Piers paused an instant to grip his self-control the harder, for every word he uttered seemed to make his hold the more precarious.
"I'll tell you what I mean," he said, his voice low and savagely distinct. "I mean that what you've done—all this sneaking and scheming to get me out of your way—isn't going to serve your purpose. I mean that you shall swear to me here and now to give up the game during my absence, or take the consequences. It is entirely due to you that I am going, but—by Heaven—you shall reap no advantage from it!"
His voice rose a little, and the menace of it became more apparent. He bent slightly towards the man he threatened. His eyes blazed red and dangerous. Tudor stood his ground, but it was impossible any longer to ignore Piers' open fury. It was like the blast of a hurricane hurled full against him. He made a slight gesture of remonstrance.
"My good fellow, all this excitement is utterly uncalled for. The advice I gave your grandfather would, I am convinced, have been given by any other medical man in the country. If you are not satisfied with it, you had better get him to have another opinion. As to taking advantage of your absence, I really don't know what you mean, and I think if you are wise you won't stop to explain. It's getting late and if you don't value your night's rest, I can't do without mine. Also, I think when the morning comes, you'll be ashamed of this foolery."
He spoke with studied coldness. He knew the value of a firm front when facing odds. But he did not know the fiery soul of the man before him, or realize that contempt poured upon outraged pride is as spirit poured upon flame.
He saw the devil in Piers' eyes too late to change his tactics. Almost in the same moment the last shred of Piers' self-control vanished like smoke in a gale. He uttered a fearful oath and sprang upon Tudor like an animal freed from a leash.
The struggle that followed was furious if brief. Tudor's temper, once thoroughly roused, was as fierce as any man's, and though his knowledge of the science of fighting was wholly elementary, he made a desperate resistance. It lasted for possibly thirty seconds, and then he found himself flung violently backwards across the table and pinned there, with Piers' hands gripping his throat, and Piers' eyes, grim and murderous, glaring down into his own.
"Be still!" ordered Piers, his voice no more than a whisper. "Or I'll kill you—by Heaven, I will!"
Tudor was utterly powerless in that relentless grip. His heart was pumping with great hammer-strokes; his breathing came laboured between those merciless hands. His own hands were closed upon the iron wrists, but their hold was weakening moment by moment, he knew their grasp to be wholly ineffectual. He obeyed the order because he lacked the strength to do otherwise.
Piers slowly slackened his grip. "Now," he said, speaking between lips that scarcely seemed to move, "you will make me that promise."
"What—promise?" Gaspingly Tudor uttered the question, yet something of the habitual sneer which he always kept for Piers distorted his mouth as he spoke. He was not an easy man to beat, despite his physical limitations.
Sternly and implacably Piers answered him. "You will swear—by all you hold sacred—to take no advantage whatever of me while I am away. You had a special purpose in view when you planned to get me out of the way. You will swear to give up that purpose, till I come back."
"I?" said Tudor.
Just the one word flung upwards at his conqueror, but carrying with it a defiance so complete that even Piers was for the moment taken by surprise! Then, the devil urging him, he tightened his grip again. "Either that," he said, "or—"
He left the sentence unfinished. His hands completed the threat. He had passed the bounds of civilization, and his savagery whirled him like a fiery torrent through the gaping jaws of hell. The maddening flames were all around him, the shrieking of demons was in his ears, driving him on to destruction. He went, blinded by passion, goaded by the intolerable stabs of jealousy. In those moments he was conscious of nothing save a wild delirium of anger against the man who, beaten, yet resisted him, yet threw him his disdainful refusal to surrender even in the face of overwhelming defeat.
But the brief respite had given Tudor a transient renewal of strength. Ere that terrible grip could wholly lock again, he made another frantic effort to free himself. Spasmodic as it was, and wholly unconsidered, yet it had the advantage of being unexpected. Piers shifted his hold, and in that instant Tudor found and gripped the edge of the table. Sharply, with desperate strength, he dragged himself sideways, and before his adversary could prevent it he was over the edge. He fell heavily, dragging Piers with him, struck his head with violence against the table-leg, and crumpled with the blow like an empty sack.
