# Aesop's Fable (Yates)

Extracted from The Windsor Magazine, Vol 66 1927, pp. 513–524. Accompanying illustrations may be omitted.
AESOP'S FABLE
By DORNFORD YATES Author of "Berry and Co.," "Jonah and Co.," "And Five Were Foolish," "Blind Corner," "The Stolen March," "Valerie French," etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY LINDSAY CABLE
WILLIAM RED SPENSER lived by his pen.
Neither of his grandfathers would have approved this calling, but theirs were the days of rent-rolls and fortunes invested in 'the funds,' and, since old orders change and the devil drives high and low, the son of fifty squires lived by his pen.
Had he cared to live in a city, to write more quickly, to study the public taste, he could have made more than he did: but the Red Spensers had never been townsmen, and the love of the countryside was in his blood. More. He came of a line of landlords that loved their land. An acre of his own, in the midst of which he could live, meant more to Spenser than ten times its worth in shares: and, since in post-war England such a life was beyond his means, he had bought a tiny estate in the foot-hills of the Pyrenees.
When his freehold had been paid for, his old English furniture installed and a pocket bed-chamber made into a decent bathroom, the owner of the old white-walled homestead had found himself poor indeed. Happily, however, he had a market for his work, and, before six months were over, he was abreast of his outlay and able to pay his way.
And now two years had gone by, and William Red Spenser, recluse, was doing well. The old house was in order, the little property flourished, the massive coach-house sheltered a serviceable car. The friends who declared that he was wasting his life paid him flying visits and went away less sure. There was a stable peacefulness about Piétat which was not of their world. The place and its pleasant master stuck in their minds, rose up before them like a proverb the comfortable wisdom of which is not to be denied.
Belinda Pomeroy, popularly supposed to get the most out of life, made no bones of her approbation.
"Rufus knows how to live. I get more satisfaction out of a day at Piétat than out of Ascot itself. Why? Because I get down to Nature. We're all on the wrong tack—Gadarene swine, if you like, rushing into the sea. But Rufus sees further. He sits right down in his castle and watches the crowd go by. He lives as men and woman were meant to live. But he ought to marry."
"He can't take a wife," said her husband, "out of the Gadarene swine. That would be a mésalliance."
"There must be others," said Belinda.
"There are. But they wouldn't suit Rufus. He buries himself alive, but he doesn't go rough."
This was most true.
When Spenser emerged from his kingdom,, he might have stepped out of his Club. Beyond a certain gravity of manner, solitude and simplicity left no mark upon the man. A handsome villa at Biarritz brought the Pomeroys thither twice in the year. When Spenser visited them, his clothes were faultless and his address was superb. As he danced at the Casino, nobody would have dreamed that his heart was in a fold of the foot-hills forty miles off.
"We're not Gadarene swine," said Belinda. "We may be Gadarenes, and I admit that we rush: but we don't rush quite so violently as the—the—as some do."
"True," said her husband, holding his glass to the light. "But, even so, can you reclaim a Gadarene? I can't see you dwelling at Piétat, brushing the sheep before breakfast and turning out after dinner to gather the slugs."
"I should love it," said Belinda. "Let's go to Biarritz next week."
"What, an' miss Goodwood?"
Mrs. Pomeroy hesitated. The raiment she had chosen for Goodwood was very fine.
"Of course," she said, "I'm afraid I'm in over the knees. Before we married, I had begun to rush. And now..."
Her husband drained his glass, rose to his feet and picked her up in his arms.
"I'm a born Gadarene," he said, "and I married the best of my kind. But for you, I should have been a Gadarene swine. And there you are. Rufus commands our admiration, but then and there we get off. And so, I'm afraid, my beauty, will everyone else. But I shouldn't trouble your head. Rufus is very happy and thinks far too much of my wife to look twice at another girl."
Belinda kissed him. Then she sighed contentedly.
"At least," she said, "he's only just twenty-nine. And we can always hope."
She could not know that at that very moment William Red Spenser was trying not to despair.
The man was standing in his courtyard, by the side of his well, frowning upon a fine cord, of which twenty inches were wet.
Water.
Piétat had but one well, and now, before the great drought, its springs were beginning to fail....
Spenser lifted his head and looked at the sky.
This was mercilessly blue: where the earth rose up to meet it, outline was blurred: distance was dancing, and the sun swaggered in the heaven, a heavy-handed monarch of all he surveyed.
Spenser looked again at the cord.
