, to see they don't cheat you, then give 'em five shillings over and above. But pay 'em their fares right and correct, not a penny more nor less, and Bletsoe, when I say--ahem! like that, you'll know as that one's no good, you see!"

It was hard work and none too pleasant, but the house had to be staffed. Allan and Lady Kathleen were married, they were spending a brief honeymoon on the East Coast; they would be back here soon to take possession and Allan's father was resolved that when they came they would find everything complete. Had not he himself pried in the store cupboards, which Messrs. Whiteley had obligingly stocked at his request? He had satisfied himself that everything necessary was there, everything, that is, of an unperishable nature.

Salt and tea, sugar and pepper. He had been greatly disturbed in his mind when he found that washing soda had been overlooked and he had ordered a hundredweight forthwith. And now he was engaging servants.

"I am Sir Josiah Homewood, this house belongs to my son, Mr. Allan Homewood, at present away on his honeymoon with his wife, the Lady Kathleen Homewood, daughter to the Earl of Gowerhurst. They are returning in a week and I desire to have everything in readiness for them. What might your age be and what are your references and who were you with last? And why did you leave your last place?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, my age, I respectfully beg to say, I don't see hasn't nothing to do with the matter. As for my references, here they are. I've lived in a Duke's family and there's but little I don't know how to cook, even to peacocks, I have cooked, sir, and----"

"Bless my soul, I didn't know people eat 'em!" said the Baronet.

"Only the best of the quality, sir!"

"Bless me, very well, hum, hah!" He looked through the references, he made notes on a piece of paper. "Please settle with this lady, Bletsoe, and give her, her out of pockets as according to arrangement--a--hem!"

And so the fate of the lady with the moustache was sealed, though she knew it not.

Betty had heard of this reception that Sir Josiah was holding to-day. Girls from Little Stretton, Bush Corner, and even from Gadsover and Lindney, had come to offer themselves for hiring. Betty hesitated, since that evening when she had defied her Grandmother life had not been very happy at Mrs. Hanson's little cottage. Should she go with the rest and offer herself for service in the house? But could she bear it, could she bear to see her own beloved garden again as it was now, not as she remembered it? All the dear trees cut down, or most of them, and hideous new walls put up, and her little stone friend gone from the lake and a great ugly stone fountain erected in her place, for so she had heard. Could she bear to see it all as it was now?

No, she could not, so she hesitated. The other girls went and were engaged or not, as Sir Josiah decided, but Betty did not offer herself.

For three days after that night when she had struck Abram Lestwick in the face, she did not see him, but on the evening of the fourth day he presented himself at the door of her grandmother's cottage.

He said nothing of that last interview. His manner was nervous and hesitating and without passion, his fingers worked incessantly, toying and tearing at everything within his reach. He sat upright on a horsehair-covered chair, and tore little hairs out of the cloth all the evening. At a quarter to ten he rose and took his hat.

"I'll be wishing you good night, Mrs. Hanson, ma'am!" he said.

"Good night, Abram, and always glad to see you," said Mrs. Hanson heartily.

"I thank you, Ma'am, good night, Betty!" he said.

"Go to the door, my maid, and see Abram off the step," said her grandmother.

Betty hesitated, then went, with her red-lipped mouth firmly compressed.

On the step in the summer darkness Abram found his tongue.

"Well?" he said. "When is it to be!"

"When be, what to be?"

"Our wedding?"

"Didn't I tell 'ee?"

"Aye, but 'ee didn't mean it, besides I hev made up my mind; when is it to be?"

"Never!" she said. "Never, never!"

He laughed softly to himself as she closed the door in his face, but to-night there was no passion, no tempest within him. He laughed again as he walked down the road in the velvety blackness.

There were lights in the Old Manor House, unfamiliar sight! He did not ever remember seeing lights there before and strange lights they were, very bright and brilliant, and so many of them. He stood still in the road and stared at the house.

Presently the little arched green door in the wall opened and a woman scuttled out, carrying a bundle suspiciously.

