The Happy Man/Chapter 3
III
Presently, as the observer at the gate neither entered nor retired, Mrs. Vernon turned questioningly to her daughter. Beryl smiled her own mystification and shook her head. If the man saw them, he paid them no heed. He only puffed at his pipe and slowly, contemplatively, gazed over the house and about the garden before him. The dog laid himself down on the gravel and apparently went to sleep.
“He certainly isn't a tramp,” said Mrs. Vernon softly. “And—and from this distance he seems quite good-looking. Beryl, I scent a romance!”
“If you don't behave, I shall telegraph Papa to come home instantly,” replied Beryl, with a murmured laugh. “He has a pack on his back, hasn't he? Perhaps he has laces and spools of cotton and things to sell.”
Mrs. Vernon shook her head, still gazing intently. “I wish he had. A peddler would be absolutely exciting. But he isn't that. He—he looks like a gentleman, Beryl.”
“Some of them do, dear. There was the one who came here two years ago and sold Jennie a piece of edging and walked off with a brand-new wringer. Is he coming in?”
“Coming in? No, he has apparently gone to sleep there. You don't suppose he is—is intoxicated, do you?” Mrs. Vernon glanced nervously around, as though seeking to arm herself. Nothing, however, more formidable than a cuticle-knife presented itself to her gaze. At that moment the man at the gate gave the lie to the assumption that he was asleep, by removing the pipe from between his teeth, knocking the ashes from it, and returning it to his mouth.
“Perhaps,” murmured Mrs. Vernon, “I'd better send Perkins to see what he wants.”
“Nonsense, dear! He isn't doing any harm.”
“But—but I want to know!” declared Mrs. Vernon. “Besides, the apparition of a real man about the place is distinctly—well, exhilarating! Do you suppose we might invite him to luncheon, Beryl?”
“I've no doubt he'd appreciate it,” Beryl laughed. “He certainly isn't dressed like a tramp—nor a peddler. Those trousers are very well cut, and he wears puttees. I'll tell you what he is, Mamma: he's an artist. You know artists are absolutely irresponsible, dear; just the sort of folks to go to sleep over one's gate.”
“I believe he is! I'm very fond of artists, too. I think—yes, I think I'll go down and speak to him.”
“Mamma! Well, anyhow, don't ask him to luncheon, will you? Artists always have terrible appetites, and I'm not sure that we have enough to satisfy him. Shall I go along to protect you?”
“No, he is my discovery, Beryl. Hands off! But you might just—just sort of watch things, dear. If he tries to get in, please ring for Perkins.” And Mrs. Vernon, unconsciously patting her hair, stepped down onto the grass and turned toward the walk. Beryl followed her smilingly with her eyes.
“Poor Mamma!” she thought. “I suppose I have been selfish.”
The stranger apparently did not sense Mrs. Vernon's approach until her footsteps, inaudible on the grass, crunched the gravel of the front path. Then, bringing his gaze slowly down from the upper story of the house, he saw her, and lifted the cap from the back of his head, bowing so—well, so hospitably over the gate that for an instant the absurd delusion held her that she and not he was the intruder! If she had expected him to withdraw with a proper show of confusion, she was doomed to disappointment, for he only watched her approach with a sort of eager tranquillity. And then, just when she was parting her lips to ask him if there was anything she could do for him, he spoke.
“Madam,” he said, cap in hand, “I thank you. You demonstrate the truth of one of my favorite theories.”
Mrs. Vernon gasped. “Bless the man!” she exclaimed. “What's he talking about?”
“I beg your pardon,” he laughed. “It is a failing of mine, I fear, to begin a conversation in the middle. But, after all, preliminaries are usually tiresome, don't you think?”
“Preliminaries? Theories?” She observed him bewilderedly. “Are you quite sane, sir?”
“I hope not,” he replied soberly, with, however, a twinkle in his eyes. “I've always found absolute, uncompromising sanity to be deadly dull.”
Mrs. Vernon smiled doubtfully. “Perhaps; but—I fear I don't quite understand your cause for gratitude.”