Less than two feet of water, instead of the normal six. There had always been six—always, no matter how much you drew. And this was July. Once the spring began failing, it would not rise again till the end of the year. If the drought were to end to-morrow, twenty inches of water would have to meet Piétat's needs for the next four months. Well, that would do—well enough. But, if the drought did not break, in another month the well would be dry as a bone. And then...
Spenser thought of his garden, his house, his handful of sheep; of the borders he had created, the turf he had slaved at, the bathroom he had installed. The nearest stream was three miles from where he stood. To have water brought thence would cost a little fortune: as like as not, no one would undertake to bring it so far: such water-carts as there were would be serving less distant farms.
It was a heart-breaking business.
Sitting in his study that evening, correcting some proofs, the man found his mind straying back to the Spanish well-digger's words.
"I cannot deepen this well, sir, for you are down to the rock. If one can go deep enough, one will come to another couche d'eau. That is abundant and will never give out. I have found it at Belet, seventeen miles from here. And I will dig a new well whenever you please. But I must be told where to dig."
When Spenser had spoken of diviners, the Spaniard had thrown up his hands.
"I know of three, sir, and I cannot recommend one. If I knew a good water-finder, I should never be out of work. But a failure is bad for me, too. It is about in a moment—in everyone's mouth. And no wells are dug for a twelvemonth, and I must go into the towns and dig their drains for my bread."
Before he went to his bed, Spenser walked in his garden and wondered what he had done.
His little home seemed like to be broken up. If the rain did not come, Piétat would have to be abandoned for three or four months. The house would have to be shut, the garden let go: the sheep would have to be sold, the servants dismissed. He would have to lodge himself somewhere, so that his work might go on. And, when December was in, he would start again—with a new, unspeakable curse hanging over his head.
There was no blinking the truth: the tenure he had thought so stable was depending upon the grin of a heathenish god. His first summer he had used little water: his second had been curiously wet: and this was his third....
The night was lovely. The perfect sky was sown with a million stars. There was no moon, but Spenser's practised eye could tell the points of the plot he loved so well—the whispering beechwood and the slope of the pasture beyond, the file of veteran poplars lining the road, the sweet-smelling avenue of limes. The house they kept lay, like a slumbering sovereign, amid its life-guard of oaks: the spire of its single turret attested the fairy-tale. The light from the study windows laid two dim paths upon the lawn: and owls were crying, and the exquisite scent of jasmin laded the cool night air.
These things were Spenser's fortune—his goose of the golden egg. And to-night he had no pleasure in them....
Water. Without water you could not go on.
Illustration: "The girl stood still, trembling. 'This is the place. Will you peg it? Between my feet.'"
A month of anxiety dragged by. The drought broke, and for three days the rain came down. Then the sun reascended his throne, like a giant refreshed. By the tenth day of August water was being sold.
Then came a note from Belinda, forty miles off.
Les Iles d'Or, Biarritz.
Dear Rufus,
We are here. Please come over on Tuesday and stay for at least two nights. We have a table for the opening of The Superbe. A thousand Gadarenes will be there, so come and rush down a steep place for once in a way.
Yours, Belinda.
The day Spenser left for Biarritz was very fine. There was not a cloud in the sky: what little wind there was sat in the East: and there were six inches of water in Piétat's well.
Miss Lettice Longwood was as bored as she looked.
She had been led to believe that the opening night of The Superbe would be worth attending. She would have attended it any way, but she had been misled. It was exactly the same as any other night anywhere else. The band was coloured and played the same tunes. The food was fairly good and worth about a tenth of its price. She had received the same favours in Boston six months before. The floor was far too crowded, and her dress was the best in the place. When she danced, all eyes were upon her: when she passed between the tables, conversation died down. Everything was exactly the same.
She had been 'the Longwood girl' for nearly five years. For the last three, certainly, she had carried all before her, wherever she went. It had never been very amusing, and now she was very bored.
She danced again listlessly. Very soon she would go home, or, perhaps, 'on somewhere'. It was only just three.
The music ended with a crash, and she found herself next to Belinda, whom she had met in Town.
"Good morning," said Mrs. Pomeroy. "I thought I had the best dress, but I see I was wrong."
"Thank you very much," said Miss Longwood. "May I come and see you one day?"
"Come to lunch on Friday, will you? Let me introduce Mr. Spenser—Miss Longwood. He's a hermit and a writer of books."
"He doesn't look either," said Miss Longwood. "But that, I believe, is the mode."