Piers found himself gripping a limp, inanimate object, and with a sudden sense of overpowering horror he desisted. He stumbled up, staggering slightly, and drew a long, hard breath. His heart was racing like a runaway engine. All the blood in his body seemed to be concentrated there. Almost mechanically he waited for it to slow down. And, as he waited, the madness of that wild rush through hell fell away from him. The demons that had driven him passed into distance. He was left standing in a place of desolation, utterly and terribly alone.
* * * * *
A trickle of cold water ran down Tudor's chin. He put up a hesitating, groping hand, and opened his eyes.
He was lying in the arm-chair before the fire in which he had spent the evening. The light danced before him in blurred flashes.
"Hullo!" he muttered thickly. "I've been asleep."
He remained passive for a few moments, trying, not very successfully, to collect his scattered senses. Then, with an effort that seemed curiously laboured, he slowly sat up. Instinctively, his eyes went to the clock above him, but the hands of it seemed to be swinging round and round. He stared at it bewildered.
But when he tried to rise and investigate the mystery, the whole room began to spin, and he sank back with a feeling of intense sickness.
It was then that he became aware of another presence. Someone came from behind him and, stooping, held a tumbler to his lips. He looked up vaguely, and as in a dream he saw the face of Piers Evesham.
But it was Piers as he had never before seen him, white-lipped, unnerved, shaking. The hand that held the glass trembled almost beyond control.
"What's the matter?" questioned Tudor in hazy wonder. "Have you been boozing, or have I?"
And then, his perceptions growing stronger, he took the glass from the quivering hand and slowly drank.
The draught steadied him. He looked up with more assurance, and saw Piers, still with that deathly look on his face, leaning against the mantelpiece for support.
"What on earth's the matter?" said Tudor sharply.
He felt for his glasses, found them dangling over his shoulder, and put them on. One of them was cracked across, an illuminating fact which accounted for much. He looked keenly at Piers for several quiet seconds.
At length with a shade of humour he spoke. "Here endeth the first lesson! You'd make a better show if you had a drink also. I'm sorry there's only one glass. You see, I wasn't expecting any friends to-night."
Piers started a little and straightened himself; but his face remained bloodless, and there was a curiously stunned look in his eyes. He did not attempt to utter a word.
Tudor drained his glass, sat a moment or two longer, then got up. There were brandy and water on his writing-table. He poured out a stiff dose, and turned to Piers with authority.
"Pull yourself together, Evesham! I should have thought you'd made a big enough fool of yourself for one night. Drink this! Don't spill it now! And don't sit down on the fire, for I don't feel equal to pulling you off!"
His manner was briskly professional, the manner he usually reserved for the hysterical portion of his patients. He was still feeling decidedly shaky himself, but Piers' collapse was an admirable restorative. He stood by, vigilant and resolute, while the brandy did its work.
Piers drank in silence, not looking at him. All the arrogance had gone out of him. He looked broken and unmanned.
"Better?" asked Tudor at length.
He nodded mutely, and set down the glass.
Tudor surveyed him questioningly. "What happened to you?" he asked finally.
"Nothing!" Piers found his voice at last, it was low and shamed. "Nothing whatever! You—you—my God!—I thought you were dead, that's all."
"That all?" said Tudor. He put his hand up to his temple. There was a fair-sized lump there already, and it was swelling rapidly.
Piers nodded again. The deathly pallor had gone from his face, but he still avoided Tudor's eyes. He spoke again, below his breath, as if more to himself than to Tudor.
"You looked so horribly like—like—a man I once—saw killed."
"If you are wise, you will go home to bed," said Tudor gruffly.
Piers flashed a swift look at him. He stood hesitating. "You're not really hurt?" he questioned, after a moment.
"Thank you," said Tudor drily, "I am not."
He made no movement of reconciliation. Perhaps it was hardly to be expected of him. Piers made none either. He turned away in silence.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour. Two o'clock! Tudor looked at it with a wry smile. It had been a lively quarter of an hour.
The surgery-door banged upon Piers' departure. He heard his feet move heavily to the gate, and the dull clang of the latter closing behind him. Then, after a protracted pause, there came the sound of his motor.
