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It was the following Sunday morning that, after considerable hesitation, Lyveden issued an order which he could well have spared. The instruction was addressed to the younger of his two carters, and was touching the man and the dog-cart and a seven-mile drive. In a word, it had become expedient that Major Anthony Lyveden should go up to Town.
His employer had warned him that periodical visits to London would be found indispensable. For all his dislike of the world, Winchester had had to pay them from time to time. Now that the latter was gone from Gramarye, and Anthony reigned in his stead, the duty, when it arose, fell to his lot. Never relishing the idea, he would not have believed that it could become so odious. Ere it had taken shape, it loomed vexatious. Looking it in the face, he found it repulsive. No recluse could have been more reluctant to leave his hermitage. Major Anthony Lyveden felt positively nervous.
Since he had been in charge the man had altered.
He, who in the old days had shouldered with a smile responsibilities which would have set his elders sweating with apprehension, found the light weight of Gramarye a fardel to make him stagger. This was out of all order. Had he lain sick for a month, the work would have gone as steadily. The truth is, he was investing the conduct of a waggoner's team with the nicety requisite to the control of a tandem of thoroughbreds. That Lyveden of all men in the world should make such a costly mistake showed that his nerves were hagridden.
For all his dread of it, however, the visit to London could not conveniently be postponed. The need of some of the items upon his little list of accessories had become urgent, imperilling the work upon the estate. A few hours in the Metropolis would be enough. He knew where to go. Two addresses in the City and another in Drury Lane would see the whole of his pilgrimage….
With a sigh, the ex-officer had locked up the safe and, leaving the cold grey parlour, whence he administered, passed out of the echoing mansion into the careless frolic of a fine March morning.
As he had expected, the younger of the two carters was in the stables, and Anthony gave his order without more ado. Then he whistled to his Sealyham and started for home.
After a wild night the unrepentant winds were full of mischief. A monstrous dignity of fleecy clouds scudded undignified across the blue. The precious park became a tossing waste of woodland, teased into flurried liveliness, full of false starts and misdirection, instantly buffeted for every blunder and bellowing good-natured protests at every cuff. Respectable brown leaves chased one another down the tracks; dark sober pools slapped their confining banks; the steady flow of brooks faltered irresolute.
Nature herself being so roughly used, be sure that man and beast were plagued unconscionably. Anthony's hat was sent whirling, and his terrier's ears were flicked inside out at the first corner. Not that they cared—either of them—for the sunlight leapt with a joy that took the sting out of the horseplay and turned the edge of the devilment. The day was as good as a tonic. By the time they had sighted their cabin the two were revelling.