“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 peacocks strutting near her; walking among the marble statues, with a book; passing 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 Mass was over, seeking the little church where the Duchessa 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 Saturday 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 mass 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 passed 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 passed by. May gave place to June, with meadows waist high in perfumed grass, and hedges fragrant with honeysuckle, while Antony’s thoughts went more frequently out to Woodleigh and the Duchessa’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 passed the Duchessa would be once more within it.