VIII
Tatham had to open the gate of Threlfall Park for himself. The lodgebeside it, of the same date and architecture as the house, had longceased to be inhabited. The gate was a substantial iron affair, andcarried a placard, peremptorily directing the person entering to close itbehind him. And on either side of it, the great wall stretched away withwhich, some ten years before this date, Melrose, at incredible cost, hadsurrounded the greater part of his property, in consequence of a quarrelwith the local hunt, and to prevent its members from riding over hisland.
Tatham, having carefully shut the gate, rode slowly through the park,casting a curious and hostile eye over the signs of parsimonious neglectwhich it presented. Sheep and cattle were feeding in part of it; part ofit was standing for hay; and everywhere the fences were ruinous, and theroads grass-grown. It was, Tatham knew, let out to various small farmers,who used it as they pleased. As to the woods which studded it, "the manmust be a simple fool who could let them get into such a state!" Tathamprided himself hugely on the admirable forestry with which the largetracts of woodland in his own property were managed. But then he paid aproper salary to a trained forester, a man of education. Melrose's woods,with their choked and ruined timber, were but another proof that a miseris, scientifically, only a species of idiot.
Only once before in his life had he been within the park--on one of thehunts of his boyhood, the famous occasion when the fox, started on theother side of the river, had made straight for Threlfall, and, the gateclosing the private foot-bridge having been, by a most unusual chance,left open, had slipped thereby into the park, with the hounds in full cryafter him. The hunt had momentarily paused, and then breaking loose fromall control had dashed through the yard of the Home Farm in joyouspursuit, while the enraged Melrose, who with Dixon and another man hadrushed out with sticks to try and head them back, had to confine himselfand his followers to manning the enclosure round the house--impotentspectators of the splendid run through the park--which had long remainedfamous in Cumbrian annals. Tatham was then a lad of fourteen, mounted onone of the best of ponies, and he well remembered the mad gallop whichhad carried him past the Tower, and the tall figure of its furiousmaster. The glee, the malicious triumph of the moment ran through hispulses again as he thought of it.
A short-lived triumph indeed, as far as the hunt was concerned; for thebuilding of the ten-foot wall had followed, and Melrose's final breachwith the gentry of his county. Never since had Tatham set foot in theOgre's demesne; and he examined every feature of it with the most livelyinterest. The dilapidated buildings of the Home Farm reminded him of alawsuit brought by a former tenant against his landlord, in which a storyof mean and rapacious dealing on the part of Melrose, toward a decentthough unfortunate man, had excited the disgust of the whole countryside.Melrose had never since been able to find a tenant for the farm, and thebailiff he had put in was a drunken creature whose mismanagement of itwas notorious. Such doings by a man so inhumanly shrewd as Melrose inmany of his affairs could only be accounted for by the combination in himof miserly dislike of spending, with a violent self-will. Instances,however, had been known when to get his own way, or gain a sinisteradvantage over an opponent, Melrose had been willing to spendextravagantly.
After passing the farm, Tatham pressed on eagerly, expecting the firstsight of the house. The dense growth of shrub and creeper, which had beenallowed to grow up around it, the home according to the popular legend ofuncanny multitudes of owls and bats, tickled imagination; and Tatham hadoften brought a field-glass to bear upon the house from one of theneighbouring hills. But as he turned the last corner of the drive he drewup his horse in amazement.
The jungle was gone--! and the simple yet stately architecture of thehouse stood revealed in the summer sunshine. In the west wing, indeed,the windows were still shuttered, and many of them overgrown with ivy;but the dingy thickets of laurel and yew were everywhere shorn away; andto the east all the windows stood free and open. Moreover, two men wereat work in the front garden, clearing the flagged paths, traced in theeighteenth century, from encumbrance, and laying down turf in a greencircle round one of the small classical fountains that stood on eitherside of the approach.
"What on earth is the old villain up to now?" was the natural comment ofthe surprised Tatham.
Was it simply the advent of a guest--an invalid guest--that had wroughtsuch changes?