As this throbbed away into distance Tudor smiled again grimly, ironically. "Yes, you young ruffian," he said. "It's given your nerves a nasty jolt, and serves you jolly well right! I never saw any fellow in such a mortal funk before, and—from your somewhat rash remark—I gather that it's not the first lesson after all. I wonder when—and how—you killed that other man."
He was still speculating as he turned out the light and went to his room.
It was the Reverend Stephen Lorimer's custom to have all letters that arrived by the morning post placed beside his breakfast plate to be sorted by him at the end of family prayers,—a custom which Gracie freely criticized in the sanctuary of the schoolroom, and which her mother in earlier days had gently and quite ineffectually tried to stop. It was always a somewhat lengthy proceeding as it entailed a careful scrutiny of each envelope, especially in the case of letters not addressed to the Reverend Stephen. He was well acquainted with the handwriting of all his wife's correspondents, and was generally ready with some shrewd guess as to their motives for writing. They were usually submitted to him for perusal as soon as she had read them herself, a habit formed by Mrs. Lorimer when she discovered that he looked upon her correspondence as his own property and deeply resented any inclination on her part to keep it to herself.
Avery's arrival had brought an additional interest to the morning budget. Her letters were invariably examined with bland curiosity and handed on to her with comments appropriate to their appearance. Occasionally envelopes with an Australian postmark reached her, and these always excited especial notice. The brief spell of Avery's married life had been spent in a corner of New South Wales. In the early part of their acquaintance, Mr. Lorimer had sought to draw her out on the subject of her experiences during this period, but he had found her reticent. And so whenever a letter came addressed in the strong, masculine hand of her Australian correspondent, some urbane remark was invariably made, while his small daughter Gracie swelled with indignation at the further end of the table.
"Two epistles for Mrs. Denys!" he announced, as he turned over the morning's mail at the breakfast-table two days after Christmas. "Ah, I thought our Australian friend would be calling attention to himself ere the festive season had quite departed. He writes from Adelaide on this occasion. That indicates a move if I mistake not. His usualpied-a-terrehas been Brisbane hitherto, has it not?"
His little dark eyes interrogated Avery for a moment before they vanished inwards with disconcerting completeness.
Avery stiffened instinctively. She was well aware that Mr. Lorimer did not like her, but the fact held no disturbing element. To her mind the dislike of the man was preferable to his favour and after all she saw but little of him.
She went on therefore with her occupation of cutting bread and butter for the children with no sign of annoyance save that slight, scarcely perceptible stiffening of the neck which only Gracie saw.
"I hope you are kind to your faithful correspondent," smiled Mr. Lorimer, still holding the letter between his finger and thumb. "He evidently regards your friendship as a pearl of price, and doubtless he is well-advised to do so."
Here he opened his eyes again, and sent a barbed glance at Avery's unresponsive face.
"Friendship is a beautiful thing, is it not?" he said.
"It is," said Avery, deftly cutting her fifth slice.
The Reverend Stephen proceeded with clerical fervour to embellish his subject, for no especial reason save the pleasure of listening to his own eloquence—a pleasure which never palled. "It partakes of that divine quality of charity so sadly lacking in many of us, and sheds golden beams of sunshine in the humblest earthly home. It has been aptly called the true earnest of eternity."
"Really!" said Avery.
"An exquisite thought, is it not?" said the Vicar. "Grace, my child, for the one-and-twentieth time I must beg of you not to swing your legs when sitting at table."
"I wasn't," said Gracie.
Her father's brows were elevated in surprise. His eyes as a consequence were opened rather wider than usual, revealing an unmistakably malignant gleam.
"That is not the way in which a Christian child should receive admonition," he said. "If you were not swinging your legs, you were fidgeting in a fashion which you very well know to be unmannerly. Do not let me have to complain of your behaviour again!"
Gracie's cheeks were crimson, her violet eyes blazing with resentment; and Avery, dreading an outburst, laid a gentle restraining hand upon her shoulder for an instant.
The action was well-meant, but its results were unfortunate. Gracie impulsively seized and kissed the hand with enthusiasm. "All right, Avery dear," she said with pointed docility.
