Part 47 (1/2)

”More--more than you ought to afford, Lord Blackborough,” he replied evasively; ”I can't keep the expenses down as I should wish, even here.”

”Have you enough to go on with?”

”Plenty--but----”

”Then work out a scheme, please, for the other and have it ready against my return. And--and stop a bit! There is a place in Wales--I'll write it down--coming in to the market before long. Buy it in, furniture and all. And if the woman who is in charge--Martha's her name--wants to stop on--let her stop. I am off to--to India--for six months.”

CHAPTER XXIII

Did Ned Blackborough go to India, seeking dreams at the feet of some entranced immobile ascetic, hidden away even from the suns.h.i.+ne of the world under the shade of the bo-tree? Did he go to Algiers and seek for them in the desert among the pathless dunes, where every step is covered by the eternally-restless, eternally-recurring wind-writing of the sand ripples? Or remaining closer at hand did he, in some remote Cornish village seek to hear the secret of dreams that is told unceasingly in the roar and the hush of the sea? Or on the eternal snows, which dominate all Europe in its hurry and its hunt for gold, which look out with cold eyes on its civilisation, its culture, its crime, did he find what he sought hemmed in by calm glaciers, frozen, ice-bound?

The one would have served his purpose quite as well as another; that being the putting in of time in a manner which did not offend his sensibilities; for, as he told himself often, he was fast becoming a crank.

The world, as it was, did not amuse him very much; it seemed to him hopelessly vulgar, even in its highest ideals for individual success and individual culture.

Wherever he went, and as to that none but himself knew, he returned as usual, punctual to a day. It was early October therefore, when, a little thinner, considerably browner, he found himself walking down Accacia Road West, Blackborough, looking for No. 10, that being the address where he was told the Cruttendens lived.

He was going to see if Aura was happy. Viewed from the outside this appeared unlikely, for Accacia Road was not, so to speak, exhilarating, though it was broad and open enough, with the usual wide asphalt pavement at either side, and a rather new-looking well-swept road, all too large apparently for the requirements of the spa.r.s.e-wheeled traffic, in the middle. Possibly the inhabitants of the desirable residences, many of which were still to let, had contemplated being carriage people and had failed of their intention.

As it was, it had a distinctly desolate air. At intervals of some thirty feet upon the pavement stood little pollarded lime-trees, each apparently glued to and supported by yard-wide gratings of cast iron, encircled by the mystic legend ”Blackborough Munic.i.p.al Board.” The trees stood on their iron bases firmly, just as the green-shaving ones in the boxes of Dutch toys do on their wooden roundels, and Ned felt impelled by a desire to lift one up and set it down again skew-fas.h.i.+on, just out of the straight line, so as to break the interminable regularity which made him feel as if he must go on and on to the very end. And where that might be only Heaven knew; beyond mortal sight anyhow.

Then, mercifully, the very quaintness of that iron prison-window of a grating, between root and leaf, drew his thoughts away at a tangent, and he became immersed in an imaginary argument between them.

Between the white-feeling fibrelet, down in the darkness of Earth mother's breast, the small sightless seeker supplying the leaves with all things, and clamouring in return for the whisper of blue skies, fresh breezes, singing birds, and the smoke-dimmed foliage which had no tale to tell save of s.m.u.ts, tradesmen's carts, electric trams, and babies' perambulators.

It was the number on one of the gates, uniform in size, structure, and colour--which occurred, like the gratings, at regular intervals--that made him pause at last, and look curiously at the house beyond it.

Impossible!

It was frankly impossible that Aura, living there, could be happy; although, no doubt, it was what is called by auctioneers a ”most superior and desirable family residence.” Semi-detached, it had a carriage sweep belonging to both houses, which trended away from a gate with ”No. 10, Fernlea” upon it, past one bow-window, one front door, two bow windows, another front door, and a final bow-window to the further gate with its ”No. 11, Heatherdale.” Which was superfluous; the number or the name?

There was a butcher's trundle, with Hogg upon it in gold letters, standing at one gate, a butcher's trundle with Slogg upon it at the other; and as Ned Blackborough turned in, two butcher boys, each with flat baskets on their blue linen arms, pa.s.sed out from the little narrow green lattice-work doors, which filled up the s.p.a.ce between Fernlea on the one side and Heatherdale on the other, and the high garden walls which separated each couple of superior residences from their neighbouring couples. The boys took no notice of each other, being dignified rivals.

How could Aura be happy, thought Ned, in an environment where the only possibility of differentiating yourself from your neighbour was by employing Slogg instead of Hogg?

The door was opened to him by what is called a superior house-parlourmaid, a young person of lofty manners, frizzed hair, and much starch.

”Wot nyme?” she asked, superciliously.

”Lord Blackborough.”

Sudden awe left her hardly any voice for the necessary announcement, and she fled back precipitately to the kitchen. ”Cookie!” she exclaimed, sinking into a chair. ”Did you ever! Lord Blackborough, 'im as owns half the town an' is as rich as Crees' is--whoever Crees may be!--is in the parlor--such a real gent to look at too. And that ain't all. Missus called 'im 'Ned!' It's for all the world like that lovely tale in the _Penny Cupid_ I was reading last night in bed, only he was a h'earl.” Her pert eyes grew tender; she sighed.

”Did she now,” said Cookie, a lazy-looking, fat lump of a girl, much of the same type. ”Poor master! an' he, if you like, is a good-lookin'

fellar; but I always did say she wasn't no lady. She haven't any lace on her underclothes--at least none to speak of.”

Meanwhile, after her first glad incredulous cry of ”Ned,” Aura had hastily thrust away her work and risen.