As a matter of form, Spenser asked for a dance.
The lady inclined her head.
"Shall we say the one after next?"
"If you please," said William Red Spenser.
As Belinda resumed her seat—
"I've introduced you," she said, "to 'the Longwood girl'. Don't fall in love with her, Rufus, because it's no go."
"I shouldn't think of doing such a thing," said Spenser. "She's undeniably lovely, But—well, I don't think I've ever seen apathy so pronounced."
"A Gadarene," said Ivan. "But she's rushed down so many steep places that now nothing short of a precipice shakes her up."
"That's so much surmise," said Belinda. "I imagine her life's been so easy that now at twenty-three she's got nothing left."
Both these conclusions were right—so far as they went. Lettice Longwood had been born with a golden spoon in her mouth: she would have been happy, had she been born beside a hedgerow. Her quality was her eagerness, and this had never been served. The world into which she was brought had always been at her feet. Her strongly desirous nature had never had anything to desire: her instinctive efforts to find the food it needed had exhausted all the resources of Vanity Fair.
Most women disliked her, as was natural: most men liked her very much. It was 'like' or 'dislike' always. You could not be indifferent to 'the Longwood girl'. The indifference was all on her side. She neither liked nor disliked: she did not care. Men fell in love with her beauty, but not with her mind. She never admitted them to that. Few tried to force an entry—she had the reputation of being unusually wise. Such as did try were lazily cross-examined and contemptuously dismissed. Occasionally a fool would believe that he had found favour in her eyes: his fall was invariably great. Lettice Longwood was a very hard case....
When Spenser came for his dance, he entered the field of observation and was curiously observed. People saw a tall well-built man, with the colour of health in his face, and hair that every woman would like to possess: a man with a pleasant manner, though something grave, with wide-set, steady grey eyes, a firm but kindly mouth and a resolute chin. They imagined, no doubt, that he was suppressing his pride. As a matter of fact, he was thinking of Piétat.
For a little the two danced in silence.
Then—
"You're a Red Spenser," said the girl.
The man inclined his head.
"How did you know?"
"By your hair," said Miss Longwood. "My grandfather once went to Daybreak, and he used to tell me of the portraits all with the same red-gold hair."
"That's right," said Spenser. "Daybreak has gone now, but I've six of the portraits here."
"Where?"
"At the hermitage, forty miles off."
He told her of the fold in the foot-hills, where he had made his home.
"A miniature Daybreak," said Miss Longwood.
The man coloured with pleasure.
"That was the childish idea."
"I think it's a very good game. Why do you say 'was'?"
With a heavy heart, Spenser related the truth.
'The Longwood girl' heard him out.
As the music stopped—
"I can find water," she said. "I have the power."
Spenser could only stare.
"My grandfather wanted water, and he sent for a man. I was twelve or thirteen, and I watched him at work. When he'd done, he gave me the rod—as a toy to a child. To his surprise, it turned for me more than for him. For the rest of the summer it was my favourite game—finding water and learning to judge its depth. Then I left the country, and I've never been back."
The quiet, confident tone compelled belief.
William Red Spenser could hardly control his voice.
"I hardly dare ask you, but will you be so generous as to lend me your skill? I mean, there may be no water. I know that perfectly well. But, if there is..."
Miss Longwood stifled a yawn.
"If you'll call for me at two to-morrow, I'll do what I can."
"You're awfully kind," said Spenser. He hesitated. Then, "I'm afraid my car's not very comfortable," he said.
"I expect it holds two," said Miss Longwood. "Good night."
Some twelve hours later the serviceable car came to rest under the shadow of the Piétat oaks.
Miss Longwood alighted stiffly, to be received by a rout of Spaniel puppies, whose affection outran respect.
Before Spenser could come to her rescue, she had two of them in her arms.
"Hermits aren't allowed dogs," she said, "or places like this."
"They'll make you all dirty," said Spenser.
"I don't care at all. May I take them into the house?"
"Of course."
He led the way to the study and told his man to bring tea.
To the delight of the puppies, Miss Longwood sat down on the floor. From the arm of a chair Spenser admired his guest.
After a moment she lifted a glowing face.
"Don't think I've forgotten the water, but I haven't been childish for years."
"I'd forgotten it," said Spenser, "for the first time for more than a month."
"Then I've done some good," said Miss Longwood. "How beautifully cool it is here."
"They knew how to build," said Spenser. "Piétat's walls are nearly four feet thick."