"Who be that? Law! How 'ee did frighten me!" she panted a little with nervousness; perhaps that bundle had no right to be in her arms. "Be it you, Abram Lestwick?" she asked, peering into the darkness.

"Aye!" he said briefly. "It be me all right, Mother Colley. What be 'ee doing here to-night?"

"'Tis the young new Squire, the old man's son, come home wi' his lady wife. I see her for a minute, Abram, and a prettier creature I never set eyes on, so kind and smiling her looks, too, and so mighty fond they du seem to be of one another, arm in arm they was walking. 'Father,' he were saying when I see him, 'Father have done wonders here, Kathleen! You did ought to have seen the place no more than four months ago. Father have worked wonderful, terribul hard for we!' he said."

"Ah!" said Abram.

"Yes," said Mrs. Colley, nodding her head, "and she wonderful sweet and dainty her looked, I tell 'ee, Abram--'Wonderful kind and good he be, Allan,' she says. And, Abram, why don't 'ee ever come in for a kindly cup o' tea to our cottage? My maid 'Lizbeth continooally du ask me! A clever maid her be wi' her fingers and a worker she, not like someone as I could name, some as bain't too right in their mind!"

"Who?"

"I mention no names, Abram, only I say there be a kindly welcome and a cup set for 'ee whenever 'ee do take the fancy and now I must be getting along. A wonderful place they hev made o' it, and oh! the money it hev cost! It fair sets me wondering how there ever du be so much money in the world!"

"And if," Abram thought, "all the money in the world were mine, I would lay it at Betty's feet!" So he went on his way, for the man who rises at four in the morning must to bed betimes.

* * * * *

Allan had been in no hurry for the honeymoon to end. Every day of their companionship added to his liking and respect for Kathleen. Now that she was away from her father, now that she had shaken herself free from the old environment, she seemed to be a different woman. Her laughter was more spontaneous; the sadness, for which in his heart he had pitied her, was going, if not gone from her eyes. She was a charming companion, her good temper and entire unselfishness were never failing. What more could a man ask?

He had rather dreaded the honeymoon, and now had come to realise that it formed the most pleasant period of his life. But now that it had come to its end, he felt a strange reluctance to go to Homewood.

He was young and healthy minded; for such a man to brood over a dream or a vision was impossible. The effect of that May day dream of his had well nigh worn away, the vision of the girl who had come to him in the old garden and kissed him had grown vague and shadowy. Like most visions, it was slowly passing and presently, unless something happened to revive it, it would pass into oblivion altogether.

But this return to Homewood would and must revive it and bring back that day and all that had happened on that day forcibly to mind once more.

And he asked himself, did he wish to be reminded? Was he not well enough content with life as it was? He was married to a girl for whom he felt a great liking, a growing affection, and a respect, a woman whom he realised was the sweetest and best woman he had ever known.

It was not her beauty alone that attracted him, yet he could scarcely repress a thrill of pride of possession that comes to many men when they realise the envy of others and see the looks of admiration which were no more than Kathleen's well deserved tribute.

So the honeymoon had been a very pleasant and happy time. They were frank with one another, the best of friends. They kissed one another with a quiet, undemonstrative affection that was not feigned. There had not been one breath to mar the perfect serenity of their lives. No foolish trumpery quarrel, but always that complete understanding and good faith that willingness to give and take unselfishly.

Are honeymoons always such a success? When the passionate lovers are united at last and drive away radiant and triumphant, amidst a shower of rice and good wishes, who can tell what pitfalls her pretty little feet may trip into, what obstacles he may go stumbling and floundering over? They believed that they knew and understood one another so well, all unconsciously perhaps they have kept up many pretences, have only permitted one another to see the brighter side.

But there is always the other and darker side, Romeo's temper the first thing in the morning may not be everything that is desirable. When Juliet finds that one of her dresses does not fit her quite so well as it might, she must vent her annoyance on someone--and there is only Romeo!

