"It's always the same," moaned Mrs. Lorimer. "My poor children! They're never out of trouble." Avery stood still. She had fled to the drawing-room to recover herself, only to find the lady of the house lying in tears upon the sofa there. Mrs. Lorimer was very small and pathetic. She had lost all her health long before in the bearing and nurturing of her children. Once upon a time she must have possessed the delicate prettiness that characterized her eldest daughter Jeanie, but it had faded long since. She was worn out now, a tired, drab little woman, with no strength left to stand against adversity. The only consolation in her life was her love for her husband. Him she worshipped, not wholly blindly, but with a devotion that never faltered. A kind word from him was capable of exalting her to a state of rapture that was only out-matched by the despair engendered by his displeasure. There was so much of sorrow mingled with her love for her children that they could scarcely have been regarded as a joy. In fact Avery often thought to herself how much happier she would have been without them.
"Do sit down, Mrs. Denys!" she begged nervously, as Avery remained motionless in the middle of the room. "Stay with me for a little, won't you? I can never bear to be alone when any of the children are being punished. I sometimes think Pat is the worst of all. He is so highly strung, and he loses his head. And Stephen doesn't quite understand him, and he is so terribly severe when they rebel. And did you know that Ronald and Julian had been smoking again on the way back from school? They look so dreadfully ill, both of them. I know their father will find out."
Mrs. Lorimer's whispered words went into soft weeping. She hid her face in the cushion.
A curious little spasm went through Avery, and for a few mad seconds she wanted to burst into heartless laughter. She conquered the impulse with a desperate effort though it left her feeling slightly hysterical.
She moved across to the forlorn little woman and stooped over her.
"Don't cry, dear Mrs. Lorimer!" she urged. "It doesn't do any good. Perhaps Ronald and Julian are better by now. Shall we go upstairs and see?"
The principle was a wrong one and she knew it, but for the life of her she could not have resisted the temptation at that moment. She had an unholy desire to get the better of the Reverend Stephen which would not be denied.
Mrs. Lorimer checked her tears. "You're very kind," she murmured shakily.
She dried her eyes and sat up. "Do you think it would be wrong to give them a spoonful of brandy?" she asked wistfully.
But Avery's principles were proof against this at least. "Yes, I do," she said. "But we can manage quite well without it. Let us go, shall we, and see what can be done?"
"I'm afraid I'm very wicked," sighed Mrs. Lorimer. "I'm very thankful to have you with us, dear. I don't know what I should do without you."
Avery's pretty mouth took an unfamiliar curve of grimness for a moment, but she banished it at once. She slipped a sustaining hand through Mrs. Lorimer's arm.
"Thank you for saying so, though, you know, I've only been with you a fortnight, and I don't feel that I have done very much to deserve such high praise."
"I don't think time has much to do with friendship," said Mrs. Lorimer, looking at her with genuine affection in her faded blue eyes. "Do you know I became engaged to my husband before I had known him a fortnight?"
But this was a subject upon which Avery found it difficult to express any sympathy, and she gently changed it. "You are looking very tired. Don't you think you could lie down for a little in your bedroom before supper?"
"I must see the poor boys first," protested Mrs. Lorimer.
"Yes, of course. We will go straight up, shall we?"
She led her to the door with the words, and they went out together into the hall. As they emerged, a sudden burst of stormy crying came from the study. Pat was literally howling at the top of his voice.
His mother stopped and wrung her hands. "Oh, what is to be done? He always cries like that. He used to as a baby—the only one of them who did. Mrs. Denys, what shall I do? I don't think I can bear it."
Avery drew her on towards the stairs. "My dear, come away!" she said practically. "You can't do anything. Interference will only make matters worse. Let us go right up to the boys' room! Pat is sure to come up directly."
They went to the boys' room. It was a large attic in which the three elder boys slept. Ronald and Julian, aged fifteen and fourteen respectively, were both lying prostrate on their beds.
Julian uttered a forced laugh at the sight of his mother's face. "My dear Mater, for Heaven's sake don't come fussing round here! We've been smoking some filthy cigars—little beastly Brown dared us to—and there's been the devil to pay. I can't get up. My tummy won't let me."
"Oh, Julian, why do you do it?" said Mrs. Lorimer, in great distress."You know what your father said the last time."
She bent over him. Julian was her favourite of them all. But he turned his face sharply to avoid her kiss.
"Don't, Mater! I don't feel up to it. I can't jaw either. I believe those dashed cigars were poisoned. Hullo, Ronald, are you quieting down yet?"
"Shut up!" growled Ronald.
His brother laughed again sardonically. "Stick to it, my hearty! There's a swishing in store for us. The mater always gives the show away."
"Julian!" It was Avery's voice; she spoke with quick decision. "You've got exactly an hour—you and Ronald—to pull yourselves together. Don't lie here any longer! Get up and go out! Go for a hard walk! No, of course you don't feel like it. But it will do you good. You want to get that horrible stuff out of your lungs. Quick! Go now—while you can!"
"But I can't!" declared Julian.
"Yes, you can,—you must! You too, Ronald! Where are your coats? Pop them on and make a dash for it! You'll come back better. Perhaps you will get out of the swishing after all."
Julian turned his head and looked at her by the light of the flaring, unshaded gas-jet. "By Jove!" he said. "You're rather a brick, Mrs. Denys."
"Don't stop to talk!" she commanded. "Just get up and do as I say. Go down the back stairs, mind! I'll let you in again in time to get ready for supper."
Julian turned to his brother. "What do you say to it, Ron?"
"Can't be done," groaned Ronald.
"Oh yes, it can." Sheer determination sounded in Avery's response. "Get up, both of you! If it makes you ill, it can't be helped. You will neither of you get any better lying here. Come, Ronald!" She went to him briskly. "Get up! I'll help you. There! That's the way. Splendid! Now keep it up! don't let yourself go again! You will feel quite different when you get out into the open air."
By words and actions she urged them, Mrs. Lorimer standing pathetically by, till finally, fired by her energy, the two miscreants actually managed to make their escape without mishap.
She ran downstairs to see them go, returning in time to receive the wailing Pat who had been sent to bed in a state verging on hysterics. Neither she nor his mother could calm him for some time, and when at length he was somewhat comforted one of the younger boys fell down in an adjacent room and began to cry lustily.