"Who's 'they'? The gnomes? The brownies? I'm sure they drew the plan." She got to her feet. "And now please show me the pictures my grandfather saw."
He led her into the pannelled dining-room.
Miss Longwood studied the portraits one by one.
At length—
"How well they go here," she said. "I think they must feel at home."
"You couldn't have said a thing which would please me more."
"It's true," said the girl. "I don't know who thought of this house, but it's like some wood-cut I've seen—some tail-piece in an old book."
They passed out into the garden, and he showed her the lie of his land.
Then Frodsham came out to tell them that tea was served.
As they strolled the lawn in his wake, Miss Longwood hung on her heel and surveyed the house.
Presently she nodded.
"We must find that water," she said. "You can't leave this."
As was to be expected, her downright appreciation took Spenser by storm. Her apathy was forgotten, her reputation became a myth. Her swift understanding, her fellowship carried the man off his feet. Her notable charm overwhelmed him. It only remained for her beauty to deal him the coup de grâce.
Sitting by her side in his study, her host could find no fault in her, body or soul.
The setting suited her well: her natural dignity went with the sober room: her soft voice enriched its quiet: the William-and-Mary settee might have been made for her pose. Her firm, slim hands used the aged silver with infinite grace. Her little hat lay beside her, and her fine, raven hair gave back the light: her eyes were grey and fearless, and there was pride in her mouth: her cherry-coloured dress was perfect as the figure it served.
Before her cigarette was finished, Miss Longwood rose to her feet.
"Have you a rod for me?" she said.
There were hazel twigs in the car. Spenser had cut them that morning at eight o'clock. He brought them at once.
"They'll do," said my lady. "I think I like that one best. Will you cut it down a little? It's rather too big."
When he had shaped it to her liking, it resembled the letter Y, twelve inches by eight.
"Now may I see the old well?"
He led her round to the courtyard and watched her compass the well.
The rod never moved.
"I don't wonder you're short of water: there's next to none here. I—I can't even feel the spring.... Yes. Wait a minute.... Here it is. But it's very slight. And now for the depth.... Don't tell me. I should say it was thirty feet down. Perhaps twenty-nine."
"Well done indeed," said Spenser. "It's twenty-eight."
Miss Longwood took a deep breath.
"For one dreadful moment I thought I had lost the knack. What would you have said, if I had?"
"I should have tried to thank you for coming at all."
"I don't quite see why," said Miss Longwood. "I'm enjoying myself very much." She took a step back and looked round—at the well and the oaks and the gable and the slope of the meadow beyond. "But I wish I could place your home. I've seen it before somewhere. It's all so simple that it's immensely rich."
As though to applaud this sentiment, a splendid rooster, exultant upon an old mounting-block, crowed lustily.
The two laughed naturally.
"He's right in the picture," said Miss Longwood. "And now to business."
They began to pass round the property, keeping close to its verge, the girl going first and Spenser stepping behind, with his eyes on her back....
Three times the rod declared water, but its signals were very faint. With the greatest care Miss Longwood explored the clues, and each time, after a little, she shook her fair head.
With a sinking heart, Spenser followed her round to their starting-point....
One by one she searched the meadows, across and across: she scoured the beechwood and she compassed the house: she proved the lawn and the flower-garden—even the drive, in vain. In desperation she entered and walked the rooms, but without avail. There was no water.
She asked for another rod and started again.
Slowly and with infinite patience she covered the ground she had covered an hour before. When Spenser begged her to stop, she waved him away. It might have been her home she was striving to save.
At half-past six o'clock they stood again upon the lawn.
"Please come in," said Spenser. "You must be ready to drop. I can never thank you enough for——"
"If you talk like that," said the girl, "I shall begin to cry. I came to help you to live here. All I've done so far is to make it plain that you can't. But I'm not through yet. I found water down there, didn't I?" She pointed to the poplars fringing the road below. "Well, how did it get there? Downhill. It comes from above. Very well. I'm going to try once more at the back of the house."
Together they climbed the orchard which presently slanted steeply to a little stone wall. This was Piétat's boundary. Beyond lay the rough of a meadow, scrambling up to a bluff.
The girl stared at the wall. Then she turned and looked at the house, and, below, the row of poplars and the sheep cropping the shadows they threw on the turf. Presently she returned to the wall and the meadow and the brown bluff beyond.
"Will you help me over?" she said.
Spenser mounted the wall, lifted her up very gently and set her down on her feet on the further side.
