The book chanced to be Gautier"s _Emaux et Camees_, and Tilda to open it at the _Carnaval de Venise_--
"Il est un vieil air populaire Par tous les violons racle, Aux abois de chiens en colere Par tous les orgues nasille."
She read the first verse with a pure clear accent and paused, with a glance first at the hearth-rug, then at Sir Elphinstone in his chair.
Perhaps the sight of him stirred a small flame of defiance. At any rate she closed the book, went straight to the piano, and recklessly rattled out the old tune, at once so silly and haunting. Had she not heard it a thousand times in the old circus days?
Her eyes were on the keyboard. Hardly daring to lift them, she followed up the air with a wild variation and dropped back upon it again--not upon the air pure and simple, but upon the air as it might be rendered by a two-thirds-intoxicated coachful of circus bandsmen. The first half-a-dozen bars tickled Miss Sally in the midriff, so that she laughed aloud. But the laugh ended upon a sharp exclamation, and Tilda, still jangling, looked up as Sir Elphinstone chimed in with a "What the devil!" and started from his chair.
"Dolph was the cause of it. "Dolph at the first notes had lifted his head, un.o.bserved. Then slowly raising himself on his rheumatic fore-legs, the old dog heaved erect and waddled towards the piano.
Even so no one paid any heed to him until, halting a foot or so from the hem of Tilda"s skirt, he abased his head to the carpet while his hind-legs strained in a grotesque effort to pitch his body over in a somersault.
It was at this that Sir Elphinstone had exclaimed. Tilda, glancing down sideways across her shoulder, saw and checked a laugh. She understood.
She let her fingers rest on a crashing chord, and rose from the music-stool as the dog rolled over on his flank.
""Dolph! My poor old darling!"
She knelt to him, stretching out her arms. The candlelight fell on them, and on the sheen of her evening frock, and on the small dark curls cl.u.s.tering on the nape of her bowed neck; and by the same light "Dolph lifted his head and gazed up at her. That look endured for five seconds, perhaps; but in it shone more than she could remember, and more than she could ever forget--a life"s devotion compressed into one last leap of the flame, to expire only with life itself. As her hands went swiftly down to him, his tongue strove to lick them; but his head fell back, and his spirit went out into whatever darkness the spirits of dead dogs possess.
You know now why Tilda is not riding this morning, why she carries a spade on her shoulder, and why her face on this sunny morning wears a pensive shadow as she gazes back through the orchard trees. But "Dolph, the circus mongrel, sleeps among hounds of n.o.bler breed, and shall have a stone as honourable as any.
Now, if you were to look more closely, you might perceive a small stain of green on the front of the homespun skirt otherwise so trim, and might jump to the erroneous conclusion that before leaving the enclosure she had knelt to say a prayer over the snapping of this last tie with her old disreputable life. It is not precisely Christian, perhaps, to pray over a dog"s grave; but I am pretty sure that Parson Chichester, who has made some tentative openings towards preparing Tilda for Confirmation, would overlook the irregularity, and even welcome it as a foreshadowing of grace. But Parson Chichester is a discerning man, as well as an honest; and for some reason, although Tilda has long pa.s.sed the normal age to be prepared for that rite, he has forborne to press her as yet even to be baptised. It will all come in time, he hopes; but he has a queer soul to deal with.
--A queer soul, and (as he perceives) a self-respecting one. If she come to it, she will come in her own time. So let it be confessed, as a secret she would be extremely annoyed to hear revealed, that she did indeed kneel five minutes since, but with no thought of religion; to try rather, over "Dolph"s grave, if she could bend her body back in the old acrobatic trick.
She could not, of course. She had known that she could not even as-- with a glance around her to make sure she was un.o.bserved--she had made the effort. Time had taken away the old Tilda with the old "Dolph.
She was a girl grown, a girl with limbs firmed by outdoor sports and country living. And she had learnt much--so much, that to have learnt it she had necessarily forgotten much. You or I, meeting her this morning for the first time, had made no doubt of her being a young lady of rather exceptional breeding.
She looked back to the spot where "Dolph rested among dogs of loftiest race. She knew that Sir Elphinstone and Miss Sally were discussing her while they rode, and she could hear two words Sir Elphinstone let fall.
She repeated them to herself--"n.o.body"s child."
She did not remember that she had once thanked her G.o.ds for it.
The rural postman carried a bra.s.s cowhorn, and made a practice of sounding it as he mounted the road leading to Culvercoombe. Its note, sounding through the clear morning air, aroused Tilda from her brown study, and she ran lightly up the slope to catch him on the upper terrace.
He handed her the day"s mail--a dozen letters or more, and among them one addressed to her. In the whole world was but one handwriting that ever came for her; recognisable always, though with each post it grew firmer in character.
The envelope bore an Italian stamp and a Neapolitan postmark.
Arthur Miles was a midshipman now, soon to be a second-lieutenant; his ship, the _Indomitable_, attached to the Mediterranean fleet. She broke the seal. . . . The letter was a boyish one, full of naval slang, impersonal, the sort of letter growing boys write to their mothers.
But Arthur Miles had no mother; and if he wrote to his father, Tilda knew that he wrote more formally.
"We were sent up here," the letter said, "on getting word that Vesuvius meant to erupt badly, and that we might be useful. But the show seems to be hanging fire, and we may be ordered back to Malta at any moment.
Half a dozen of us made up a picnic yesterday, to have a look at the crater at close quarters. We cooked some eggs on it, to show our unconcern, and while we were cooking them up came an American, who had pitched camp in the foolhardiest spot. Guess why--to paint it!
Guess who he was--why, Jessup! Do you remember Jessup? He introduced himself, and I knew him at once; but he did not know me, and I did not enlighten him. He said that the Art of the Future must depend on the development of wireless telegraphy, and that in the meanwhile he was just marking time with earthquakes."
Tilda, having read thus far, looks up at the sound of horses" hoofs.
Miss Sally and Sir Elphinstone are returning from their ride.
"And, after all, why not?" Miss Sally is saying.
"The very mistake his father made!"
"h.o.m.oeopathy is one of my fads, remember."
"A n.o.body"s child!"
"True; and so would _he_ have been, but for her."