The good ship of matrimony has scarcely weighed anchor and set sail and the Captain and the Mate have yet to learn one another's characters, perhaps they have even to decide who the Captain and who the Mate. There are many little things to arrange, little difficulties to adjust. Happy they who can do it all, with kindness and good temper, willing to give freely and yet not asking for too much!

It was in the dusk of the late July evening that Allan and Kathleen came to Homewood.

It was the last day of Sir Josiah's reign, and never a sovereign gave up his sceptre with better grace. How he beamed, how he swelled with visible pride, how he dragged them from room to room to see this and to see that!

"There you are, my boy, what do you think of it? Wouldn't know the place, would you? You'd 'a fallen through this floor three months ago; look at it now!" And the old gentleman jumped up and down to prove the soundness of the joists and boards.

"Well, my dear, and what do you think of it? Pretty, ain't it? Davenham didn't let me down, there's nothing like going to the right man! Davenham ain't cheap, but--" He caught himself up, this was no time to talk of money and money matters. He had spent freely and willingly. Perhaps never before in his life had he spent quite so freely, quite so willingly. There was a heavy bill to meet, but what of that? He could meet it!

He had picked up a good deal from careful observations and from listening to Davenham's learned talk. The names Hepplewhite and Adam, Sheraton and Chippendale tripped glibly from his tongue. True, he confused Hepplewhite and Adam, but what did that matter? Allan and Kathleen did not mind, perhaps did not know, and the old fellow was happy and smiling, though there was just a little ache at his heart, for to-morrow his work would be done, to-morrow he would pack his traps, order the car, tip the servants and say good-bye. His reign would be ended! The villagers would give him their bobs and their smiles and perhaps a cheer, Dalabey would come from his shop and grovel for a moment as he passed and then--then life would of a sudden become strangely empty, strangely without aim and object.

"Can almost see 'em, can't you, Allan, my boy, those old Elmacotts; the place must have looked very like this in their time. Lord, it's a pity we've got into the way of dressing so plain and starchy like we do now! But bless my soul! What would I look like in a flowered waistcoat and powdered wig and silk stockings, eh? Ha, ha, ha! And how well she's looking, how pretty she is, prettier'n ever, Allan, and what a lucky fellow you are!"

"The luckiest in the world and the happiest I think, father!" Allan said very soberly.

The old man nodded, "That's right, that's right, that's what I hoped to hear. Now, take her and shew her round. It's a pity it's gone so dark, so you can't see the gardens to-night. I tell you, Allan, the gardens are even better than the house. You keep on that old Markabee, he knows his job and you won't get no better man for thirty-seven and six a week, cottage found!"

In the dawn of the summer morning Allan wakened, his sleep had been strangely disturbed. He had dreamed, yet now he was awake the dreams were all vague, half forgotten and meaningless. He rose and went to the open window and looked out into the garden.

He saw it as he had seen it that day in May, in his dream, all trim and fair, the weeds and the desolation gone, the flower beds all gay and bright with bloom, the lawns--and how old Markabee and his men had worked on these lawns! shaved and rolled and weeded.

And though remembering it as he had seen it, with the desolation of years over it all, it all looked unfamiliar to him now and yet wonderfully, strangely familiar.

Then suddenly there came to him with a sense of shock and anxiety a question. What of the little stone nymph who had stood there in the midst of the pool? Had they torn her from her pedestal and banished her from the place she had held for centuries? Why had he never spoken of her? Why had he never asked that she might be protected? Why--why above all did he care? What had become of a little stone image with a broken arm and a battered vase, and the slender little stone body all stained green?

But he did care, and he wanted to know what her fate was. He turned back into the room and saw his wife sleeping there. The sunlight slanted in through the uncurtained window and touched her face, and he stood looking at her.

Sleeping, she seemed, in spite of her eight and twenty years, to be such a child. There was a smile on her lips, her face was pillowed on one white bare arm, her hair fell about her on the pillow.

He stretched out his hand and lifted one heavy lock and held it lightly, letting it slip softly through his fingers till it fell to the pillow again.

