The Bond of Black

by William Le Queux

which is patronised by Her Majesty; a dinner at the LondonHouse at Nice, and one at the Hermitage at "Monty," and I become tiredof the ever-azure sea, of the Noah's Ark gardens, of the artificialityand of the constant brightness of the Riviera "season." I long for myold English home in the country where, in the springtime, all thebeauties of the outdoor world come to one with a sense of novelty afterthe winter's cold and frost.

  Therefore at the end of March I returned, passing through London, andtravelling down to my father's place at Tixover, which was, as always,my pleasant home.

  What though the trees were still leafless, and the flowers few; everyday, almost every hour, fresh green buds were swelling and opening inthe balmy air; the delicate pink of the almond blossom was flushing thebare twigs in the kitchen-garden, primroses were coyly showingthemselves in the coppices and hedgerows, as I drove along fromStamford, while in the sheltered places in the woods as I passed I sawsheets of wild hyacinths, "like strips of the sky fallen," delicatesnowdrops, and a wealth of daffodils.

  As I drove along that morning through Worthorpe and Colly Weston toDuddington, the quaint little old Northamptonshire village within a mileof which lies Tixover Hall, it was, though a trifle chilly after theRiviera, one of those bright days which make even the elderly feel youngand sprightly again; days on which even the saddest among us areinfluenced by the infectious brightness of the atmosphere. At no otherseason of the year is there that delicious sensation of life, ofresurrection in the very air, as the grey old earth awakens from herwinter sleep and renews her youth again.

  As the old bay mare trotted down the short, steep hill from thecross-roads, and Banks was telling me all the gossip of thecountryside--how my old friend Doctor Lewis, of Cliffe, had taken tocycling, how an entertainment had been held at the schools, and howsomebody in the Parish Council had been making himself obnoxious--wesuddenly entered Duddington, the queer old village with its rows ofcomfortable, old-fashioned cottages, with their attics peeping frombeneath the thatch. In the air was that sweet smell of burnt woodpeculiar to those peaceful Midland villages, and as we passed the inn,and turning, crossed the bridge which led out to the right to Tixover, acouple of villagers pulled their forelocks as a token of respect, I felttired after two days of incessant travelling, nevertheless there wasabout that old-world place a home-like feeling, for I had known it eversince I had known myself. Those elderly people who peered out of theircottage doors as we passed, and who gave me a merry, laughing greeting,had known me ever since the days when my nurse used to take me fordrives in the donkey-cart, while those broad, green meadows on eitherside of the wandering river had belonged to my family for generations.

  A mile away, along a straight road with gradual ascent, a belt of firscame into view, and away through the trees I could distinguish the old,red chimneys of the Hall, the house which for three centuries past hadbeen the residence of my ancestors. Then a few moments later, as weturned into the drive, our approach was heralded by the loud barking ofBruce and Nero, whose ferocity was instantly calmed when I alighted atthe door and met my mother at the foot of the great oak staircase.

  The old place, with its wide, panelled hall, its long, big rooms, itsantiquated furniture--rather the worse for wear perhaps--and its widehearths where wood fires were still burning, had an air of solidity andcomfort after the stuccoed and painted villa at Beaulieu, where thesalon with its gilt furniture was only large enough to hold four peoplecomfortably, and the so-called terrace was not much wider than theoverhanging eaves.

  Yes, Tixover was a fine old place, perhaps not architecturally sohandsome as many residences in the vicinity, yet my father, like hisfather and grandfather before him, did not believe in modernising itsinterior, hence it was entirely antique with genuine old oak of the timeof the first Charles,--queer old high-backed chairs, covered withtime-dimmed tapestry that had been worked by hands that had fallen todust in the days before the Plague devastated London. The olddiamond-panes set in lead were the same as in the turbulent days whenthe Roundheads assembled about Stamford and Cromwell camped outsideCliffe. There was everything one could desire at Tixover--fishing inthe river which ran through the grounds, shooting in those extensivewoods on the Stamford Road, hunting with the Fitzwilliam pack, whoseveral times in the season met at the cross-roads, a mile and a halfaway, while the roads, although a trifle hilly, were nevertheless almostperfect for cycling.

