“Why don’t you open the gate, silly? Can’t you hear her knocking?”
Still Antony stood irresolute, though he heard little taps falling on the iron.
“Open it, open it,” came the sweet mocking voice, this time with a suspicion of pleading in it.
Antony went towards the gate. A great key was sticking in the iron lock. He took hold of it and found it needed the strength of both his hands to turn. Then he flung the gate wide open. The figure moved slowly through the gate, and into the full sunshine.
“Antony,” she said smiling.
“You! You at last!” he cried.
And he woke, to find he had cried the words aloud. He sat up in bed. A white pigeon was on the sill outside his window, tapping with its beak on the glass.
Of course it was an entirely trifling incident, and probably he was superstitious to attach any real importance to it. Nevertheless it had a very marked influence on his spirits.
Doubtless it was as well it had, since about this time a certain happening occurred, which, though it did not precisely depress him, most assuredly caused him considerable anger and indignation.
In spite of the somewhat hermit-like life he led, he nevertheless had something of an acquaintance with his fellow-creatures. Among these fellow-creatures there was one, Job Grantley, a labourer on the home farm, possessed of a pretty, rather fragile wife, and a baby of about three months old. Antony had a kindly feeling for the fellow, and often they exchanged the time of day when meeting on the road, or when Job chanced to pass Antony’s garden in the evening.