Mr. Lorimer's brows rose a little higher, but being momentarily at a loss for a suitable comment he contented himself with a return to Avery's correspondence.
"The other letter," he said, "bears the well-known crest of the Evesham family. Ah, Mrs. Denys!" he shook his head at her. "Now, what does that portend?"
"What is the crest?" asked Avery, briskly cutting another slice.
"The devil," said Gracie.
"My dear!" remonstrated Mrs. Lorimer, with a nervous glance towards her husband.
The Reverend Stephen was smiling, but in a fashion she did not quite like. He addressed Avery.
"The Evesham crest, Mrs. Denys, is a gentleman with horns and hoofs and under him the one expressive word,'Cave.'Excellent advice, is it not? I think we should do well to follow it." He turned the envelope over, and studied the address. "What a curious style of writing the young man has, unrestrained to a degree! This looks as if it had been written in a desperate mood. Mrs. Denys, Mrs. Denys, what have you been doing?"
He began to laugh, but stopped abruptly as Julian, who was seated near him, with a sudden, clumsy movement, upset a stream of cocoa across the breakfast-table. This created an instant diversion. Mr. Lorimer turned upon him vindictively, and soundly smacked his head, Mrs. Lorimer covered her face and wept, and Avery, with Gracie close behind, hurried to remedy the disaster.
Ranald came to help her in his quiet, gentlemanly way, dabbing up the thick brown stream with his table-napkin. Pat slipped round to his mother and hugged her hard. And Olive, the only unmoved member of the party, looked on with contemptuous eyes the while she continued her breakfast. Jeanie still breakfasted upstairs in the schoolroom, and so missed thefracas.
"The place is a pig-sty!" declared Mr. Lorimer, roused out of all complacence and casting dainty phraseology to the winds. "And you, sir,"—he addressed his second son,—"wholly unfit for civilized society. Go upstairs, and—if you have any appetite left after this disgusting exhibition—satisfy it in the nursery!"
Julian, crimson but wholly unashamed, flung up his head defiantly and walked to the door.
"Stop!" commanded Mr. Lorimer, ere he reached it.
Julian stopped.
His father looked him up and down with gradually returning composure. "You will not go to the nursery," he said. "You will go to the study and there suffer the penalty for insolence."
"Stephen!" broke from Mrs. Lorimer in anguished protest.
"A beastly shame!" cried Gracie vehemently, flinging discretion to the winds; she adored her brother Julian. "He never spoke a single word!"
"Go, Julian!" said Mr. Lorimer.
Julian went, banging the door vigorously behind him.
Then, amid an awful silence, the Vicar turned his scrutiny upon his small daughter.
Gracie stood up under it with all the courage at her disposal, but she was white to the lips before that dreadful gaze passed from her to Avery.
"Mrs. Denys," said Mr. Lorimer, in tones of icy courtesy, "will you oblige me by taking that child upstairs, undressing her, and putting her to bed? She will remain there until I come."
Avery, her task accomplished, turned and faced him. She was as white as Gracie, but there was a steadfast light in her eyes that showed her wholly unafraid.
"Mr. Lorimer," she said, "with your permission I will deal with Gracie. She has done wrong, I know. By-and-bye, she will be sorry and tell you so."
Mr. Lorimer smiled sarcastically. "An apology, my dear Mrs. Denys, does not condone the offence. It is wholly against my principles to spare the rod when it is so richly merited, and I shall not do so on this occasion. Will you kindly do as I have requested?"
It was final, and Avery knew it. Mrs. Lorimer knew it also, and burst into hysterical crying.
Avery turned swiftly. "Go upstairs, dear!" she said to Gracie, and Gracie went like an arrow.
Mrs. Lorimer started to her feet. "Stephen! Stephen!" she cried imploringly.
But her husband turned a deaf ear. With a contemptuous gesture he tossedAvery's letters upon the table and stalked from the room.
Mrs. Lorimer uttered a wild cry of despair, and fell back fainting in her chair.
For the next quarter of an hour Avery was fully occupied in restoring her, again assisted by Ronald. When she came to herself, it was only to shed anguished tears on Avery's shoulder and repeat over and over again that she could not bear it, she could not bear it.