“I have always held that a dwelling should reflect the personality of its owner. Don't you think that reasonable?”
“If you say should and not does,” replied the lady. “But in what way, if you please, have I—I believe you said demonstrated”
“Yes. You see, I had been for some time observing your house, admiring it, finding it, in fact, utterly congruous, distinctly charming. And then, at the very moment I reached my verdict, you appeared. In gratitude for having my theory so admirably justified, I thanked you.”
Mrs. Vernon blinked. “I—my dear man, is that intended for a compliment?”
“Would it not be a waste of breath to pay a compliment to a house?” he asked with a smile.
“Oblige me, please, by putting your hat on,” said the lady, a trifle severely. “If what I suspect is really the case, you are in danger of aggravating your trouble by remaining bareheaded.”
The stranger smiled. “I am, madam, neither a lunatic nor a victim to sunstroke. I am merely a—a would-be tenant searching for a house.”
“Then I fear you are wasting your time about Alderbury. To my certain knowledge, there are no houses for rent here. As you see, it is only a settlement, hardly even a village, and”
“I should perhaps explain that I am not looking for just any house, madam, but for a particular house. And, since I find Alderbury very pleasing, I was hoping to discover my house somewhere about here.”
“Am I to understand that the house is already your property?” asked Mrs. Vernon puzzledly.
“By no means. I have never seen it. I am still searching for it. You see before you a wanderer in search of a home. I might say”—he turned to glance at the dog beside him—“I might say two wanderers in search of a home. The house I am looking for is a small white house with green blinds. It stands a little way back from the road”—his gaze traveled past Mrs. Vernon and rested upon the cottage—“and looks over the top of a hedge, with friendly windows.” He glanced approvingly at the hedge. “In front there are beds of flowers bordered with box.” He looked down and nodded his satisfaction. “At one side”—and his glance turned toward the enclosed garden—“there is a sunny tangle of flowers—old- fashioned flowers such as heliotrope and bleeding-heart and alyssum and hollyhocks and—and”—he craned his head a little—“Canterbury bells. The garden is filled with the song of birds and the drone of bees, and in it stands—” He faltered, stopped. A puzzled look came into his face. He turned to Mrs. Vernon almost accusingly: “Where, Madam, is the dove-cot?”
“The dove-cot?”
“In the garden, yes. I don't see it. It should have honeysuckle climbing about it.”
Mrs. Vernon viewed the garden blankly and then the man, and there was a note of apology in her voice as she stammered:
“There isn't any dove-cot!” Then, impatient with herself for the momentary sense of dereliction, she added with asperity, “Besides, I don't see that it matters, sir, as this place is not for sale.”
“Oh!” He spoke regretfully. “Then it is not called 'Heart's Content'?”
“It is not. It isn't called anything.”
The stranger made no reply for a moment. His gaze roamed again about house and garden, and finally traveled back to Mrs. Vernon. He sighed. “I feared it was not the place,” he said, “when I noted the absence of the dove-cot. I am sorry. It is a very lovely place and” He paused, his eyes going back to the cottage. “You are quite certain that it is not called 'Heart's Content'?”
“Bless the man! Don't you suppose I know the name of my own house?” demanded Mrs. Vernon.
“Yes?” he replied, gravely interested. “And the name is”
“It hasn't any.” Mrs. Vernon's voice sounded ludicrously flat.
The stranger smiled. “Ah, you see, then, you don't know! And so perhaps it is 'Heart's Content,' after all, and the place I am looking for.” But there was a want of assurance in his tone which was explained when he added dejectedly, “Were it not for the fact that the dove-cot is missing” Then he brightened. “But perhaps it has been taken down, stored away somewhere,” he suggested eagerly.
“Nonsense! There never was a dove-cot, and it is not called 'Heart's Content,' and”
“I believe you are right,” returned the man. “It is not 'Heart's Content.' Pray pardon my stupidity. But you are wrong, Madam, in saying that it has no name.”
“Well, really—” began Mrs. Vernon.
“It's name is 'Solana.'”
The stranger removed his cap, bowed smilingly, and went on along the road. At his heels plodded the dog.