Part 18 (1/2)

He felt a queer bitterness towards his work, a bitterness towards the garden and the big grey house, and most particularly towards the man who had lived in it, and who was responsible for his present unhappiness. He had none towards the d.u.c.h.essa. But then, after all, he appeared in her eyes as a fraud, the thing of all others he himself most detested. He could not possibly blame her for her att.i.tude in the matter. Yet all the time, he had a queer feeling of something like remorse for his present bitterness; it was almost as if the garden and the very flowers themselves were reproaching him for it, reminding him that they were not to blame. And then a little incident suddenly served to dispel his gloom, at all events in a great measure.

It was a slight incident, a trivial incident, merely an odd dream.

Nevertheless, having in view its oddness, and--unlike most dreams--its curious connectedness, also its effect on Antony's spirit, it may be well to record it.

He dreamt he was walking in a garden. He knew it was the garden of Chorley Old Hall, though there was something curiously unlike about it, as there often is in dreams. The garden was full of flowers, and he could smell their strong, sweet scent. At one side of the garden--and this, in spite of that curious unlikeness, was the only distinctly unlike thing about it--was a gate of twisted iron. He was standing a long way from the gate, and he was conscious of two distinct moods within himself,--an impulse which urged him towards the gate, and something which held him back from approaching it.

Suddenly, from another direction, he saw a woman coming towards him.

Recognition and amazement fell upon him. She was the same small girl he had played with in his boyhood, and whose name he could not remember, but grown to womanhood. She came towards him, her fair hair uncovered, and s.h.i.+ning in the suns.h.i.+ne.

As she reached him she stood still.

”Antony,” she cried in her old imperious way, ”why don't you go to the gate at once? She is waiting to be let in.”

”Who is waiting?” he demanded.

”Go and see,” she retorted. And she went off among the flowers, turning once to laugh back at him over her shoulder.

Antony stood looking after her, till she disappeared in the distance.

Then he went slowly towards the gate. As he came near it, he saw a figure standing outside. But he could not see it distinctly, because, curiously enough, though the garden was full of suns.h.i.+ne, it was dark outside the gate, as if it were night.

”Who are you?” asked Antony.

The figure made no reply.

”What do you want?” he asked.

Still the figure made no reply.

Antony felt his heart beating quickly, madly. And then, suddenly from a distance behind him, he heard a gay mocking voice.

”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 suns.h.i.+ne.

”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 gla.s.s.

Of course it was an entirely trifling incident, and probably he was superst.i.tious 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 a.s.suredly caused him considerable anger and indignation.