Avery was of the same opinion, but she did not say so. She strove instead with the utmost tenderness to persuade her to drink some tea. But even when she had succeeded in this, Mrs. Lorimer continued to be so exhausted and upset that at last, growing uneasy, Avery despatched Ronald for the doctor.
She sent Olive for the children's nurse and took counsel with her as to getting her mistress back to bed. But Nurse instantly discouraged this suggestion.
"For the Lord's sake, ma'am, don't take her upstairs!" she said. "The master's up there with Miss Gracie, and he's whipping the poor lamb something cruel. He made me undress her first."
"Oh, I cannot have that!" exclaimed Avery. "Stay here a minute, Nurse, while I go up!"
She rushed upstairs in furious anger to the room in which the three little girls slept. The door was locked, but the sounds within were unmistakable. Gracie was plainly receiving severe punishment from her irate parent. Her agonized crying tore Avery's heart.
She threw herself at the door and battered at it with her fists. "Mr.Lorimer!" she called. "Mr. Lorimer, let me in!"
There was no response. Possibly she was not even heard, for the dreadful crying continued and, mingled with it, the swish of the slender little riding-switch which in the earlier, less harassed days of his married life the Reverend Stephen had kept for the horse he rode, and which now he kept for his children.
They were terrible moments for Avery that she spent outside that locked door, listening impotently to a child's piteous cries for mercy from one who knew it not. But they came to an end at last. Gracie's distress sank into anguished sobs, and Avery knew that the punishment was over. Mr. Lorimer had satisfied both his sense of duty and his malice.
She heard him speak in cold, cutting tones. "I have punished you more severely than I had ever expected to find necessary, and I hope that the lesson will be sufficient. But I warn you, Grace, most solemnly that I shall watch your behaviour very closely for the future, and if I detect in you the smallest indication of the insolence and defiance for which I have inflicted this punishment upon you to-day I shall repeat the punishment fourfold. No! Not another word!" as Gracie made some inarticulate utterance. "Or you will compel me to repeat it to-night!"
And with that, he walked quietly to the door and unlocked it.
Avery had ceased to beat upon it; she met him white and stiff in the doorway.
"I have just sent for the doctor," she said. "Mrs. Lorimer has been taken ill."
She passed him at once with the words, not looking at him, for she could not trust herself. Straight to Gracie, huddled on the floor in her night-dress, she went, and lifted the child bodily to her bed.
Gracie clung to her, sobbing passionately. Mr. Lorimer lingered in the doorway.
"Will you go, please?" said Avery, tight-lipped and rigid, the child clasped to her throbbing heart.
It was a definite command, spoken in a tone that almost compelled compliance, and Mr. Lorimer lingered no more.
Then for one long minute Avery sat and rocked the poor little tortured body in her arms.
At length, through Gracie's sobs, she spoke. "Gracie darling, I'm going to ask you to do something big for me."
"Yes?" sobbed Gracie, clinging tightly round her neck.
"Leave off crying!" Avery said. "Please leave off crying, darling, and be your own brave self!"
"I can't," cried Gracie.
"But do try, darling!" Avery urged her softly. "Because, you see, I can't leave you like this, and your poor little mother wants me so badly. She is ill, Gracie, and I ought to go to her, but I can't while you are crying so."
Thus adjured, Gracie made gallant efforts to check herself. But her spirit was temporarily quite broken. She stood passively with the tears running down her face while Avery hastily dressed her again and set her rumpled hair to rights. Then again for a few seconds they held each other very tightly.
"Bless you, my own brave darling!" Avery whispered.
To which Gracie made tearful reply: "Whatever should we do without you, dear—dear Avery?"
"And you won't cry any more?" pleaded Avery, who was nearer to tears herself than she dared have owned.
"No," said Gracie valiantly.
She began to dry her eyes with vigour—a hopeful sign; and after pressing upon Avery another damp kiss was even able to muster a smile.
"Now you can do something to help me," said Avery. "Give yourself five minutes—here's my watch to go by!" She slipped it off her own wrist and on to Gracie's. "Then run up to the nursery and see after the children while Nurse is downstairs! And drink a cup of milk, dearie! Mind you do, for you've had nothing yet."