One of the gardeners, seeing him as he approached the gate, came runningup to hold his horse. Tatham, who knew everybody and prided himself onit, recognized him as the son of an old Duddon keeper.
"Well, Backhouse, you're making a fine clearance here!"
"Aye! It's took us days, your lordship. But we're about through wi' thisside, howivver." He pointed to the east wing.
"One can see now what a jolly old place it is," said Tatham, pausing inthe gateway to survey the scene.
Backhouse grinned responsively.
"I do believe, my lord, Muster Melrose hissel' is pleased. He stood alang while lookin' at it this morning, afore he started oot."
"Well, no one can deny it's an improvement!" laughed Tatham, as he walkedtoward the house.
Dixon had already opened the door. Slave and factotum of Melrose as hewas, he shared the common liking of the neighbourhood for young LordTatham. Two of his brothers were farmers on the Duddon estate; and oneof them owed his recovery from a dangerous and obscure illness to thefact that, at the critical moment, Tatham had brought over a specialistfrom Leeds to see him, paying all expenses. These things--and othersbesides--were reflected in the rather tremulous smile with which Dixonreceived the visitor.
"Mr. Faversham expects me?"
"Aye, aye, my lord." The old man quickly led the way through the fronthall, more quickly than Tatham's curiosity liked. He had time to notice,however, the domed and decorated ceiling, the classical mantelpiece, withits medallions and its pillars of Sienese marble, a couple of boldRenaissance cabinets on either side, and a central table, resting oncarved sphinxes, such as one might find in the _sala_ of a Venetianpalace.
But as they turned into the corridor or gallery Tatham's exclamationbrought Dixon to a halt. He faced round upon the young man, revealing aface that worked with hardly repressed excitement, and explained that thefurnishing and arrangement had been only completed that day. It had takenthem eight days, and Barclay's men were only just gone.
Tatham frankly expressed his surprise and admiration. The whole galleryand both of its terminal windows had now been cleared. The famous seriesof rose-coloured tapestries, of which Undershaw had seen the firstspecimens, had been hung at intervals throughout its length; and from thestores of the house had been brought out more carpets, more cabinets,mirrors, pictures, fine eighteenth-century chairs, settees, occasionaltables, and what not. Hastily as it had been done, the brilliance of theeffect was great. There was not, there could not be, the beauty thatcomes from old use and habit--from the ordered life of generations movingamong and gradually adapting to itself a number of lovely things. Tathambrought up amid the surroundings of Duddon was scornfully conscious ofthe bric-a-brac element in the show, as he stood contemplating Melrose'slatest performance. Nevertheless a fine taste had presided both at theoriginal selection of the things shown, and at the arrangement of them inthe stately gallery, which both harmonized and displayed them.
"There's not a thing yo' see, my lord, that hasna been here--i' thishouse--for years and years!" said Dixon, pointing a shaky finger atthe cabinets on either side. "There's soom o' them has been i' theirpacking-cases ever sin' I can remember, an' the carpets rolled up awdeep in dust. And there's not a thing been unpacked now i' the houseitsel', for fear o' t' dust, an' Mr. Faversham. The men carried it aw ooto' that door"--he pointed to the far western end of the gallery--"an'iverything was doon out o' doors, all t' carpets beaten an' aw, where Mr.Faversham couldna hear a sound. An' yesterday Muster Melrose and MusterFaversham--we browt him in his wheeled chair yo' unnerstan'--fixed up alot o' things together. We havna naile
d doon th' matting yet, for fearo't' noise. But Muster Faversham says noo he won't mind it."
"Is Mr. Faversham staying on some time?"
"I canno' say, my lord, I'm sure," was the cautious reply. "But they dosay 'at he's not to tak' a journey for a while yet."
Tatham's curiosity was hot within him, but his very dislike of Melroserestrained him from indulging it. He followed Dixon through the galleryin silence.
There was no one in the new sitting-room. But outside on some newly laidgrass, Tatham perceived the invalid on a deck chair, with a table holdingbooks and cigarettes beside him.
Dixon had departed. Faversham offered cigarettes.
"Thank you," said Tatham, "I have my own."