Avery went to the rescue, earnestly entreating Mrs. Lorimer to go down to her room and rest. She was able to soothe the sufferer and leave him to the care of the nurse, and she then followed Mrs. Lorimer whom she found bathing her eyes and trying not to cry.
So piteous a spectacle was she that Avery found further formality an absolute impossibility. She put her arm round the little woman and begged her not to fret.
"No, I know it's wrong," whispered Mrs. Lorimer, yielding like a child to the kindly support. "But I can't help it sometimes. You see, I'm not very strong—just now." She hesitated and glanced at Avery with a guilty air. "I—I haven't told him yet," she said in a lower whisper still. "Of course I shall have to soon; but—I'm afraid you will think me very deceitful—I like to choose a favourable time, when the children are not worrying him quite so much. I don't want to—to vex him more than I need."
"My dear!" Avery said compassionately. And she added as she had added to the daughter half an hour before, "Poor little thing!"
Mrs. Lorimer gave a feeble laugh, lifting her face. "You are a sweet girl, Avery. I may call you that? I do hope the work won't be too much for you. You mustn't let me lean on you too hard."
"You shall lean just as hard as you like," Avery said, and, bending, kissed the tired face. "I am here to be a help to you, you know. Yes, do call me Avery! I'm quite alone in the world, and it makes it feel like home. Now you really must lie down till supper. And you are not to worry about anything. I am sure the boys will come back much better. There! Is that comfortable?"
"Quite, dear, thank you. You mustn't think about me any more. Good-bye! Thank you for all your goodness to me!" Mrs. Lorimer clung to her hand for a moment. "I was always prejudiced against mothers' helps before," she said ingenuously. "But I find you an immense comfort—an immense comfort. You will try and stay, won't you, if you possibly can?"
"Yes," Avery promised. "I will certainly stay—if it rests with me."
Her lips were very firmly closed as she went out of the room and her grey eyes extremely bright. It had been a strenuous half-hour.
"Oh, I say, are you going out?" said Piers. "I was just coming to call on you."
"On me?" Avery looked at him with brows raised in surprised interrogation.
He made her a graceful bow, nearly sweeping the path outside the Vicarage gate with his cap. "Even so, madam! On you! But as I perceive you are not at home to callers, may I be permitted to turn and walk beside you?"
As he suited the action to the words, it seemed superfluous to grant the permission, and Avery did not do so.
"I am only going to run quickly down to the post," she said, with a glance at some letters she carried.
He might have offered to post them for her, but such a course did not apparently occur to him. Instead he said: "I'll race you if you like."
Avery refrained from smiling, conscious of a gay glance flung in her direction.
"I see you prefer to walk circumspectly," said Piers. "Well, I can do that too. How is Mike? Why isn't he with you?"
"Mike is quite well, thank you," said Avery. "And he is kept chained up."
"What an infernal shame!" burst from Piers. "I'd sooner shoot a dog than keep him on a chain."
"So would I!" said Avery impulsively.
The words were out before she could check them. It was a subject upon which she found it impossible to maintain her reticence.
Piers grinned triumphantly and thrust out a boyish hand. "Shake!" he said. "We are in sympathy!"
But Avery only shook her head at him, refusing to be drawn. "People—plenty of nice people—have no idea of the utter cruelty of it," she said. "They think that if a dog has never known liberty, he is incapable of desiring it. They don't know, they don't realize, the bitterness of life on a chain."
"Don't know and don't care!" declared Piers. "They deserve to be chained up themselves. One day on a chain would teach your nice people quite a lot. But no one cultivates feeling in this valley of dry bones. It isn't the thing nowadays. Let a dog whine his heart out on a chain! Who cares? There's no room for sentimental scruples of that sort. Can't you see the Reverend Stephen smile at the bare idea of extending a little of his precious Christian pity to a dog?" He broke off with a laugh that rang defiantly. "Now it's your turn!" he said.
"My turn?" Avery glanced at his dark, handsome face with a touch of curiosity.
He met her eyes with his own as if he would beat them back. "Aren't you generous enough to remind me that but for your timely interference I should have beaten my own dog to death only yesterday? You were almost ready to flog me for it at the time."
"Oh, that!" Avery said, looking away again. "Yes, of course I might remind you of that if I wanted to be personal; but, you see,—I don't."
"Why not!" said Piers stubbornly. "You were personal enough yesterday."
The dimple, for which Avery was certainly not responsible, appeared suddenly near her mouth. "I am afraid I lost my temper yesterday," she said.
"How wrong of you!" said Piers. "I hope you confessed to theReverend Stephen."
She glanced at him again and became grave. "No, I didn't confess to anyone. But I think it's a pity ever to lose one's temper. It involves a waste of power."
"Does it?" said Piers.
"Yes." She nodded with conviction. "We need all the strength we can muster for other things. How is your dog to-day?"
Piers ignored the question. "What other things?" he demanded.
She hesitated.
"Go on!" said Piers imperiously.
Avery complied half-reluctantly. "I meant—mainly—the burdens of life. We can't afford to weaken ourselves by any loss of self-control. The man who keeps his temper is immeasurably stronger than the man who loses it."
Piers was frowning; his dark eyes looked almost black. Suddenly he turned upon her. "Mrs. Denys, I have a strong suspicion that your temper is a sweet one. If so, you're no judge of these things. Why didn't you leather me with my own whip yesterday? You had me at your mercy."
Avery smiled. Plainly he was set upon a personal encounter, and she could not avoid it. "Well, frankly, Mr. Evesham," she said, "I was never nearer to striking anyone in my life."
"Then why did you forbear? You weren't afraid to souse me with cold water."
"Oh no," she said. "I wasn't afraid."
"I believe you were," maintained Piers. "You're afraid to speak your mind to me now anyway."
She laughed a little. "No, I'm not. I really can't explain myself to you.I think you forget that we are practically strangers."
"You talk as if I had been guilty of familiarity," said Piers.
"No, no! I didn't mean that," Avery coloured suddenly, and the soft glow made her wonderfully fair to see. "You know quite well I didn't mean it," she said.
"It's good of you to say so," said Piers. "But I really didn't know. I thought you had decided that I was a suitable subject for snubbing. I'm not a bit. I'm so accustomed to it that I don't care a—" he paused with a glance of quizzical daring, and, as she managed to look severe, amended the sentence—"that I am practically indifferent to it. Mrs. Denys, I wish you had struck me yesterday."
"Really?" said Avery.