And, watching her as she slept, he wondered why his heart did not throb, why a great passionate love for her did not come--yet it did not!

He dressed and went out into the garden. He was early, early even for old Markabee, from whose little cottage even now the smoke was curling, thin and blue, into the morning air.

In spite of the panic of anxiety of a while ago, he had forgotten the little stone maid. The enchantment of the garden was on him, his feet trod the stone pathway, his hands were behind his back, his head bent a little forward, yet he saw everything, the trim, carefully laid out beds, the green grass, the foxglove and the hollyhock thrusting their way to life and air and sun through the crevices in the old stone path. So he stepped aside to avoid tramping on their loveliness, yet wondered why they should be there.

Was it right? What would my Lady say? And he? Was not he dallying here when he should be at his work?

What thoughts! What strange jumble of thoughts was this?

Hoe and rake, he must get them from the shed; the shed there behind the old red wall. So he turned and came to the place and found no shed, then started and came back to life again and frowned at himself for his folly.

Was there some enchantment that brooded over the place, something that held him in its grip when his feet trod the soil of this old garden?

"Dreams!" he said aloud, and again, "Dreams!" And then laughed at himself and turned back to the broad stone pathway, then suddenly remembered the object of his quest, and hurried on to the lake.

She was there, untouched! and he was conscious of a relief, a sense of gladness--yet why? What did it matter? What would it have mattered had they pulled her down and carried her away and used her to mend some country road with and placed some fine marble fountain with basin all complete in her place? Yet it did matter and he knew that it did!

He turned, conscious of a relief and yet wondering at it and went back along the path to where was the great circle in the middle of which stood the sundial, and he noticed that some artificer had replaced the long lost gnomon, so that once again the shadow might fall and tell the passing of the hours.

And there was the seat on which he had sat that day. Then it had been half lost in a maze of tangle and growth. Now it had been cleaned and even mended a little, the moss and green growth removed.

Allan sat down, as he had sat down that day; he laid his arm along the back of the stone seat, just as then, and as then presently, the reality about him grew faint and uncertain, and he drifted into a light sleep. But in that sleep no dreams came, no vision of a little figure tripping down the stone pathway, no dainty little figure in her flowered gown, with mob cap on her shining head. Instead he opened his eyes and looked into the face of an ancient man, who pulled a scanty lock of hair at him and wished him "Good marning!" in purest Sussex.

"Good morning to you," said Allan and wondered for a moment who the old man might be, then it dawned on him.

"A wunnerful and powerful difference be here," said the old man, "which you will hev noticed, so be as you hev seen the place before!"

"I have seen it before, three months ago, and as you say a wonderful difference is here," said Allan, "and you are----"

"Markabee be my name," the old man said, "gardener I were at Lord Reldewood's place, near Smarden in Kent, though I be Sussex born and bred."

There was interrogation in his still, bright eyes.

"My name is Homewood, Allan Homewood!"

"Then you be the young master, the old master be a proper fine man and a thorough gentleman!"

Allan laughed. "I hope that you will be able to say the same of me, though I warn you, Markabee, I am not such a fine man nor so good a gentleman as my father!"

"That may be, that may be!" said Markabee. "One finds out, one does, for one's self. But I be one as speaks as I du find and I say the old gentleman be a proper fine man, free handed moreover and pleasant of speech!

"Very late in the season, it were," Markabee went on. "May, pretty nigh out, when I du come to this garden. Powerful difficult it were to make much of a show, as I did say to Mr. Dalabey. 'Never mind,' says he, 'du your bestest, Markabee, for you be working for a proper fine gentleman who don't mind a little bit of extry money here and there, so be he gets what he du want!'"

Allan nodded. Not for all the world would he hurt the old fellow's feelings, but he could wish old Markabee safely off to his work in the garden, leaving him here to his dreams in the sunshine.

But not so Markabee. For he was old and had seen many things and many gardens; old and garrulous was he and eager above all to make a good impression on the young master!