And he produced his case with a smile, handing it to Faversham.
"A drink?"
Tatham declined again. As he sat there smoking, his hat on the back ofhis head, and his ruddy, good-humoured face beaming on his companion, itdid not occur to Faversham that Tatham was thereby refusing the "salt" ofan enemy.
"They'll bring some tea when Mrs. and Miss Penfold come," said Faversham.
Tatham nodded, then grinned irrepressibly.
"I say! I told Miss Penfold she'd find you in 'piggery.'"
Faversham's dark face showed a certain discomposure. Physical delicacyhad given a peculiar distinction to the gaunt black and white of hiseyes, hair, and complexion, and to the thinness of his long frame, sothat Tatham, who would have said before seeing him that he rememberedhim perfectly, found himself looking at him from time to time insurprise. As to his surroundings, Faversham appeared not only willing butanxious to explain.
"It's a queer business," he said frankly. "I can assure I you I neverasked for anything, never wished for anything of the sort. Everything wasarranged for me to go to Keswick--to a home there--when--this happened."
"When old Melrose broke out!" Tatham threw back his head and gurgled withlaughter. "I suppose you know that nobody but yourself has ever had biteor sup in this house for twenty years, unless it were some of thedealers, who--they say--come occasionally. What have you done to him?You've cast a spell on him!"
Faversham replied again that he had done nothing, and was as much puzzledas anybody.
"My mother was afraid you would be anything but comfortable," saidTatham. "She knows this gentleman of old. But she didn't know your powersof soothing the savage breast! However, you have only to say the word,and we shall be delighted to take you in for as long as you like."
"Oh, I must stay here now," said Faversham decidedly. "One couldn't beungrateful for what has been done. But my best thanks to Lady Tatham allthe same. I hope I may get over to see her some day."
"You must, of course. Dixon tells me there is a carriage coming--perhapsa motor; why not!"
A flush rose in Faversham's pale cheek.
"Mr. Melrose talked of hiring one yesterday," he said, unwillingly. "Howfar are you?"
They fell into talk about Duddon and the neighbourhood, avoiding anyfurther discussion of Melrose. Then Faversham described his accident, andspoke warmly of Undershaw, an occupation in which Tatham heartily joined.
"I owe my life to him," said Faversham; adding with sudden sharpness, "Isuppose I must count it an advantage!"
"That would be the common way of looking at it!" laughed Tatham. "Whatare you doing just now?"
"Nothing in particular. I am one of the large tribe of brieflessbarristers. I suppose I've never given enough of my mind to it. The factis I don't like the law--never have. I've tried other things--fatal, ofcourse!--but they haven't come off, or at least only very moderately.But, as you may suppose--I'm not exactly penniless. I have a fewresources--just enough to live on--without a wife."
Tatham felt a little awkward. Faversham's tone was already that of a manto some extent disappointed and embittered.
"You had always so much more brains than the rest of us," he saidcordially. "You'll be all right."
"It's not brains that matter nowadays--it's money. What do you get bybrains? A civil service appointment--and a pension of seven hundred ayear. What's the good of slaving for that?"
Faversham turned to his companion with a smile, in which however therewas no good-humour. It made Tatham disagreeably conscious of his ownwealth.
"Well, of course, there are the prizes--"
"A few. So few that they don't count. A man may grind for years, and getpassed over or forgotten--just by a shave--at the end. I've seen thathappen often. Or you get on swimmingly for a while, and everybodysupposes you're going to romp in; and then something crops up you neverthought of. Some boss takes a dislike to you--or you make a mistake, andcut your own throat. And there you are--pulled!"
Tatham was silent a moment, his blunt features expressing somebewilderment. Then he said--awkwardly:
"So you don't really know what you're going to take up?"
Faversham lit another cigarette.
"Oh, well, I have some friends--and some ideas. If I once get a foothold,a beginning--I daresay I could make money like other people. Every idiotone meets seems to be doing it."
"Do you want to go into politics--or something of that kind?"