"I shall love to wear your watch," murmured Gracie, beginning to be comforted.
"I know you'll take care of it," Avery said, with a loving hand on the child's hair. "Now you'll be all right, will you? I can leave you without worrying?"
Gracie gave her face a final polish, and nodded. Spent and sore though she was, her spirit was beginning to revive. "Is Mother really ill?" she asked, as Avery turned to go.
"I don't know, dear. I'm rather anxious about her," said Avery.
"It's all Father's fault," said Gracie.
Avery was silent. She could not contradict the statement.
As she reached the door, Gracie spoke again, but more to herself than to Avery. "I hope—when he dies—he'll go to hell and stay there for ever and ever and ever!"
"Oh, Gracie!" Avery stopped, genuinely shocked. "How wrong!" she said.
Gracie nodded several times. "Yes, I know it's wrong, but I don't care.And I hope he'll die to-morrow."
"Hush! Hush!" Avery said.
Whereat Gracie broke into a propitiatory smile. "The things I wish for never happen," she said.
And Avery departed, wondering if this statement deserved to be treated in the light of an amendment.
Lennox Tudor spent hours at the Vicarage that day in close attendance upon Mrs. Lorimer in company with Avery who scarcely left her side. Terrible hours they were, during which they battled strenuously to keep the poor, quivering life in her weary body.
"There is no reason why she shouldn't pull round," Tudor assured Avery.
But yet throughout the day she hovered on the verge of collapse.
By night the worst danger was over, but intense weakness remained. She lay white and still, taking notice of nothing. Only once, when Avery was giving her nourishment, did she rouse herself to speak.
"Beg my husband not to be vexed with me!" she whispered. "Tell him there won't be another little one after all! He'll be glad to know that."
And Avery, cut to the heart, promised to deliver the message.
A little later she stole away, leaving the children's nurse in charge, and slipped up to the schoolroom for some tea. Tudor had gone to see another patient, but had promised to return as soon as possible.
The children were all gathered round the table at which Olive very capably presided. Gracie, looking wan and subdued, sat on the end of Jeanie's sofa; but she sprang to meet Avery the moment she appeared.
Avery sat down, holding the child's hand in hers. She glanced round the table as she did so.
"Where is Julian?"
"Upstairs," said Ronald briefly. "In disgrace."
Avery felt her heart contract with a sick sense of further trouble in the air. "Has he been there all day?" she asked. Ronald nodded. "And another flogging to-night if he doesn't apologize. He says he'll die first."
"So would I," breathed Gracie.
At this juncture the door swung open with stately precision, and Mr. Lorimer entered. Everyone rose, according to established custom, with the exceptions of Avery and Jeanie. Gracie's fingers tightened convulsively upon Avery's hand, and she turned as white as the table-cloth.
Mr. Lorimer, however, looked over her head as if she did not exist, and addressed Avery.
"Mrs. Denys, be so good as to spare me two minutes in the study!" he said with extreme formality.
"Certainly," Avery made quiet reply. "I will come to you before I go back to Mrs. Lorimer."
He raised his brows slightly, as if he had expected a more prompt compliance with his request. And then his eyes fell upon Gracie, clinging fast to Avery's hand.
"Grace," he said, in his clear, definite tones, "come here!"
The child gave a great start and shrank against Avery's shoulder. "Oh no!" she whispered. "No!"
"Come here!" repeated Mr. Lorimer.
He extended his hand, but Gracie only shrank further away. She was trembling violently, so violently that Avery felt impelled to pass a sustaining arm around her.
"Come, my child!" said the Vicar, the majestic composure of his features gradually yielding to a look of dawning severity.
"Go, dear!" whispered Avery.
"I don't want to," gasped Gracie.
"I shall not punish you," her father said, "unless I find you disobedient or still unrepentant."
"Darling, go!" Avery urged softly into her ear. "It'll be all right now."
But Gracie, shaking from head to foot and scarcely able to stand, only clung to her the faster, and in a moment she began agitatedly to cry.
Mr. Lorimer's hand fell to his side. "Still unrepentant, I fear," he said.