As he leaped down beside her——
"You're very strong," said the girl.
Then she glanced about her, took fresh hold of her rod and walked for the bluff.
Almost at once the rod began to move.
Another three steps and it was bending. It was plainly all she could do to hold the fork of it straight. Spenser watched it, as a man in a dream. The tail of the Y, which had been pointing upwards, was pointing outwards and down ... actually down.
Very slowly its mistress was turning towards the right: her delicate wrists were quivering under the strain: without looking at Spenser, she spoke.
"Please come and take off my hat."
This was tight-fitting and resisted: Spenser drew it off with the utmost care.
Miss Longwood shook back her curls and continued to move.
The rod relaxed slightly, and she bore to the left. As she did so, it dipped sharply. Another two steps, and, before Spenser's eyes, it assumed the form of a hook.
The girl stood still, trembling.
"This is the place. Will you peg it? Between my feet."
The man went down on his knees and pressed a peg into the ground.
Miss Longwood shut her eyes and lifted her chin.
Far a moment she stood swaying.
Then—
"Forty-two feet, I should say. Perhaps forty-three. D'you think they'll sell you this land?"
"Yes," said Spenser shakily,
"Good," said the girl.
Then she put a hand to her head and fainted.
Spenser caught her as she fell, and carried her into the shade. She came to her senses, before he had laid her down. For a moment their eyes met. As she closed hers again, the colour came into her cheeks.
"Stupid of me," she murmured. "Don't go. Let me lie quiet for a moment, and then we'll go back to the house."
Not knowing what else to do, Spenser sat down by her side and stared at the tops of the oaks, showing over the wall.
So for, perhaps, two minutes.
Then—
"I know," said the girl. "I remember. It's straight out of Aesop's Fables, this pretty place. The rooster and the well and the puppies and the cool of the little old house—they all fit in. And I'm sure the old pictures talk when they're left alone."
"They'll have something to say to-night," said William Red Spenser.
Miss Longwood, completely restored, sat back in her chair.
"I shan't rest till you've bought it," she said. "When will you know?"
"To-morrow morning," said Spenser. "I'll send you a wire."
"And when can you start digging?"
"The moment it's mine."
"May I come and watch?"
The man got to his feet and stepped to the open window commanding the lawn. For a moment he stood, looking out: then he turned to the lady adorning his room.
"I'm afraid I've been very silent," he said quietly. "The truth is I'm rather tongue-tied. You've tied up my tongue. Our lives are so very different, and the gulf between us is so wide. You're 'the Longwood girl'. Why should the life I was living have mattered to you? It didn't, it doesn't, it can't—it's out of Miss Longwood's ken. Yet you've taken infinite trouble to save it for me. And now you actually ask if you can come and look at—at——"
"At Aesop's Fable," said Miss Longwood, swinging an exquisite leg. "May I?"
"Oh, my dear," said Spenser, "what do you think?"
"That's better," said Miss Longwood, laughing. "And please don't talk about gulfs. We're two of a kind, aren't we? Even if you live in a fable, and I in an ultra-film?"
Spenser's impulse was to kiss her smart little foot. Instead——
"I wish," he said, "that I had a painting of you. Just as you are, sitting back, with a light in your eyes and your hands in your lap."
"To go with the others?" flashed Miss Longwood. "What about 'The Daw and the Peacocks'?"
"To go with the others," said Spenser. "It's time the Frogs had a queen."
With a maddening smile, the lady regarded her watch.
"I hate to say it," she said, "but in ten minutes' time I must go. Are you coming to Biarritz again?"
"I hadn't meant to, after I'd taken you back. But——"
"Then don't. I'll come. I promise. But I like you best here. Aesop belongs to his fable."
"That's the difference between us," said Spenser. "I belong to my fable, but Lettice Longwood belongs wherever she goes."
The girl shook her head.
"I don't think I belong anywhere," she said.
"You'll always belong here," said Spenser quietly.
"The freedom of Piétat. In return for——"
"In return for nothing," said Spenser. "Neither Piétat nor I can ever make any return. We shouldn't think of trying. You just belong to it—that's all. That's why I'd like your picture to hang with the other six. And now, if you'll let me, I'd like to cut you some flowers."
"May I come too, Aesop?"
"Certainly not," said Spenser. "You've walked far too far, as it is. If I had my way, you'd put up your little feet."
"I will—on the lawn. I want to watch—the sun going down."
"As my lady pleases," said Spenser.