"I want to remain my own master, and do the things I want to do--and notthe things I must do," laughed Faversham. "That seems to me the dividingline in life--whether you are under another man's orders or your own. Andbroadly speaking it's the line between poverty and money. But you don'tknow much about it, old fellow!" He looked round with a laugh.
Tatham screwed up his blue eyes, not finding reply very easy, and notcertain that he liked the "old fellow," though their college familiarityjustified it. He changed the subject, and they fell into some gossipabout Oxford acquaintances and recollections, which kept the conversationgoing.
But at the end of it the two men were each secretly conscious thatthe other jarred upon him; and in spite of the tacit appeal made byFaversham's physical weakness and evident depression to Tatham'sboundless good-nature, there had arisen between them at the end anincipient antagonism which a touch might develop. Faversham appeared tothe younger man as querulous, discontented, and rather sordidlyambitious; while the smiling optimism of a youth on whom Fortune hadshowered every conceivable gift--money, position, and influence--withoutthe smallest effort on his own part, rang false or foolish in the ears ofhis companion. Tatham, cut off from the county, agricultural, or sportingsubjects in which he was most at home, fumbled a good deal in his effortsto adjust himself; while Faversham found it no use to talk of travel,art, or music to one who, in spite of an artistic and literary mother andwonderful possessions, had himself neither literary nor artistic faculty,and in the prevailing manner of the English country gentleman, had alwaysfound the pleasures of England so many and superior that there was noneed whatever to cross the Channel in pursuit of others. Both were soonbored; and Tatham would have hurried his departure, but for the hopeof Lydia. With that to fortify him, however, he sat on.
And at last she came. Mrs. Penfold, it will easily be imagined, enteredupon the scene, in a state of bewildered ravishment.
"She had never expected--she could not have believed--it was like afairy-tale--a _real_ fairy-tale--wasn't the house _too_ beautiful--Mr.Melrose's _taste_!--and such _things_!" In the wake of this soft,gesticulating whirlwind, followed Lydia, waiting patiently with herbright and humorous look till her mother should give her the chance of aword. Her gray dress, and white hat, her little white scarf, a trifleold-fashioned, and the pansies at her belt seemed to Tatham's eager eyesthe very perfection of dress. He watched her keenly as she came in; thekind look at Faversham; then the start--was it, of pity?--for his alteredaspect, the friendly greeting for himself; and all so sweet, so detached,so composed. His heart sank, he could not have told why.
"I ought to have warned you of that hill!" she said, standing besideFaversham, and looking down upon him.
"You couldn't know I was such a duffer!" laughed Faversham. "It wasn'tme--it was the bike. At least, they tell me so. As for me, everyt
hing,from the moment I left you till I woke up here six weeks ago, is wipedout. Did you finish your sketch? Were the press notices good?"
She smiled. "Did you see what they were?"
"Certainly. I saw your name in one as I picked it out."
"I still sleep with it under my pillow--when I feel low," said Lydia. "Itsaid the nicest things. And I sold my pictures."
"Magnificent!" said Faversham. "But of course you sold them."
"Oh, no, Mr. Faversham, not 'of course'!" cried Mrs. Penfold, turninground upon him. "You can't think how Lydia was envied! Hardly anybodysold. There were friends of hers exhibiting--and it was dreadful. Thesecretary said they had hardly ever had such a bad year--something to dowith a bank breaking--or the influenza--or something. But Lydia, luckygirl, sold hers within the first week. And we don't know at all whobought them. The secretary said he was not to tell. There are manybuyers, he told us, who won't give their names--for fear of beingbothered afterward. As if Lydia would ever bother any one!"
The guilty Tatham sat with his cane between his knees twirling it, hiseyes on the ground. No one noticed him.
"And the sketch you were making that day?" said Faversham.
"As you liked it, I brought it to show you," said Lydia shyly. And sheproduced a thin parcel she had been carrying under her arm.
Faversham praised the drawing warmly. It reminded him, he said, of somework he had seen in March, at one of the Bond Street galleries; a one-manshow by a French water-colourist. He named him. Lydia flushed a little.
"Next to Mr. Delorme"--she glanced gratefully at Tatham--"he is the manof all the world I admire most! I am afraid I can't help imitating him."