Avery, with the child gathered closely to her, looked across at him with wide, accusing eyes.
"She is frightened and upset," she said. "It is not fair to judge her in this condition."
Mr. Lorimer's eyes gleamed back malignantly. He made her an icy bow. "In that case, Mrs. Denys," he said, "she had better go to bed and stay there until her condition has improved."
Avery compressed her lips tightly, and made no rejoinder.
The Reverend Stephen compressed his, and after a definite pause of most unpleasant tension, he uttered a deep sigh and withdrew.
"I know he means to do it again!" sobbed Gracie. "I know he does!"
"He shall not!" said Avery.
And with the words she put the child from her, rose, and with great determination walked out of the room.
Mr. Lorimer had scarcely settled himself in what he called his "chair of ease" in the study when her low knock reached him, and she entered. Her grey eyes were no longer angry, but very resolute. She closed the door softly, and came straight to the fire.
"Mr. Lorimer," she said, her voice pitched very low, "I want you to be patient with me just for a minute. Will you?"
Mr. Lorimer sighed again. "I am yearning for the refreshment of a little solitary meditation, Mrs. Denys," he said.
"I shall not keep you," Avery rejoined steadily. She stood before him, very pale but wholly composed. "What I have to say can be said in a very few seconds. First, with regard to Gracie; the child is so upset that I think any further punishment would make her downright ill."
"Pooh, my dear Mrs. Denys!" said the Reverend Stephen.
Avery paused a moment. "Will you try to listen to me with an open mind?" she said.
"I am listening," said Mr. Lorimer.
"I know she was naughty this morning," Avery continued. "I am not trying to defend her behaviour. But her punishment was a very severe one, and it has so terrified her that at present she can think of nothing else. Give her time to be sorry! Please give her time!"
Mr. Lorimer glanced at the clock. "She has already had nine hours," he observed. "I shall give her three more."
"And then?" said Avery.
His eyes travelled up to her troubled face. "And if by then," he said deliberately, "she has not come to me to express her penitence, I shall be reluctantly compelled to repeat the punishment."
"You will drive the child out of her senses if you do!" Avery exclaimed.
He shrugged his shoulders. "My dear Mrs. Denys, permit me to remind you that I have had considerable experience in the upbringing of children."
"And they are all afraid of you," Avery said.
He smiled. "In my opinion a little wholesome awe is salutary. No, Mrs. Denys, I cannot listen any further to your persuasion. In fact I fear that in Grace's case I have so far erred on the side of laxness. She has become very wild and uncontrolled, and—she must be tamed."
He closed his lips upon the word, and despair entered Avery's heart. She gripped her self-control with all her might, realizing that the moment she lost it, her strength would be gone.
With a great effort she turned from the subject. "I have a message for you from Mrs. Lorimer," she said, after a moment, and proceeded to deliver it in a low, steady voice, her eyes upon the fire.
The man in the chair heard it without the movement of a muscle of his face. "I will endeavour to look in upon her presently," was all the reply he made.
Avery turned to go, but he stopped her with a gesture.
"Mrs. Denys," he said smoothly, "you forget, I think, that I also had something to say."
Avery paused. She had forgotten.
He turned his eyes deliberately up to hers, as he leaned back in his chair. "I am sorry to have to tell you," he said, "that in consequence of your unfortunate zeal in encouraging the children in insubordination, I can no longer look upon you as in any sense a help in my household. I therefore desire that you will take a month's notice from now. If I can fill your place sooner, I shall dispense with your services earlier."
Calmly, dispassionately, he uttered the words. Avery stood quite still to hear them. And through her like a stab there ran the thought of the poor little woman upstairs. The pain of it was almost unbearable. She caught her breath involuntarily.
But the next moment she was herself again. She bowed without a word, and turned to go.
She had nearly reached the door ere she discovered that it stood open, and that Lennox Tudor was on the threshold, more grimly strong than she had ever before realized him to be.
He stood back for her to pass, holding the door for her without speaking.And in silence Avery departed.
"Ah, my worthy physician, enter, enter!" was Mr. Lorimer's bland greeting. "What news of the patient?"