Half an hour floated away, before she had done with the garden and had bade the puppies 'Good-bye'.
"Which one would you like?" said Spenser, as Frodsham gathered them in. "I'll house-train him before you leave Biarritz, and then you can take him away."
"Oh, Aesop, I'd love to have one. I'll call him 'Tail-piece'." She pointed a delicate finger. "I think that one likes me best."
"He's yours," said Spenser.
Then he let in the clutch.
Their way lay by by-roads, and the two had sundown to themselves. The country was full of magic: Harlequin's sword was out. This comfortable stream ran crimson: that line of hanging woodland was turned to gold: the mountains became a miracle of rose-red stone.
As they slipped into Biarritz, Spenser switched on his lights.
At the famous hotel the porters and pages were waiting to usher her in.
"I'm afraid you're very late," said Spenser, with his hat in his hand.
"What for? My film? You're going to be later still. Won't you come in and have something?"
The man shook his head.
"Thank you very much, but——"
"I hoped you'd say 'No', Aesop. Will you remember to wire?"
"How could I forget—anything? When will you come back?"
"I don't know. Very soon. Good-bye. I've had such a happy time."
The man bent over her hand. Then he looked into her eyes.
"D'you wonder that I'm tongue-tied?" he said.
Nearly three weeks had gone by.
The land had been bought and paid for, the new well was forty feet deep. Tail-piece had bitten a brother for disrespect, and Captain and Mrs. Pomeroy were deeply concerned.
"My dear," said Belinda to her husband, "it's the most dreadful thing that ever happened. He's mad about her, and she's amusing herself. When she goes——"
"He'll have to come here," said Ivan. "We'll see him through."
Illustration: "'Has he found?' cried the girl. 'Oh, my dear, haven't you seen?' 'I—I wasn't looking,' said Miss Longwood."
"He'll have to go back some time. And Piétat without her will drive him out of his mind. I tell you, he's mad about her. When he heard her car coming, you should have seen the look in his eyes."
"Perhaps she's mad about him."
"I wish she were," said Belinda. "But she isn't. She's just friendly. And she has this extraordinary charm that makes her friendliness dazzling—knocks you out. I can't be angry with her, though she's doing this rotten thing. She's accustomed to adoration. If Rufus didn't adore her, she'd be amazed. She's behaving quite normally and perfectly well. So is Rufus. In loving her he's doing the natural thing. The tragedy of it is—he isn't a Gadarene. He leads a life that matters immensely to him. The consequence is that her coming into that life is a terrific affair."
"The Queen of the Gadarenes goes into the hermit's cave?"
"And finds it great fun, while the hermit goes off the deep end. Exactly. Oh, my dear, whatever are we to do?"
"Stand by with the sponge," said Ivan. "We can't interfere. If Rufus is going to crash, he'll have to do it. And, when he's down, you must go and render first aid. Here and now I give you permission to stroke his hair."
"It won't do any good," said Belinda. "I shan't have the requisite touch."
Her husband inspected her fingers and then put them up to his lips.
"Chacun à son goût," he said.
The Pomeroys' concern was natural. Nobody likes to see a good friend go down. Yet, they need not have been so dismayed. if Spenser had lost his heart, he had kept his head. The man was desperately in love, but he had counted the cost and was fully prepared to pay, when the moment came. He knew that 'the Longwood girl' was out of his reach. He knew that Piétat appealed to her, was sure she liked its master, hoped she would remember them both. But that was all. Aesop must stick to his fable, and she to her film. If he had had money—not very much, but enough to let him wander through Vanity Fair—he might have lifted his eyes. As it was...
And so he 'went off the deep end', determined to swim. He could hardly have done anything else. Had he detested Miss Longwood, in view of what she had done he could scarcely have been 'out' when she came. Fate bowed him down the smooth path. He let himself go—well aware of the cliff to which he must come.
As for the lady, she shall speak for herself.
"You must have an ox," said Miss Longwood. "I'm sure he'd be very useful."
The two were climbing the orchard which led to the well.
"He could fetch his own food," said Spenser, "but I can't think of anything else."
Illustration: "The two boys were lying prone, with their chins on the edge of the well. Below, their father was striving with all his might."
"I'm sure he'd be a good influence. The other animals would listen to what he said. And then you should have an ass, as a sort of foil. The ox could rebuke him."
"But not for indolence," said Spenser. "The trouble is I'm not in the picture myself. I should be a husbandman."