"Yes, really. I should then have had the pleasure of forgiving you. It's a pleasure I don't often get. You see, I'm usually the one that's in the wrong."
She looked at him then with quick interest; she could not help it. But the dark eyes triumphed over her so shamelessly that she veiled it on the instant.
Piers laughed. "Mrs. Denys, may I ask a directly personal question?"
"I don't know why you should," said Avery.
They were nearing the pillar-box at the end of the Vicarage lane, and she was firmly determined that at that box their ways should separate.
"I know you think I'm bold and bad," said Piers. "Some kind friend has probably told you so. But I'm not. I've been brought up badly, that's all. I think you might bear with me. I'm quite willing to be bullied." There was actual pathos in the declaration.
Again the fleeting dimple hovered near Avery's mouth. "Please don't take my opinion for granted in that way!" she said. "I have hardly had time to form one yet."
"Then I may ask my question?" said Piers.
She turned steady grey eyes upon him. "Yes; you may."
Piers' face was perfectly serious. "Are you really married?" he asked.
The level brows went up a little. "I have been a widow for six years," said Avery very quietly.
He stared at her in surprise unfeigned. "Six years!"
She replied in the same quiet voice. "I lost my husband when I was twenty-two."
"Great Heavens above!" ejaculated Piers. "But you're not—not—I say, forgive me, I must say it—you can't be as old as that!"
"I am twenty-nine," said Avery faintly smiling.
They had reached the letter-box. She dropped in her letters one by one.Piers stood confounded, looking on.
Suddenly he spoke. "And you've been doing this mothers'-helping business for six years?"
"Oh no!" she said.
She turned round from the box and faced him. The red winter sunset glowed softly upon her. Her grey eyes looked straight into it.
"No!" she said again. "I had my little girl to take care of for the first six months. You see, she was born blind, soon after her father's death, and she needed all the care I could give her."
Piers made a sharp movement—a gesture that was almost passionate; but he said nothing.
Avery withdrew her eyes from the sunset, and looked at him. "She died," she said, "and that left me with nothing to do. I have no near relations. So I just had to set to work to find something to occupy me. I went into a children's hospital for training, and spent some years there. Then when that came to an end, I took a holiday; but I found I wanted children. So I cast about me, and finally answered Mr. Lorimer's advertisement and came here." She began to smile. "At least I have plenty of children now."
"Oh, I say!" broke in Piers. "What a perfectly horrible life you've had!You don't mean to say you're happy, what?"
Avery laughed. "I'm much too busy to think about it. And now I really must run back. I've promised to take charge of the babies this afternoon. Good-bye!" She held out her hand to him with frank friendliness, as if she divined the sympathy he did not utter.
He gripped it hard for a moment. "Thanks awfully for being so decent as to tell me!" he said, looking back at her with eyes as frank as her own. "I'm going on down to the home farm. Good-bye!"
He raised his cap, and abruptly strode away. And in the moment of his going Avery found she liked him better than she had liked him throughout the interview, for she knew quite well that he went only in deference to her wish.
She turned to retrace her steps, feeling puzzled. There was something curiously attractive about the young man's personality, something that appealed to her, yet that she felt disposed to resist. That air of the ancient Roman was wonderfully compelling, too compelling for her taste, but then his boyishness counteracted it to a very great degree. There was a hint of sweetness running through his arrogance against which she was not proof. Audacious he might be, but it was a winning species of audacity that probably no woman could condemn. She thought to herself as she returned to her charges that she had never seen a face so faultlessly patrician and yet so vividly alive. And following that thought came another that dwelt longer in her mind. Deprived of its animation, it would not have been a happy face.
Avery wondered why.
"Hooray! No more horrid sums for a whole month!" Gracie Lorimer's arithmetic-book soared to the ceiling and came down with a bang while Gracie herself pivoted, not ungracefully, on her toes till sheer giddiness and exhaustion put an end to her rhapsody. Then she staggered to Avery who was darning the family stockings by the window and flung ecstatic arms about her neck.
"Dear Mrs. Denys, aren't you glad it's holidays?" she gasped. "We'll give you such a lovely time!"
"I'm sure you will, dear," said Avery. "But do mind the needle!"
She kissed the brilliant childish face that was pressed to hers. She and Gracie were close friends. Gracie was eleven, and the prettiest madcap of them all. It was a perpetual marvel to Avery that the child managed to be so happy, for she was continually in trouble. But she seemed to possess a cheery knack of throwing off adversity. She was essentially gay of heart.
"Do put away those stupid old stockings and come out with us!" she begged, still hanging over Avery. "Don't you hate darning? I do. We had to do our own before you came. I was very naughty one day last summer. I went out and played in the garden instead of mending my stockings, and Father found out." Gracie cast up her eyes dramatically. "He sent me in to do them, and went off to one of his old parish parties; and I just sneaked out as soon as his back was turned and went on with the game. But there was no luck that day. He came back to fetch something and caught me. And then—just imagine!" Again Gracie was dramatic, though this time unconsciously. "He sent me to bed and—what do you think? When he came home to tea, he—whipped me!"
Avery threaded her needle with care. She said nothing.
"I think it was rather a shame," went on Gracie unconcernedly. "Because he never whips Jeanie or Olive. But then, he can make them cry without, and he can't make me. I 'spect that's what made him do it, don't you?"
"I don't know, dear," said Avery rather shortly.
Gracie peered round into her face. "Mrs. Denys, you don't like Father, do you?" she said.
"My dear, that's not a nice question to ask," said Avery, with her eyes on her work.
"I don't know why not," said Gracie. "I don't like him myself, and he knows I don't. He'd whip me again if he got the chance, but I'm too jolly careful now. I was pleased that you got Ronnie and Julian off the other day. He never suspected, did he? I thought I should have burst during prayers. It was so funny."
"My dear!" protested Avery.
"Yes, I know," said Gracie. "But you aren't really shocked, dear, kindMrs. Denys! You know you aren't. I can see your sweet little dimple.No, I can't! Yes, I can! I do love your dimple. It goes in and outlike the sun."
Avery leaned back abruptly in her chair. "Oh, foolish one!" she said, and gathered the child to her with a warmth to which the ardent Gracie was swift to respond.