"Things I hev seen and changes," he said, "you wouldn't believe, and now--how old might you take me to be, eh, young sir? What aged man would you say I were?" He pulled himself up erect as a grenadier, and his bright old eyes twinkled, while the long whisps of white hair fell about his copper coloured face.

"Now, sir, make a guess, how old might 'ee take me to be, eh?"

"I should say--" said Allan cautiously, "that you might be sixty-five!"

"Ha, ha, ha, that be a good 'un, sixty-five--ha, ha!" He laughed till his voice cracked and he nearly choked. "Two and eighty years hev I seen, two and eighty wi' never a lie, and look at me, fit for a long day's work I be with the best and youngest on 'em! Ask anyone here, young sir, ask what sort of worker be old Markabee, ask 'em to satisfy yourself, sir! Yes, two and eighty summers and winters hev I seen--sixty-five--ha, ha, ha! Sixty-five!" And, chuckling with laughter, he saluted, drew his old body erect and went marching off down the garden with a jaunty air, and yet in his heart a little quavering wonder and anxious fear.

"I wonder, du he think I be too old?"

If spell there had been, old Markabee had broken it. So though he might sit here on the old stone seat, no drowsiness came to him now. He watched a bee, a great velvety bumble bee, with its lustrous black and tan body hurrying, full of business, from flower to flower. The sun was low yet, and cast slanting shadows all softly blue on the stone pathway. The dew glinted and glistened in the cups of the flowers and in the heart of the starry green leaves of the lupins. He looked along the broad straight pathway to the house and saw it, so strangely like he had seen it that day, the windows open, the dimity curtains moving lightly in the soft breeze. And now came a maid servant, but no mob cap and flowered gown wore she, and her hair was black and her eyes sleepy, nor did she trip daintily, but shuffled in sluggard fashion and let down the new sun blinds outside the windows with a rasping, creaking sound of iron on iron.

No dreams for him this day, nor did he want them? Why seek them, invite them? For dreams would but bring him again to dissatisfaction and would set him yearning and longing and even hoping for that which could never, never come true. Allan rose and seemed to shake himself, though he shook himself more mentally than physically, to lighten himself of these fancies, which were idle and foolish and which he must not encourage nor harbour.

He smiled to himself as he set off for a ramble about the garden, for he saw what he must do. He must prove to old Markabee and to all the rest that he was a man worthy of being his father's son.

"A proper fine man he be and a thorough gentleman," old Markabee had said, and so he was. God bless him for a fine gentleman!

And then suddenly and unexpectedly, for he had wandered far into a part of the garden where he had never been before and where even old Markabee and his merry men had not yet penetrated, he came on a little stream that flowed rapidly and clearly between high banks of thick green growth and at one place was a deep pool where the water swirled and eddied, obstructed for the moment in its course by an abrupt turn in the winding of the stream. About him were the trees and the greenery, an impenetrable leafy screen and the silence; but for the birds there was nothing to interrupt the solitude of the place. So off with his clothes and then a header into the cool green water for a brisk swim. Here, under the shade of the trees, the water ran cold and its coldness sent the blood leaping and throbbing through his veins.

A few minutes and he was out, glowing, dripping, a young giant in his health and strength. Now he had put his clothes on caring nothing that his skin was wet beneath them.

Back through the garden and the sunshine he strode--dreams, what idle things were dreams! Only a fool or a poet might sit there on that old old stone seat trying to conjure up visions of a long dead past. His body was in a glow, he was conscious of a great and voracious appetite. He saw the girl who had pulled the sun blinds down and called to her.

"What's your name?" he said. "Mary or Peggy, or Molly, eh?" he smiled at her.

"Ann is my name, sir!" she said. "Ann!"

"You're not Sussex?"

She tossed her head. "Not me, thank you, sir, I come from the Fulham Road!"

"Then, Ann, where you come from does not matter, but if you love me, get me a cup of tea and--and--well anything--a good big hunk of bread and butter will do, but see that it is big and that there is plenty of butter on it and I'll wait here till you come back, Ann!"