"You're near enough," said Miss Longwood. "Besides, Aesop wrote. But you will have some bees, won't you? Hullo, I believe they've found."
The Spanish youths at the well were speaking their father below. As the two came up to the wall, they pulled off their caps.
"My father can smell water," said the elder. "He has found a great stone and he says it must be beneath that."
"Lift me over," said the girl. "I want to be in at the death."
As once before, Spenser swung her over the wall. Then he stepped to the well and set his hands on the tripod which straddled the shaft.
"Very careful, my lady. Use my arm as a rail."
Miss Longwood did so, and the two peered into the depths.
Presently they made out the Spaniard and the flash of his pick.
"Where's the stone?" breathed the girl. "I can't make it out."
"Directly below us," said Spenser. "He's clearing the soil from around it, to set it free. Then he'll drive the pick under and prize it out."
It was impossible not to be excited.
The two boys were lying prone, with their chine on the edge of the well. Below, their father was striving with all his might. The fellow was stripped to the waist, and, despite the chill below, you could see the gleam of the sweat running over his back. The tackle on the tripod swung idle: the buckets must wait. For three weeks he had laboured for this moment, blindly obeying his orders, and doing his best to smother his unbelief.
Three pairs of eyes watched him, hung on each movement he made. The fourth was steadily regarding William Red Spenser.
The latter stood like a rock, but his heart was full. All along he had been mortally afraid that they would strike rock. The girl had said quite frankly that whether there was rock in the way she could not tell. And now the danger was past, and Piétat was saved. In another moment they would have reached the spring. Then again, his darling was there, with her hands on his arm,...
The Spaniard scraped back the earth and drove his pick under the stone. Then he put his whole weight on the helve. The watchers above saw it moving, saw the stone shift and turn. The Spaniard let the pick go and plucked out the stone with his hands. Then he cast it down and leaned back against the wall.
In the form of the stone lay a winking puddle of light.
The Spaniard shook the sweat from his brow and called to his sons.
"Send down the bucket. This time to-morrow I shall be working in water up to my waist."
"Has he found?" cried the girl.
"Oh, my dear, haven't you seen?"
"I—I wasn't looking," said Miss Longwood.
As the bucket went swinging, the elder boy showed his white teeth.
"Madame may sleep soundly to-night. There is water in abundance. The pretty flowers of her garden will never want."
With her hands upon Spenser's arm, Miss Longwood smiled back.
"That's a great thought," she said gently. She turned to her squire. "Aesop, you must have been right. He thinks I belong to the fable."
Spenser stiffened. Then he looked at the boy.
"Mademoiselle is a great lady—a great princess. She honours me with her friendship, but she is not my wife."
The boy mumbled an apology. Then, with a scarlet face, he bent to the rope.
As they turned to the wall—
"Poor child," said Miss Longwood softly. "He'd never have seen me again."
Spenser stopped dead.
"Are you leaving Biarritz?"
"I must, Aesop. I ought to have gone last week, but I—I wanted so much to see the water come in."
"You've a very sweet nature," said Spenser. He swung himself on to the wall and handed her up. "I shall feel lost when you're gone."
"No one to lift over the wall?"
"That's right. May I lift you down?"
"Yes."
In silence they passed through the orchard and through the little courtyard. As they came to the lawn, Tail-piece emerged from the house, with a collar about his neck. For a moment he stood like an image: then he flung himself at his master with a whimper of joy.
Spenser picked him up in his arms and made much of the scrap.
"I can't take him," said Miss Longwood. "He—he loves you. And he'll never be so happy again."
"He's a very lucky fellow. I envy him very much."
"Aesop! You're not tired of your fable?"
"You belong to it," said Spenser quietly. "And now you're going away. It won't be the same."
"For heaven's sake—why?"
"Because—there's no one like you." He laughed shortly. "But I rather imagine you hear that once a week."
"They don't put it so simply," said Miss Longwood. "And then, again, you say it as though you thought it were true. But you mustn't believe it, Aesop. I'm only one of the stars in an ultra-film."
"I've seen you close up," said Spenser, "and—and off parade. 'The Longwood girl' is a picture, but Lettice Longwood is a work of Nature herself."
Miss Longwood shaded her eyes and looked at the hills.
"Talking of pictures," she said, "I've been drawn. Etched. Tilsit is staying at Biarritz, so I asked him to try his hand."
"Tilsit? It must be lovely. He's got a wonderful touch."
"If you'd like to see it," said Miss Longwood, "it's in the car."