"And you are coming out with us, aren't you? Because it's so lovely and cold. I want to go up on that big hill in Rodding Park, and run and run and run till I just can't run any longer. Ronnie and Julian are coming too. And Jeanie and Olive and Pat. We ought to begin and collect holly for the church decorations. You'll be able to help this year, won't you? Miss Whalley always bosses things. Have you met Miss Whalley yet? She's quite the funniest person in Rodding. She was the daughter of the last Vicar, and she has never forgotten it. So odd of her! As if there were anything in it! I often wish I weren't a parson's daughter. I'd much rather belong to someone who had to go up to town every day. There would be much more fun for everybody then."
Avery was laying her mending together. She supposed she ought to check the child's chatter, but felt too much in sympathy with her to do so. "I really don't know if I ought to come," she said. "But it is certainly too fine an afternoon for you to waste indoors. Where are the boys?"
"Oh, they're messing about somewhere in the garden. You see, they've got to keep out of sight or Father will set them to work to roll the lawn. He always does that sort of thing. He calls it 'turning our youthful energies to good account.'" Very suddenly and wickedly Gracie mimicked the pastoral tones. "But the boys call it 'nigger-driving,'" she added, "and I think the boys are right. When I'm grown up, I'll never, never, never make my children do horrid things like that. They shall have—oh, such a good time!"
There was unconscious pathos in the declaration. Avery looked at the bright face very tenderly.
"I wonder what you'll do with them when they're naughty, Gracie," she said.
"I shall never whip them," said Gracie decidedly. "I think whipping is a horrid punishment. It makes you hate everybody. I think I shan't punish them at all, Mrs. Denys. I shall just tell them how wrong they've been, and that they are never to do it again. And I'm sure they won't," she added, with confidence. "They'll love me too much."
She slipped her arm round Avery's waist as she rose. "Do you know I would dreadfully like to call you Aunt Avery?" she said. "I said so to Jeanie, and Jeanie wants to too. Do you mind?"
"Mind!" said Avery. "I shall love it."
"Oh, thank you—awfully!" Gracie kissed her fervently. "I'll run and tellJeanie. She will be pleased."
She skipped from the room, and Avery went to prepare for the walk. "Poor little souls!" she murmured to herself. "How I wish they were mine!"
They mustered only five when they started—the three girls, Pat, and Avery herself; but ere they had reached the end of the lane the two elder boys leapt the Vicarage wall with a whoop of triumph and joined them. The party became at once uproariously gay. Everyone talked at the same time, even Jeanie becoming animated. Avery rejoiced to see the pretty face flushed and merry. She had begun to feel twinges of anxiety about Jeanie lately. But she was able to banish them at least for to-day, for Jeanie ran and chattered with the rest. In fact, Olive was the only one who showed any disposition to walk sedately. It had to be remembered that Olive was the clever one of the family. She more closely resembled her father than any of the others, and Avery firmly believed her to be the only member of the family that Mr. Lorimer really loved. She was a cold-hearted, sarcastic child, extremely self-contained, giving nothing and receiving nothing in return. It was impossible to become intimate with her. Avery had given up the attempt almost at the outset, realizing that it was not in Olive's nature to be intimate with anyone. They were always exceedingly polite to each other, but beyond that their acquaintance made no progress. Olive lived in a world of books, and the practical side of life scarcely touched her, and most certainly never appealed to her sympathy. "She will be her father over again," Mrs. Lorimer would declare, with pathetic pride. "So dignified, so handsome, and so clever!"
And Avery agreed, not without reserve, that she certainly resembled him to a marked degree.
She was by far the most sober member of the party that entered Rodding Park that afternoon. Avery, inspired by the merriment around her, was in a frankly frivolous mood. She was fast friends with the two elder boys, who had voted her a brick on the night that she had intervened to deliver them from the just retribution for their misdeeds. They had conceived an immense admiration for her which placed her in a highly privileged position.
"If Mrs. Denys says so, it is so," was Ronald's fiat, and she knew that such influence as he possessed with his brothers and sisters was always at her disposal.
She liked Ronald. The boy was a gentleman. Though slow, he was solid; and she suspected that he possessed more depth of character than the more brilliant Julian. Julian was crafty; there was no denying it. She was sure that he would get on in the world. But of Ronald's future she was not so sure. It seemed to her that he might plod on for ever without reaching his goal. He kept near her throughout that riotous scamper through the bare, wind-swept Park, making it plain that he regarded himself as her lieutenant whether she required his services or not. As a matter of fact, she did not require them, but she was glad to have him there and she keenly appreciated the gentlemanly consideration with which he helped her over every stile.
They reached the high hill of Gracie's desire, and rapidly climbed it. The sun had passed over to the far west and had already begun to dip ere they reached the summit.
"Now we'll all stand in a row and race down," announced Gracie, when they reached the top. "Aunt Avery will start us. We'll run as far as that big oak-tree on the edge of the wood. Now line up, everybody!"
"I'm not going to do anything so silly," said Olive decidedly. "Mrs.Denys and I will follow quietly."
"Oh no!" laughed Avery. "You can do the starting, my dear, and I will race with the others."
Olive looked at her, faintly contemptuous. "Oh, of course if you prefer it—" she said.
"I do indeed!" Avery assured her. "But I think the two big boys and I ought to be handicapped. Jeanie and Gracie and Pat must go ten paces in front."
"I am bigger than Gracie and Pat," said Jeanie. "I think I ought to go midway."
"Of course," agreed Ronald. "And, Aunt Avery, you must go with her. You can't start level with Julian and me."
Avery laughed at the amendment and fell in with it. They adjusted themselves for the trial of speed, while Olive stationed herself on a mole-hill to give the signal.
The valley below them was in deep shadow. The last of the sunlight lay upon the hilltop. It shone dazzlingly in Avery's eyes as the race began.
There had been a sprinkling of snow the day before, and the grass was crisp and rough. She felt it crush under her feet with a keen sense of enjoyment. Instinctively she put all her buoyant strength into the run. She left Jeanie behind, overtook and passed the two younger children, and raced like a hare down the slope. Keenly the wind whistled past her, and she rejoiced to feel its clean purity rush into her lungs. She was for the moment absurdly, rapturously happy,—a child amongst children.
The sun went out of sight, and the darkness of the valley swallowed her.She sped on, fleet-footed, flushed and laughing, moving as if on wings.
She neared the dark line of wood, and saw the stark, outstretched branches of the oak that was her goal. In the same instant she caught sight of a man's figure standing beneath it, apparently waiting for her.
