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Page 18
Eastward, long slopes of herbage and drifts of azaleas--a glorious
harmony of gold, scarlet, and orange in June--sloped upwards to
larch woods; while the gardens of pleasure, watered by a little
trout stream, spread beneath the manor house, and behind it rose
hot-houses and the glass and walled gardens of fruit and vegetables.
To the south and west opened park and vale, where receded forest
and fallow lands, until the grey ramparts of the moor ascending
beyond them hemmed in the picture.
Sir Walter Lennox had devoted himself to the sporting side of the
estate and had made it famous in this respect. His father, less
interested in shooting and hunting, had devoted time and means to
the flower gardens, and rendered them as rich as was possible in
his day; while earlier yet, Sir Walter's grandfather had been more
concerned for the interior, and had done much to enrich and
beautify it.
A great terrace stretched between the south front and a balustrade
of granite, that separated it from the gardens spreading at a lower
level. Here walked Henry Lennox and sought Tom May. It was now
past eight o'clock on Sunday morning, and he found himself alone.
The sun, breaking through heaviness of morning clouds, had risen
clear of Haldon Hills and cast a radiance, still dimmed by vapour,
over the glow of the autumn trees. Subdued sounds of birds came
from the glades below, and far distant, from the scrub at the edge
of the woods, pheasants were crowing. The morning sparkled, and,
in a scene so fair, Henry found his spirits rise. Already the
interview with Mary's husband on the preceding night seemed remote
and unreal. He was, however, conscious that he had made an ass of
himself, but he did not much mind, for it could not be said that
May had shone, either.
He called him, and, for reply, an old spaniel emerged from beneath,
climbed a flight of broad steps that ascended to the terrace, and
paddled up to Henry, wagging his tail. He was a very ancient hero,
whose record among the wild duck still remained a worthy memory
and won him honour in his declining days. The age of "Prince"
remained doubtful, but he was decrepit now--gone in the hams and
suffering from cataract of both eyes--a disease to which it is
impossible to minister in a dog. But his life was good to him; he
still got about, slept in the sun, and shared the best his master's
dish could offer. Sir Walter adored him, and immediately felt
uneasy if the creature did not appear when summoned. Often, had
he been invisible too long, his master would wander whistling round
his haunts. Then he would find him, or be himself found, and feel
easy again.
"Prince" went in to the open window of the breakfast-room, while
Henry, moved by a thought, walked round the eastern angle of the
house and looked up at the oriel window of the Grey Room, where
it hung aloft on the side of the wall, like a brilliant bubble,
and flashed with the sunshine that now irradiated the casement.
To his surprise he saw the window was thrown open and that May,
still in his pyjamas, knelt on the cushioned recess within and
looked out at the morning.
"Good lord, old chap!" he cried, "Needn't ask you if you have slept.
It's nearly nine o'clock."
But the other made no response whatever. He continued to gaze far
away over Henry's head at the sunrise, while the morning breeze
moved his dark hair.
"Tom! Wake up!" shouted Lennox again; but still the other did not
move a muscle. Then Henry noticed that he was unusually pale, and
something about his unwinking eyes also seemed foreign to an
intelligent expression. They were set, and no movement of light
played upon them. It seemed that the watcher was in a trance.
Henry felt his heart jump, and a sensation of alarm sharpened
his thought. For him the morning was suddenly transformed, and
fearing an evil thing had indeed befallen the other, he turned to
the terrace and entered the breakfast-room from it. The time was
now five minutes to nine, and as unfailing punctuality had ever
been a foible of Sir Walter, his guests usually respected it. Most
of them were already assembled, and Mary May, who was just stepping
into the garden, asked Henry if he had seen her husband.
"He's always the first to get up and the last to go to bed," she
said.
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