Chapter II: How Antony Happened to Be There

Antony Blake--or Frank Antony Blake, to give him the benefit of his full tally--was the only son and heir-apparent of Squire Blake of Manby Hall, a fine old mansion away down in Devonshire; thousands of acres of land--no one seemed to know how many--rolling fields of meadow-lands divided by hedgerows and waving grain, woods and wolds, lakes and streams, and an upland of heath and fern that lost itself far away on the nor'-western horizon.

The mansion itself, situated on a green eminence in the midst of the well-treed old park, was one of the stately homes of England; and though antique enough to be almost grim--as if holding in its dark interior the secrets of a gloomy or mayhap tragic past--it was cheerful enough in summer or winter; and from its big lodge-gates, all along its gravelled avenues, the wheel-marks bore evidence that Manby Hall was by no means deserted nor the squire very much of a recluse.

The gardens of this mansion were large enough to lose one's self in, silent save for the song of birds, with broad green walks, with bush and tree and flower, and fountains playing in the centre of ponds only and solely for the sake of the waterfowl or the gold and silver fish that hid themselves from the sunshine beneath the green, shimmering leaves of lordly floating lilies, orange and white.

A rural paradise was Manby Hall. Acres of glass too, a regiment of semi-silent gardeners, and a mileage of strong old walls around that were gay in springtime and summer with creeping, climbing, trailing flowers of every shape and shade.

If there was a single grim room in all this abode it was the library, where from tawny, leather-bound shelves the mighty tomes of authors long dead and gone frowned down on one, as one entered through the heavily draped doorways.

Whisper it! But Antony was really irreverent enough to say one day to a friend of his that this solemn and classic library was a jolly good billiard-room spoiled.

Anyhow, it was in this room that Frank Antony found himself one morning. He had been summoned hither by his father.

The squire was verging on fifty, healthy and hard in face, handsome rather, with hair fast ripening into gray.

'Ha, Frank, my boy! come forward. You may be seated.'

'Rather stand, dad. Guess it's nothing too pleasant.'

'Well, I sent for you, Frank'----

'And I'm here, dad.'

'Let me see now. You're eighteen, aren't you?'

'I suppose so, sir; but--you ought to know,' replied Antony archly.

'I? What on earth have I to do with it? At least, I am too busy a man to remember the ages of all my children. Your mother, now, might; but then your mother is a woman--a woman, Frank.'

'I could have guessed as much, dad. But as for "all" your children, father, why, there are only Aggie and I. That comprises the whole lot of us; not very tiresome to count, I reckon.'

'There! don't be quizzical, boy. I sent for you--er--I sent for you to--to'----

'Yes, father, sent for me to--to'----

'I wish you to choose a career, you young dog. Don't stand there and to--to at me, else I'll--I don't know what I mightn't do. But stand down, sir--I mean, sit down--and you won't look so precious like a poacher.'

Antony obeyed.

'You see, lad, I have your interest at my heart. It is all very well being an athlete. You're a handsome young fellow too--just like me when I was a young fellow. Might marry into any county family. But cricket and football and rowing stroke aren't everything, Frank, and it is high time you were looking ahead--choosing your career. Well, well,' continued the squire impatiently, 'have you nothing to say?'

'Oh yes,' cried Frank Antony, beaming now. 'I put that filly at a fence to-day, father, and'----

'Hang the filly! I want you to choose a career; do you hear?'

'Yes, father.'

'Well, I'm here to help you all I can. Let us see! You're well educated; too much so for the Church, perhaps.'

'Not good enough anyhow, dad, to wear a hassock. Whew! I mean a cassock.'

'Well, there are the civil and the diplomatic services.'

Antony shook an impatient head.

'And you're too old for the army. But--now listen, Frank. I expect your eyes to gleam, lad, when I mention the term: a parliamentary career! Think of it, lad; think of it. Just think of the long vista of splendid possibilities that these two words can conjure up before a young man with the blood of a Blake in his veins.'

Frank Antony did not seem at all impressed; not even a little bit.

'I'm afraid, father, I'm a lazy rascal,' he said, almost pitying the enthusiasm which he himself could not appreciate. 'I'm not so clever as my dear old dad, and I fear the House would bore me. Never could make a speech either, so'----

'Speech!' roared the squire, 'why, you'll never be asked to. They wouldn't let you. They'd cough you down, groan you down, laugh you down. Besides, clever men don't make speeches nowadays--only the fools.'

Young Antony suppressed a yawn.

'Very good, my boy, very good!'--his dad was shaking hands with him--'and I honour you for your choice. And I'm of precisely the same opinion. There's nothing like a seat in the House.'

'Rather have one on the hillside though, daddy, all among the grouse.'

His father didn't hear him.

'And now, Frank, I'm not an ordinary father, you know; and, before entering the House, I don't see in the least why you shouldn't have your fling for a year or two. I maintain that all young fellows should have their fling. A hundred years or so agone I had my fling. Look at me now. Am I any the worse? Well, I've just put a bit in the bank for you, lad, so go and do your best.'

Frank was laughing merrily.

He put his hand in what he called his rabbit-pocket and handed out a book: _The Gamekeeper at Home_. 'That is my lay, dad,' he said. 'I only want to potter around and fish and shoot, or hunt in season. Don't like London. Hate Paris. Not at home in so-called society. I'll just have my fling in my own humdrum fashion, daddy, thank you all the same. I'll have my fling, depend upon it.'

The young man was smiling to himself at some recollection.

'What is it, Frank?'

'Only this, dad. The black keeper--Tim, you know--weighs two hundred and twenty pounds. The other day he was stronger than I. I threw him last eve--Cumberland. This morning I lifted him with my left and landed him on the west side of the picket-fence. How's that for a fling, daddy?'

'Go on, you young rogue. Listen, I hear Aggie calling you!'

'Oh, but you listen to me, father. I really don't see enough life down here.'

'Well, there's London, my lad. London for life!'

'No, no! For the next few months, with your permission, I'm going to live a life as free as a swallow's. I'm going on the road in my own house-upon-wheels. I'll see and mingle with all sorts of society, high and low, rich and poor. I'll be happy in spirit, healthy in body, and by the time I come back my mind will be quite a storehouse of knowledge that will better fit me for Parliament than all the lore in this great library, father.'

'You're going to take up with gipsies, Frank?'

'Be a sort of gip myself, daddy.'

'Bother me, boy, if there isn't something really good in the idea. But how are you going to set about it? Build a caravan for yourself?'

'Not build one, father. Nat Biffins Lee--a scion of the old, old gipsy Lee, you know--owns a real white elephant'----

'Bless my soul! is the lad going mad? You don't mean seriously to travel the country with a real white elephant, eh?'

'You don't understand, daddy. This Nat Lee has a splendid house-upon-wheels which belonged to the Duchess of X---- She went abroad, and Lee has bought it. But as it needs three powerful horses to rattle it along, it is quite a white elephant to Nat. So I'm going up north to Loggiemouth in Nairnshire, and if I like it I'll buy it. Is it all right?'

'Right as rain in March, boy. Go when you like.'

'Coming, Aggie; coming.'

* * * * *

Deprived of its detail, this is pretty much the story that Antony Blake told Lotty Lee that autumn night as they sat together eating chocolates on the big white stone on Whinny Moor.

And that is how Antony happened to be there.