He had evidently just come out of the wood. He carried a gun on his shoulder, but the freedom of his pose was so striking that she likened him on the instant to a Roman gladiator.
She could not stop herself at once though she checked her speed, and when she finally managed to come to a stand, she was close to him.
He stepped forward to meet her with a royal air of welcome. "How nice of you to come and call on me!" he said.
His dark eyes shone mischievously as they greeted her, and she was too flushed and dishevelled to stand upon ceremony. Pantingly she threw back her gay reply.
"This is the children's happy hunting ground, not mine, I suppose, if the truth were told, we are trespassing."
He made her his sweeping bow. "There is not a corner of this estate that is not utterly and for ever at your service."
He turned as the two elder boys came racing up, and she saw the half-mocking light go out of his eyes as they glanced up the hill. "Hullo!" he said. "There's one of them come to grief."
Sharply she turned also. Pat and Gracie were having a spirited race down the lower slope of the hill. Olive had begun to descend from the top with becoming dignity. And midway, poor Jeanie crouched in a forlorn little heap with her hands tightly covering her face.
"The child's hurt!" exclaimed Avery.
She started to run back, but in a moment Piers sprang past her, crying,"All right. Don't run! Take it easy!"
He himself went like the wind. She watched him with subconscious admiration. He was so superbly lithe and strong.
She saw him reach Jeanie and kneel down beside her. There was no hesitation about him. He was evidently deeply concerned. He slipped a persuasive arm about the child's huddled form.
When Avery reached them, Jeanie's head in its blue woollen cap was pillowed against him and she was telling him sobbingly of her trouble.
"I—I caught my foot. I don't know—how I did it. It twisted right round—and oh, it does hurt, I—I—I can't help—being silly!"
"All right, kiddie, all right!" said Piers. "It was one of those confounded rabbit-holes. There! You'll be better in a minute. Got a handkerchief, what? Oh, never mind! Take mine!"
He pulled it out and dried her eyes as tenderly as if he had been a woman; then raised his head abruptly and spoke to Avery.
"I expect it's a sprain. I'd better get her boot off and see, what?"
"No, we had better take her home first," said Avery with quick decision.
"All right," said Piers at once. "I'll carry her. I daresay she isn't very heavy. I say, little girl, you mustn't cry." He patted her shoulder kindly. "It hurts horribly, I know. These things always do. But you're going to show me how plucky you can be. Women are always braver than men, aren't they, Mrs. Denys?"
Thus admonished, Jeanie lifted her face and made a valiant effort to regain her self-command. But she clasped her two hands very tightly upon Piers' arm so that he could not move to lift her.
"I'll be brave in a minute," she promised him tremulously. "You won't mind waiting—just a minute?"
"Two, if you like," said Piers.
Avery was stooping over the injured foot. Jeanie was propped sideways, half-lying against Piers' knee.
"Don't touch it, please, Aunt Avery!" she whispered.
The other children had drawn round in an interested group. "It looks like a fracture to me," observed Olive in her precise voice.
Piers flashed her a withering glance. "Mighty lot you know about it!" he retorted rudely.
Pat sniggered. He was not fond of his second sister. But his mirth was checked by the impulsive Gracie who pushed him aside with a brief, "Don't be a pig!"
Olive retired into the background with her nose in the air, looking so absurdly like her father that a gleam of humour shot through even Piers' sternness. He suppressed it and turned to the two elder boys.
"Which of you is to be trusted to carry a loaded gun?"
"I am," said Julian.
"No—Ronald," said Avery very firmly.
Julian stuck out his tongue at her, and was instantly pummeled therefor by the zealous Gracie.
"Ronald," said Piers. "Mind how you pick it up, and don't point it at anyone! Carry it on your shoulder! That's the way. Go slow with it! Now you walk in front and take it down to the lodge!"
He issued his orders with the air of a commanding-officer, and having issued them turned again with renewed gentleness to the child who lay against his arm.
"Now, little girl, shall we make a move? I'm afraid postponing it won't make it any better. I'll carry you awfully carefully."
"Thank you," whispered Jeanie.
He stooped over her. "Put your arm round my neck! That'll be a help. Mrs.Denys, can you steady her foot while I get up?"
Avery bent to do so. He moved with infinite care; but even so the strain upon the foot was inevitable. Jeanie gave a sharp cry, and sank helpless in his arms.
He began to speak encouragingly but broke off in the middle, feeling the child's head lie limp upon his shoulder.
"Afraid it's serious," he said to Avery. "We will get her down to the lodge and send for a doctor."
"By Jove! She's fainted!" remarked Julian. "It's a jolly bad sprain."
"It's not a sprain at all," said Olive loftily.
And much as she would have liked to disagree, Avery knew that she was right.
Mrs. Marshall at the lodge was a hard-featured old woman whose god was cleanliness. Perhaps it was hardly to be expected of her that she should throw open her door to the whole party. Piers, with his limp burden, and Avery she had to admit, but after the latter's entrance she sternly blocked the way.
"There's no room for any more," she declared with finality. "You'd best run along home."
And with that she shut the door upon them and followed her unwelcome visitors into her spotless parlour.
"What's the matter with the young lady?" she enquired sourly.
Avery answered her in her quick, friendly way. "She has had a fall, poor little thing, and hurt her foot—I'm afraid, badly. It's so good of you to let us bring her in here. Won't you spread a cloth to keep her boots off your clean chintz?"
The suggestion was what Piers described later as "a lucky hit." It melted old Mrs. Marshall on the instant. She hastened to comply with it, and saw Jeanie laid down upon her sofa with comparative resignation.
"She do look mortal bad, to be sure," she remarked.
"Can't you find some brandy?" said Piers.
"I think she will come to, now," Avery said. "Yes, look! Her eyes are opening."
She was right. Jeanie's eyes opened very wide and fixed themselves enquiringly upon Piers' face. There was something in them, a species of dumb appeal, that went straight to his heart. He moved impulsively, and knelt beside her.
Jeanie's hand came confidingly forth to him. "I did try to be brave," she whispered.
Piers' hand closed instantly and warmly upon hers. "That's all right, little girl," he said kindly. "Pain pretty bad, eh?"
"Yes," murmured Jeanie.
"Ah, well, don't move!" he said. "We'll get your boot off and then you'll feel better."
"Oh, don't trouble, please!" said Jeanie politely.
She held his hand very tightly, and he divined that the prospect of the boot's removal caused her considerable apprehension.