  But when a man has broken his home ties and lives in London, to returnto the home of his youth is only pleasant for a limited period. Tixoverwas a quiet, restful place, but after a month it generally became drearyand dull, and I usually left it with a sigh of relief, and returned toLondon eager to get back to my own chambers, my club, and the men Iknew. Why it was I could never tell. I suppose it is the same with allother men. To those who like town life the country is only tolerablefor a time, just as those who set out with a determination to liveabroad generally return after a year or so, wearied and homesick.

  I found life at home just as even and undisturbed as it had been sincemy sister Mary had married and I had left to live in London. My parentsaged but slowly, and were both still active, therefore I was warmlywelcomed, and as that evening I sat in the old familiar drawing-room,with its dingy paintings, its crackling wood fire, and its ratheruncomfortable chairs in comparison with my own soft saddlebag ones, Irelated how we had spent the season on the Riviera; of our excursions toGrasse and Aspremont, of my brother-in-law's luck in winning two zerosin succession, and of my own good fortune in being invited on a week'syachting trip around Corsica and back to Cannes. My parents wereinterested in all this, for they once used to go to Nice regularly toescape the winter, in the days before the Paillon was covered in or thepublic gardens were made. Now, however, they no longer went South,preferring, as they put it, the warmth of their own fireside.

  It was not surprising. To elderly people who are not in robust healththe long journey is fatiguing, while to the invalid "ordered abroad" byirresponsible doctors, the shaking up on the P.L.M. proves often thecause of sudden and fatal collapse.

  Of Muriel I had heard but little. I had written to her twice fromBeaulieu, and sent her an occasional box of flowers from one of thewell-known florists in Nice, yet her letters in return were merely briefnotes of thanks, and I feared that perhaps I had annoyed her by too longneglect. There seemed in her letters a tone of complaint which wasunusual; therefore, I began to reflect whether it would not be as wellto take a trip to town shortly, to see how Simes was keeping my rooms,and entertain her to the usual little dinner at Frascati's.

  In the days immediately succeeding my return to Tixover, I drove about agood deal, visiting various friends in the vicinity and making dutifulcalls upon my mother's friends. It was always my custom, too, to callupon some of my father's older tenants; the people who had been kind tome when I was a mischievous lad. I found that such informal visits,where I could drink a glass of fresh milk or homemade wine, were alwaysappreciated, and, truth to tell, I found in them some very pleasantreminiscences of my youth.

  One afternoon, when I came in from driving to Oundle, I found my mothertaking tea with a stranger, in the pleasant, old-fashioned drawing-room,the mullioned windows of which looked out upon a broad sweep ofwell-kept lawn, bounded by the river and the meadows beyond.

  "Ah! Here's Clifton!" my mother exclaimed as I entered, and at thatmoment the man who was sitting with her taking tea turned and faced me.

  "Let me introduce you. Mr Yelverton, our new curate--my son Clifton."

  "Why, Jack!" I cried, wringing his hand, "and it's actually you--aclergyman!" And I gazed at his clerical garb in blank amazement.

  "Yes, it's me," he answered cheerily. "I certainly didn't think that Ishould ever get an appointment in your country."

  "But how is it?" I cried, after I had explained to my mother how we hadbeen chums at Wadham.

  "I never thought you'd go in for the Church."

  "Nor did I," he admitted, laughing. "But I'm curate of Dudd
ington, andthis is my first visit to your mother. I had no idea that this was yourhome. There are many Cleeves, you know."

  He was a merry, easy-going fellow, this old college companion of mine, averitable giant in stature, fair, with a long, drooping moustache that acavalry officer might have envied, broad shouldered, burly, amagnificent type of an Englishman. As he stood there towering above me,he looked strangely out of place in his long, black coat and clericalcollar. An officer's uniform would have suited him better.

  I had left Oxford a couple of terms before he had, and on going abroadlost sight of him. He had been accredited by all as a coming man onaccount of his depth of learning. When I had last seen him, some sixyears before, he was living in Lincoln's Inn, and reading for the Bar.

  I referred to that occasion when we had met in the