"But you don't!" cried Faversham. "You are quite independent. I didn'tmean that for a moment."
Lydia's eyes surveyed him with a look of amusement, which seemed to saythat she was not at all duped by his compliment. He proceeded to justifyit.
"I'll tell you who do imitate him--"
And forthwith he began to show a remarkable knowledge of certain advancedgroups among the younger artists and their work. Lydia's face kindled.She listened; she agreed; she interrupted; she gave her view; it wasevident that the conversation both surprised and delighted her.
Tea came out, and, at Faversham's invitation, Lydia presided. The talkbetween her and Faversham flowed on, in spite of the girl's prettyefforts to make it general, to bring Tatham into it. He himself defeatedher. He wanted to listen; so did Mrs. Penfold, who sat in open-mouthedwonder at Lydia's cleverness; while Tatham was presently conscious of astrong discomfort, a jealous discomfort, which spoilt for him thisnearness to Lydia, and the thrill stirred in him by her movements andtones, her soft laugh, her white neck, her eyes....
Here, between these two people, Faversham and Lydia, who had only seeneach other for some ten minutes in their lives before, there seemed tohave arisen, at once, an understanding, a freemasonry, such as he himselfhad never reached in all his meetings with Lydia Penfold.
How had it come about? They talked of people, struggling people, to whomart was life, though also livelihood; of men and women, for whom nothingelse counted, beside the fascination and the torment of their work; Lydiaspeaking from within, as a humble yet devout member of the band;Faversham, as the keen spectator and amateur--not an artist, but thefrequenter of artists.
And all the time Lydia's face wore a happy animation which redoubled itscharm. Faversham was clearly making a good impression upon her, wasindeed set on doing so, helped always by the look of delicacy, the tracesof suffering, which appealed to her pity. Tatham moved restlessly in hischair, and presently he got up, and proposed to Mrs. Penfold that theyshould examine the improvements in the garden.
* * * * *
When they returned, Lydia and Faversham were still talking and stillabsorbed.
"Lydia, my dear," cried her mother, "I am afraid we shall be tiring Mr.Faversham! Now you must let Lord Tatham show you the garden--that's beenmade in a _week_! It's like that part in 'Monte Cristo,' where he ordersan avenue at breakfast-time, that's to be ready by dinner--don't youremember? It's _thrilling_!"
Lydia rose obediently, and Mrs. Penfold slipped into her seat. Lydia,strolling with Tatham along the rampart wall which crowned the sandstonecliff, was now and then uncomfortably aware as they passed the tea-tableof the soft shower of questions that her mother was raining uponFaversham.
"You really think, Mr. Faversham"--the tone was anxiously lowered--"thedaughter is dead?--the daughter _and_ the mother?"
"I know nothing!"
"She would be the heiress?"
"If she were alive? Morally, I suppose, not legally, unless her fatherpleased."
"Oh! Mr. Faversham!--but you would never suggest--"
Lydia came to the rescue:
"Mother, really we ought to ask for the pony-carriage."
Faversham protested, but Lydia was firm, and the hand-bell beside him wasrung. Mrs. Penfold flushed. She quite understood that Lydia thought itunseemly to be putting a guest through a string of questions about theprivate affairs of his host; but the inveterate gossip in her whimpered.
"You see when one has watched a place for months--and people tellyou such tales--and you come and find it so different--and so--sofascinating--"
She paused, her plaintive look, under her wistful eyebrows, appealing toFaversham to come to her aid, to justify her curiosity.
Suddenly, a sound of wheels from the front.
Lydia offered her hand to Faversham.
"I'm afraid we've tired you!"
"_Tired!_ When will you come to see me again?"
"Will it be permitted?" She laid a finger on her lip, as she glancedsmiling at the house.
He begged them to repeat their visit. Tatham looked on in silence. Thefigure of Lydia, delicately bright against the dark background of theTower, absorbed him, and this time there was something painful andstrained in his perception of it. In his first meeting with her thatday he had been all hopefulness--content to wait and woo. Now, as he sawher with Faversham, as he perceived the nascent comradeship between them,and the reason for it, he felt a first vague suffering.