The well-found coupé was standing in the shade of the oaks. A large rectangular package was lying within the boot. Spenser withdrew it with the greatest possible care. The etching was glazed. An article of such virtu must be uncovered indoors: the dining-room table offered the most convenient site....
Leaning against the dresser, Miss Longwood watched the brown fingers busy about the string.
As he threw back the paper, the man gave a cry of delight.
Tilsit might have worked in his study, and have etched his mistress as she sat back in his chair. The beautiful pose was the same, as was the dress, and, though the master had drawn but her head and shoulders, the head of the chair was behind them, as it had been that first day.
"You like it?"
"It's perfect," cried Spenser. "It's you. What ever will everyone say? It's you, as you are. It isn't 'the Longwood girl'."
"No one will see it," said Miss Longwood. "That's the only copy, and I have the plate. I—I had it done for you, Aesop."
"Lettice!"
"You say things as if you mean them, and you said you'd like my picture to hang up in here. And I should be ... very honoured. And, when people come, you can always say I'm a benefactress—that I found the water for Piétat, and that that's why you've got my picture up on the wall."
Spenser laid down the picture and took the slim hands in his.
"I think," he said shakily, "I think you have the sweetest nature in all the world."
He bent his head and put the hands to his lips.
"Why do you say that, Aesop?"
"Because I think you know that I love you and you want to do what you can to break my fall."
He let the slight fingers go and turned away.
"I shall hang it up there," he said quietly, "directly—directly you've gone."
Lettice put a hand to her throat.
"That—that isn't why I gave it you," she said. "I mean, why does one give presents? To people one likes? Because you want them to be happy. That's why I gave it you."
"You have made me happy, Lettice. Most awfully happy and proud."
"But, if it's true—what you say, I'm afraid you'll be ... unhappy, when I have gone."
The man dared not look at the girl. Instead he stared at the picture with hungry eyes.
"That's my funeral," he said slowly, as though he were speaking to himself. "And I shall come through."
"I don't want you to be unhappy. I love your fable, Aesop. It's the most perfect thing. How do you think I'll feel, if I think that I've spoiled it all?"
"You've made it, my lady," said Spenser. "I was fond of it for itself, but now I shall love it because it has been your setting and because you liked it so well. I'll have to pay, of course. One always does. But I wouldn't go back. And now that I've got your picture..."
The girl braced herself.
"I've been very happy, Aesop. But then you know that."
Spenser put a hand to his head.
"I—I hoped you had. Piétat's a change—something different. You've found it refreshing, after—the fun of the film."
"Quite right," said Lettice. "I have. But the fable is Aesop's fable. I've been ... very happy with him."
"I shall never forget that, Lettice."
The girl moistened her lips and the colour came into her face.
"And I shall be ... very unhappy, when I. have gone.... Oh, my dear, I've given you the picture. Won't you give me something ... to break my fall?"
She was close in the man's arms and looking up into his eyes. As he spoke, his voice was trembling.
"My darling, my hands are empty. My fable's all I've got. I've nothing—nothing that I can offer 'the Longwood girl'."
"You have, you have, Aesop. Don't make me ask right out."
"Oh, Lettice, for what it's worth, will you take my name?"
With her eyes fast shut, the girl nodded her head. Then she put her arms round his neck.....
Five minutes later she seated herself on the table and demanded a cigarette. When the man had lit it, she laid it down and took his face in her hands.
"'The bride's presents to the bridegroom included an ox.' I'm going to choose him to-morrow. And he'll advise his master, until I come back. I expect he'll rebuke you, my darling, but you mustn't mind that. And you really do deserve it. I've been throwing myself at your head for over a week."
"But, Lettice, sweet, how could I? I mean, the gulf I spoke of——"
"Between you and 'the Longwood girl'? I know. It's immense—not to be bridged. But then, you see, Aesop dear, it's Lettice that's fallen for you—not 'the Longwood girl'; and Lettice has always been on the same side as you."
The two drove to Biarritz that evening and up to Les Iles d'Or.
As luck would have it, the Pomeroys were alone.
"Will you give us some dinner?" said Lettice. "Just as we are? I'm going to share Aesop's fable."
"Oh, you darling," said Belinda. "I did so hope you would. When I introduced him that evening——"
"That's right," said Ivan. "The moment she saw you, she said——"
"You be quiet," said Belinda. "And go and see about the champagne."
Copyright 1927, by "The Saturday Evening Post", in the United States of America.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1930.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1960, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 64 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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