Part 31 (1/2)

Antony was working in his front garden. It was a Sat.u.r.day afternoon, and a blazingly hot one. Every now and then he paused to lean on his spade, and look out to where the blue sea lay s.h.i.+ning and glistening in the sunlight.

It was amazingly blue, almost as blue as the sea depicted on the posters of famous seaside resorts, posters in which a bare-legged child with a bucket and spade, and the widest of wide smiles is invariably seen in the foreground. Certainly the designers of these posters are not students of child nature. If they were, they would know that a really absorbed and happy child is almost portentously solemn. It hasn't the time to waste on smiles; the building of sand castles and fortresses is infinitely too engrossing an occupation. A smile will greet the antic.i.p.ation; it is lost in the stupendous joy of the fact. But as smiles are evidently considered _de rigueur_ by the designers of posters, and as the mere antic.i.p.ation will not allow of the portrayal of the Rickett's blue sea, destined to hit the eye of the beholder, smiles and sea have--rightly or wrongly--to be combined.

Antony gazed at the sea, if not quite as blue as a poster sea, yet--as already stated--amazingly blue. Josephus lay on a bit of hot earth watching him, his nose between his forepaws, and quite exhausted after a mad and wholly objectless ten minutes' race round the garden.

Antony turned from his contemplation of the sea, and once more grasped his spade. Presently he turned up a small flat round object, which at first sight he took to be a penny. He picked it up, and rubbed the dirt off it. It proved to be merely a small lead disk, utterly useless and valueless; he didn't even know what it could have been used for. He threw it on the earth again, and went on with his digging. But it, or his action of tossing it on to the earth, had started a train of thought. It is extraordinary what trifles will serve to start a lengthy and connected train of thought. Sometimes it is quite interesting, arriving at a certain point, to trace one's imaginings backwards, and see from whence they started.

The disk reminded Antony of the coppers he had tossed to the child at Teneriffe. From it he quite unconsciously found himself reviewing all the subsequent happenings. They linked on one to the other without a break.

He hardly knew he was reviewing them, though they so absorbed his mind that he was totally unconscious of his surroundings, and even of the fact that he was digging. His employment had become quite mechanical.

He was so engrossed that he did not hear a step in the road behind him.

Josephus heard it, however, and gave vent to a faint whine, raising his head from between his paws. The sound roused Antony, and he turned.

His face went suddenly white beneath its bronze. The d.u.c.h.essa di Donatello was standing at the gate, looking over into the garden.

”Might I come in and rest a moment?” she asked. ”The sun is so hot.”

Antony could hardly believe his ears. Surely he could not have heard aright? But there she was, standing at the gate, most evidently waiting his permission to enter.

He left his spade sticking in the earth, and went to unfasten the gate.

Without speaking, he led the way up the little flagged path, and into the parlour.

The d.u.c.h.essa crossed to the oak settle and sat down. Slowly she began to pull off her long crinkly doe-skin gloves. Antony watched her. He saw the gleam of a diamond ring on her hand. It was a ring he had often noticed.

A picture of the d.u.c.h.essa sitting at a little round table among orange trees in green tubs flashed suddenly and very vividly into his mind.

”It is very hot,” said the d.u.c.h.essa looking up at him.

”Yes,” said Antony mechanically.

”Am I interrupting your work?” asked the d.u.c.h.essa.

Antony started.

”Oh, no,” he replied. And he sat down by the table, leaning slightly forward with his arms upon it.

”Do you mind my coming here?” she asked.

”I don't think so,” said Antony reflectively.

A gleam of a smile flashed across the d.u.c.h.essa's face. The reply was so Antonian.

There was quite a long silence. Suddenly Antony roused himself.

”You'll let me get you some tea, Madam,” he said.

Awaiting no reply, he went into the little scullery, where the fire by which he had cooked his midday meal was still alight. The kettle filled with water and placed on the stove, he stood by it, in a measure wishful, yet oddly reluctant to return to the parlour. Reluctance won the day. He remained by the kettle, gazing at it.

Left alone, the d.u.c.h.essa looked round the parlour. It was exceedingly primitive, yet, to her mind, curiously interesting. Of course in reality it was not unlike dozens of other cottage parlours, but it held a personality of its own for her. It was the room where Antony Gray lived.