He looked round to consult Avery on the subject, but found that she had slipped out of the room. He heard her in the porch speaking to the children, and in a few seconds she was back again.
"Don't let us keep you!" she said to Piers. "I can stay with Jeanie now. I have sent the children home, all but Ronald and Julian who have gone to fetch Dr. Tudor."
Piers looked at Jeanie, and Jeanie looked at Piers. Her hand was still fast locked in his.
"Shall I go?" said Piers.
Jeanie's blue eyes were very wistful. "I would like you to stay," she said shyly, "if you don't mind."
"If Mrs. Denys doesn't mind?" suggested Piers.
To which Avery responded. "Thank you. Please stay!"
She said it for Jeanie's sake, since it was evident that the child was sustaining herself on the man's strength, but the look Piers flashed her made her a little doubtful as to the wisdom of her action. She realized that it might not be easy to keep him at arm's length after this.
Piers turned back to Jeanie. "Very well, I'll stay," he said, "anyhow till Tudor comes along. Let's see! You're the eldest girl, aren't you? I ought to know you by name, but somehow my memory won't run to it."
He could not as a matter of fact remember that he had ever spoken to any of the young Lorimers before, though by sight he was well acquainted with them.
Jeanie, in whose eyes he had ever shone as a knight of romance, murmured courteously that no one ever remembered them all by name.
"Well, I shall remember you anyhow," said Piers. "Queenie is it?"
"No,—Jeanie."
"I shall call you Queenie," he said. "It sounds more imposing. Now won't you let me just slit off that boot? I can do it without hurting you."
"Slit it!" said Jeanie, shocked.
"We shan't get it off without," said Piers. "What do you think about it,Mrs. Denys?"
"I will unfasten the lace first," Avery said.
This she proceeded to do while Piers occupied Jeanie's attention with a success which a less dominant personality could scarcely have achieved.
But when it came to removing the boot he went to Avery's assistance. It was no easy matter but they accomplished it between them, Piers ruthlessly cutting the leather away from the injured ankle which by that time was badly swollen. They propped it on a cushion, and made her as comfortable as circumstances would allow.
"Can't that old woman make you some tea?" Piers said then, beginning to chafe at the prospect of an indefinite period of inaction.
"I think she is boiling her kettle now," Avery answered.
Piers grunted. He fidgeted to the window and back, and then, finding Jeanie's eyes still mutely watching him, he pulled up a chair to her side and took the slender hand again into his own.
Avery turned her attention to coaxing the fire to burn, and presently went out to Mrs. Marshall in her kitchen to offer her services there. She was graciously permitted to cut some bread and butter while the old woman prepared a tray.
"I suppose it was Master Piers' fault," the latter remarked with severity. "He's always up to some mischief or other."
Avery hastened to assure her that upon this occasion Piers was absolutely blameless and had been of the utmost assistance to them.
"I'm very glad to hear it," said Mrs. Marshall. "He's a feckless young gentleman, and I often think as he's like to bring the old master's hairs with sorrow to the grave. Sir Beverley do set such store by him, always did from the day he brought him back from his dead mother in Paris, along with that French valet who carried him like as if he'd been a parcel of goods. He's been brought up by men from his cradle, miss, and it hasn't done him any good. But there! Sir Beverley is that set against all womenkind there's no moving him."
Mrs. Marshall was beginning to expand—a mark of high favour which she bestowed only upon the few.
Avery listened with respect, comfortably aware that by this simple means she was creating a good impression. She was anxious to win the old dame to a benevolent frame of mind if possible, since to be thrown upon unwilling hospitality was the last thing she desired.
It was characteristic of her that she achieved her purpose. When she returned to the parlour in Mrs. Marshall's wake, she had completely won her hostess's heart, a fact which Piers remarked on the instant.
"There's magic in you," he said to Avery, as she gave him his cup of tea.
"I prefer to call it common sense," she answered.
She turned her attention at once to Jeanie, coaxing her to drink the tea though her utmost persuasion could not induce her to eat anything. She was evidently suffering a good deal of pain, but she begged them not to trouble about her. "Please have your tea, Aunt Avery! I shall be quite all right."
"Yes, Aunt Avery must certainly have some tea," said Piers with determination, and he refused to touch his own until she had done so.
It was a relief to all three of them when the doctor's dogcart was heard on the drive. Avery rose at once and went to receive him.
Piers stretched a kindly arm behind the cushion that supported Jeanie's head. "Do you really want me to stay with you, little girl?" he asked.
Jeanie was very white, but she looked at him bravely. "Do you mind?" she said.
His dark eyes smiled encouragement. "No, of course I don't mind if I can be of any use to you. Tudor will probably want to kick me out, but if you have the smallest desire to keep me, I'll stay."
"You are kind," said Jeanie very earnestly. "I think it will help me to be brave if I may hold your hand. You have such a strong hand."
"It is entirely at your service," said Piers.
He turned in his chair at the doctor's entrance, without rising. His attitude was decidedly dogged. He looked as if he anticipated a struggle.
Dr. Tudor came in behind Avery. He was a man of forty, curt of speech and short of temper, with eyes that gleamed shrewdly behind gold pince-nez. He gave Piers a look that was conspicuously lacking in cordiality.
"Hullo!" he said. "You here!"
"Yes, I'm here," said Piers.
The doctor's eyes passed him and went straight to the white face of the child on the sofa. He advanced and bent over her.
"So you've had an accident, eh?" he said.
"Yes," whispered Jeanie, pressing a little closer to Piers.
"What happened?"
"I think it was a rabbit-hole," said Jeanie not very lucidly.
"Caught your foot and fell, I suppose?" said the doctor. "Was that all?Did you do any walking after it?"
"Oh no!" said Jeanie, with a shudder. "Mr. Evesham carried me."
"I see." He was holding her wrist between his fingers. Very suddenly he looked at Piers again. "I can't have you here," he said.
"Can't you?" said Piers. He threw back his head with an aggressive movement, but said no more.
"Please let him stay!" said Jeanie beseechingly.
The doctor frowned.
In a low voice Avery intervened. "I told him he might—for the child's sake."
Dr. Tudor turned his hawk eyes upon her. "Who are you, may I ask?"
Piers' free hand clenched, and a sudden hot flush rose to his forehead.But Avery made answer before he could speak.