A step approached through the sitting-room of which the door was open tothe terrace.
The two ladies escorted by Tatham moved toward the house expecting Dixonwith the announcement of their carriage.
A tall figure stood in the doorway. There was a checked exclamationfrom Tatham, and Faversham perceived to his amazement that it was notDixon--but--Melrose!
* * * * *
Melrose surveyed the group. Removing his old hat he bowed gravely to theladies. His flowing hair, and largely cut classical features gave him anApollonian aspect as he towered above the startled group, looking down onthem with an expression half triumphant, half sarcastic. Tatham was thefirst to recover himself. He approached Melrose with a coolness like hisown.
"You are back early, sir? I apologize for my intrusion, which will not beprolonged. I came, as you see, to inquire after my old friend, Mr.Faversham."
"So I understand. Well--what's wrong with him? Isn't he doing well--eh?Faversham, will you introduce me to your friends?"
Mrs. Penfold, so much shaken by the sudden appearance of the Ogre thatwords failed her, bowed profoundly; Lydia slightly. She was indignant forTatham. Mr. Melrose, having announced his absence for the day, ought notto have returned upon them by surprise, and his manner convinced her thatit had been done on purpose.
"They gave you tea?" said Melrose to Mrs. Penfold, with gruff civility,as he descended the steps. "Oh, we keep open house nowadays. You'regoing?" This was in answer to Tatham's bow which he slightlyacknowledged. "Good-day, good-day! You'll find your horse. Sorry you'reso hurried."
Followed by the old man's insolent eyes, Tatham shook hands withFaversham and the Penfolds; then without reentering the house, he took ashort cut across the garden and disappeared.
"Hm!" said Melrose, looking after him, "I can't say he
resembles hismother. His father was a plain fellow."
No one answered him. Mrs. Penfold nervously pressed for her carriage,throwing herself on the help of Dixon, who was removing the tea things.Melrose meanwhile seated himself, and with a magnificent gesture invitedthe ladies to do the same. Mrs. Penfold obeyed; Lydia remained standingbehind her mother's chair. The situation reminded her of a covey ofpartridges when a hawk is hovering.
Mrs. Penfold at once began to make conversation, saying the mostdishevelled things for sheer fright. Melrose threw her a monosyllable nowand then, reserving all his attention for the young girl, whose beauty heinstantly perceived. His piercing eyes travelled from Faversham to Lydiarepeatedly, and the invalid rather angrily divined the conjectures whichmight be passing in their owner's brain.
* * * * *
"How are you?" asked Melrose abruptly, when he returned from accompanyingthe Penfolds to the front door.
Faversham replied with some coldness. He was disgusted that Melroseshould have spoilt the final success of his little _festa_ by the breachof a promise he had himself volunteered.
But Melrose appeared to be in an unusually good temper, and he took nonotice. He had had considerable success that morning, it appeared, at anauction of some fine things at a house near Carlisle; having not onlysecured what he wanted himself, but having punished two or three of hismost prominent rivals, by bidding high for some inferior thing, excitingtheir competition, and then at the critical moment dropping it on thenose, as he explained it, of one of his opponents. "Wilson of York cameto me nearly in tears, and implored me to take some beastly pot or otherthat I had made him buy at a ridiculous price. I told him he might keepit, as a reminder that I always paid those out who bid against me. ThenI found I could get an earlier train home; and I confess I was curious tosee how young Tatham would look, on my premises. He did not expect that Ishould catch him here." The Ogre chuckled.
"You told me, if you remember," said Faversham, not without emphasis,"that I was to say to him you would not be at home."
"I know. But sometimes there are impulses--of different kinds--that Ican't resist. Of different kinds--" repeated Melrose, his glittering,absent look fixed on Faversham.
There was silence a little. Then Melrose said slowly, as he rose from hischair: "I have--a rather important proposition to make to you. Thatfellow Undershaw would attack me if I began upon it now. Moreover, itwill want a fresh mind. Will it suit you if I come to see you at eleveno'clock to-morrow?"