"I am the mother's help at the Vicarage. My name is Denys—Mrs. Denys.And Jeanie is in my care. Now, will you look at the injury?"
She smiled a little as she said it, but the decision of her speech was past disputing. Dr. Tudor regarded her piercingly for a moment or two, then without a word turned aside.
The tension went out of Piers' attitude; he held Jeanie comfortingly close.
At the end of a brief examination the doctor spoke. "Yes. A simple fracture. I can soon put that to rights. You can help me, Mrs. Denys."
He went to work at once, giving occasional curt directions to Avery, while Jeanie clung convulsively to Piers, her face buried in his coat, and fought for self-control.
It was a very plucky fight, for the ordeal was a severe one; and when it was over the poor child broke down completely in spite of all her efforts and wept upon Piers' shoulder. He soothed and consoled her with the utmost kindness. It had been something of an ordeal for him also, and with relief he turned his attention to comforting her.
She soon grew calmer and apologized humbly for her weakness. "I don't think I could have borne it without you," she told him, with tremulous sincerity. "But I'm so dreadfully sorry to have given you all this trouble."
"That's all right," Piers assured her. "I'm glad you found me of use."
He dried her tears for the second time that afternoon, and then, with a somewhat obvious effort at civility, addressed the doctor.
"I suppose it will be all right to move her now? Can we take her home in the landaulette?"
Curtly the doctor made answer. "Very well indeed, I should say, if we lift her carefully and keep the foot straight. I'll drive you to the Abbey if you like. I'm going up to see your grandfather."
"I don't know why you should," said Piers quickly. "There's nothing the matter with him."
Dr. Tudor made no reply. "Are you coming?" he asked.
"No, thanks." There was latent triumph in Piers' response. "If you are going up, you can give the order for the landaulette, and tell my grandfather I am staying to see Miss Lorimer safely home."
Dr. Tudor grunted and turned away, frowning.
"Well, so long!" he said to Jeanie. "I'll look in on my way back, and lend a hand with moving you. But you will be all right now if you do as you're told."
"Thank you," said Jeanie meekly.
He went out with Avery, and the door closed behind them.
Jeanie stole a glance at Piers who was looking decidedly grim.
"Yes," he said in answer. "I detest him, and he knows it."
Jeanie looked a little startled. "Oh, do you?" she said.
"Don't you?" said Piers.
"I—I really don't know. Isn't it—isn't it wrong to detest anyone!" faltered Jeanie.
"Wrong!" said Piers. He frowned momentarily, then as suddenly he smiled. He bent very abruptly and kissed her on the forehead. "Yes, of course it's wrong," he said, "for the people who keep consciences."
"Oh, but—" Jeanie remonstrated, and then something in his face stopped her. She flushed and murmured in confusion, "Thank you for!—for kissing me!"
"Don't mention it!" said Piers, with a laugh.
"I should like to kiss you if I may," said Jeanie. "You have been so very kind."
He bent his face to hers and received the kiss. "You're a nice little girl," he said, and there was an odd note of feeling in the words for all their lightness that made Jeanie aware that in some fashion he was moved.
"I don't think he is quite—quite happy, do you?" she said to Avery that night when the worst of her troubles were over, and she was safely back at the Vicarage.
And Avery answered thoughtfully, "Perhaps—not quite."
The Reverend Stephen Lorimer was writing his sermon for the last Sunday in Advent. His theme was eternal punishment and one which he considered worthy of his utmost eloquence. There was nothing mythical or allegorical in that subject in the opinion of the Reverend Stephen. He believed in it most firmly, and the belief afforded him the keenest satisfaction. It was a nerve-shaking sermon. Had it been of a secular nature, it might almost have been described as inhuman, so obviously was it designed to render his hearers afraid to go home in the dark. But since it was not secular, it took the form of a fine piece of inspiration which, from Mr. Lorimer's point of view at least, could scarcely fail to make the most stubborn heart in his congregation tremble. He pictured himself delivering his splendid rhetoric with a grand and noble severity as impressive as the words he had to utter, reading appreciation—possibly unwilling appreciation—and dawning uneasiness on the upturned faces of his listeners.
Mr. Lorimer did not love his flock; his religion did not take that form. And the flock very naturally as a whole had scant affection for Mr. Lorimer. The flock knew, or shrewdly suspected, that his eloquence was mere sound—not always even musical—and as a consequence its power was somewhat thrown away. His command of words was practically limitless, but words could not carry him to the hearts of his congregation, and he had no other means at his disposal. For this of course he blamed the congregation, which certainly had no right to wink and snigger when he passed.
This Advent sermon however was a masterpiece, and as Mr. Lorimer lovingly fingered the pages of his manuscript he told himself that it could not fail to make an impression upon the most hardened sinner.
A low knock at the door disturbed these pleasant thoughts and he frowned. There was an unwritten law at the Vicarage that save for the most urgent of reasons he should never be interrupted at this hour.
Softly the door opened. Humbly his wife peeped in.
"Are you very busy, Stephen?"
His frown melted away. Here at least was one whose appreciation was never lacking. "Well, my dear Adelaide, I think I may truthfully say that the stress of my business is fairly over. You may come in."
She crept in, mouse-like, and a distant burst of music wafted in with her, causing her to turn and quickly close the door.
"Have you finished your sermon, dear? Can we have a little talk?" she asked him nervously.
He stretched out a large white hand to her without rising. "Yes. I do not think much remains to be said. We have as it were regarded the matter from every point of view. I do not think there will be many consciences unaroused when I have enunciated my final warning."
"You have such a striking delivery," murmured Mrs. Lorimer, clasping the firm white hand between both her own.
Mr. Lorimer's eyes vanished in an unctuous smile. "Thou idle flatterer!" he said.
"No, indeed, dear," his wife protested. "I think you are always impressive, especially at the end of your sermons. That pause you make before you turn your face to the altar—it seems to me so effective—so, if one may say it, dramatic."
"To what request is this the prelude?" enquired Mr. Lorimer, emerging from his smile.
She laughed a little nervous laugh. Her thin face was flushed. "Shall we sit by the fire, Stephen, as we used to that first happy winter—do you remember?—after we were married?"
"Dear me!" said Mr. Lorimer. "This sounds like a plunge into sentiment."
Nevertheless he rose with a tolerant twinkle and seated himself in the large easy-chair before the fire. It was the only really comfortable chair in the room. He kept it for his moments of reflection.
Mrs. Lorimer sat down at his feet on the fender-curb, her tiny hand still clinging to his. "This is a real treat," she said, laying her head against his knee with a gesture oddly girlish. "It isn't often, is it, that we have it all to ourselves?"
"What is it you have to say to me?" he enquired.
She drew his hand down gently over her shoulder, and held it against her cheek. There fell a brief silence, then she said with a slight effort: "Your idea of a mother's help has worked wonderfully, Stephen. As you know, I was averse to it at first but I am so glad you insisted. Dear Avery is a greater comfort to me than I can possibly tell you."
"Avery!" repeated the Reverend Stephen, with brows elevated. "I presume you are talking of Mrs. Denys?"
"Yes, dear. I call her Avery. I feel her to be almost one of ourselves." There was just a hint of apology in Mrs. Lorimer's voice. "She has been—and is—so very kind to me," she said. "I really don't know what the children and I would do without her."
"I am glad to hear she is kind," said Mr. Lorimer, with a touch of acidity.
"My dearest, she is quite our equal in position," murmured Mrs. Lorimer.
"That may be, my dear Adelaide." The acidity developed into a note of displeasure. "In a sense doubtless we are all equal. But in spite of that, extremes of intimacy are often inadvisable. I do not think you are altogether discreet in making a bosom friend of a woman in Mrs. Denys's position. A very good woman, I grant you. But familiarity with her is altogether unsuitable. From my own experience of her I am convinced that she would very soon presume upon it."
He paused. Mrs. Lorimer said nothing. She was sitting motionless with her soft eyes on the fire.
Mr. Lorimer looked down at the brown head at his knee with growing severity. "You will, therefore, Adelaide, in deference to my wish—if for no other reason—discontinue this use of Mrs. Denys's Christian name."
Mrs. Lorimer's lips moved, but they said nothing.
"Adelaide!" He spoke with cold surprise.
Instantly her fingers tightened upon his with a grip that was almost passionate. She raised her head, and looked up at him with earnest, pleading eyes. "I am sorry, Stephen—dear Stephen—but I have already given my friendship to—to Mrs. Denys. She has been—she is—like a sister to me. So you see, I can't possibly take it away again. You would not wish it if you knew."
"If I knew!" repeated Mr. Lorimer, in a peculiar tone.
She turned her face from him again, but he leaned slowly forward in his chair and taking her chin between his finger and thumb turned it deliberately back again.
She shrank a little, but she did not resist him. He looked searchingly into her eyes. The lids flickered nervously under his gaze, but he did not relax his scrutiny.
"Well?" he said.
Her lips quivered. She said nothing.
But her silence was enough. He released her abruptly and dropped back in his chair without another word.
She sank down trembling against his knee, and there followed a most painful pause. Through the stillness there crept again the faint strains of distant music. Someone was playing the Soldiers' March out ofFauston the old cracked schoolroom piano, which was rising nobly to the occasion.
Mr. Lorimer moved at length and turned his head. "Who is that playing?"
"Piers Evesham," whispered Mrs. Lorimer. She was weeping softly and dared not stir lest he should discover the fact.
There was a deep, vertical line between Mr. Lorimer's brows. "And what may Piers Evesham be doing here?" he enquired.
"He comes often—to see Jeanie," murmured his wife deprecatingly.
He laughed unpleasantly. "A vast honour for Jeanie!"
Two tears fell from Mrs. Lorimer's eyes. She began to feel furtively for her handkerchief.
"And Dr. Lennox Tudor,"—he pronounced the name with elaborate care,—"he comes—often—for the same reason, I presume?"
"He—he came to see me yesterday," faltered Mrs. Lorimer.
"Indeed!" The word was as water dropped from an icicle.
She dabbed her eyes and bravely turned and faced him. "Stephen dear, I am very sorry. I didn't want to vex you unnecessarily. I hoped against hope—" She broke off, and knelt up before him, clasping his hand tightly against her breast. "Stephen—dearest, you said—when our firstborn came—that he was—God's gift."
"Well?" Again that one, uncompromising word. The vertical line deepened between her husband's brows. His eyes looked coldly back at her.
Mrs. Lorimer caught her breath on a little sob. "Will not this little one—be just as much so?" she whispered.
He began to draw his hand away from her. "My dear Adelaide, we will not be foolishly sentimental. What must be, must. I am afraid I must ask you to run away now as I have yet to put the finishing touches to my sermon. Perhaps you will kindly request young Evesham on my behalf to make a little less noise."
He deliberately put her from him, and prepared to rise. But Mrs. Lorimer suddenly and very unexpectedly rose first. She stood before him, slightly bending, her hands on his broad shoulders.
"Will you kiss me, Stephen?" she said.
He lifted a grim, reluctant face. She stooped, slipping her arms about his neck. "My own dear husband!" she whispered.
He endured her embrace for a couple of seconds; then, "That will do, Adelaide," he said with decision. "You must not let yourself get emotional. Dear me! It is getting late. I am afraid I really must ask you to leave me."
Her arms fell. She drew back, dispirited. "Forgive me,—oh, forgive me!" she murmured miserably.
He turned back to his writing-table, still frowning. "I was not aware that I had anything to forgive," he said. "But if you think so,—" he shrugged his shoulders, beginning already to turn the pages of his masterpiece—"my forgiveness is yours. I wonder if you would care to divert your thoughts from what I am sure you will admit to be a purely selfish channel by listening to a portion of this Advent sermon."
"What is it about?" asked Mrs. Lorimer, hesitating.
"My theme," said the Reverend Stephen, "is the awful doom that awaits the unrepentant sinner."
There was a moment's silence, and then Mrs. Lorimer did an extraordinary thing. She turned from him and walked to the door.
"Thank you very much, Stephen," she said, and she spoke with decision albeit her voice was not wholly steady. "But I don't feel that that kind of diversion would do me much good. I think I shall run up to the nursery and see Baby Phil have his bath."
She was gone; but so noiselessly that Mr. Lorimer, turning in his chair to rebuke her frivolity, found himself addressing the closed door.
He turned back again with a heavy sigh. There seemed to be some disturbing element at work. Time had been when she had deemed it her dearest privilege to sit and listen to his sermons. He could not understand her refusal of an offer that ought to have delighted her. He hoped that her heart was not becoming hardened.
Could he have seen her ascending the stairs at that moment with the tears running down her face, he might have realized that that fear at least was groundless.