Tudor tramped up to the hearth, looking very square and resolute. "I've come from the schoolroom," he said, "where I went to take a look at Jeanie. But I found Gracie required more of my attention than she did. Are you absolutely mad, I wonder, to inflict corporal punishment upon a highly-strung child like that? Let me tell you this! You'll turn her into a senseless idiot if you persist! The child is nearly crazed with terror as it is. I've told them to put her to bed, and I'm going up to give her a soothing draught directly."
Mr. Lorimer rose with dignity. "You somewhat magnify your office, doctor," he said.
"No, I don't!" said Tudor rudely. "I do what I must. And I warn you that child is wrought up to a highly dangerous pitch of excitement. You don't want her to have brain-fever, I suppose?"
"Pooh!" said Mr. Lorimer.
Tudor stamped a furious foot, and let himself go. He had no scruples about losing his temper at that moment. He poured forth his indignation in a perfect tornado of righteous anger.
"That's all you have to say, is it? You—a man of God, so-called—killing your wife by inches and not caring a damn what suffering you cause! I tell you, she has been at death's door all day, thanks to your infernal behaviour. She may die yet, and you will be directly responsible. You've crushed her systematically, body and soul. As to the children, if you touch that little girl again—or any of 'em—I'll haul you before the Bench for cruelty. Do you hear that?"
Mr. Lorimer, who had been waving a protesting hand throughout this vigorous denunciation, here interposed a lofty: "Sir! You forget yourself!"
"Not I!" flung back Tudor. "I know very well what I'm about. I spoke to you once before about your wife, and you wouldn't listen. But—by Heaven—you shall listen this time, and hear the straight truth for once. Her life has been a perpetual martyrdom for years. You've tortured her through the children as cruelly as any victim was ever tortured on the rack. But it's got to stop now. I don't deal in empty threats. What I've said I shall stick to. You may be the Vicar of the parish, but you're under the same law as the poorest of 'em. And if anything more of this kind happens, you shall feel the law. And a pretty scandal it'll make."
He paused a moment, but Mr. Lorimer stood in frozen silence; and almost immediately he plunged on.
"Now as regards Mrs. Denys; I heard you give her notice just now. That must be taken back—if she will consent to stay. For Mrs. Lorimer literally can't do without her yet. Mrs. Lorimer will be an invalid for some time to come, if not for good and all. And who is going to take charge of the house if you kick out the only capable person it contains? Who is going to look after your precious comfort, not to mention that of your wife and children? I tell you Mrs. Denys is absolutely indispensable to you all for the present. If you part with her, you part with every shred of ease and domestic peace you have. And you will have to keep a properly qualified nurse to look after your wife. And it isn't every nurse that is a blessing in the home, I can assure you."
He stopped again; and finding Mr. Lorimer still somewhat dazed by this sudden attack, he turned and began to pace the room to give him time to recover.
There followed a prolonged silence. Then at last, with a deep sigh, theVicar dropped down again in his chair.
"My good doctor," he said, "I am convinced that your motives are good though your language be somewhat lacking in restraint. I am sorely perplexed; let me admit it! Mrs. Denys is, I believe, a thoroughly efficient housekeeper, but—" he paused impressively—"her presence is a disturbing element with which I would gladly dispense. She is continually inventing some pretext for presenting herself at the study-door. Moreover, she is extremely injudicious with the children, and I am bound to think of their spiritual welfare before their mere bodily needs."
He was evidently anxious to avoid an open rupture, so perhaps it was as well that he did not see the look on Tudor's face as he listened to this harangue.
"Why don't you pack them off to school?" said Tudor, sticking to the point with commendable resolution. "Peace in the house is absolutely essential to Mrs. Lorimer. All the elder ones would be better out of it—with the exception of Jeanie."
"And why with the exception of Jeanie, may I ask?" There was a touch of asperity in Mr. Lorimer's voice. He had been badly browbeaten, and—for some reason—he had had to submit. But he was in no docile mood thereafter.
Tudor heard the note of resentment in his tone, and came back to the hearth. "I have been awaiting a suitable opportunity to talk to you about Jeanie," he said.
"What next? What next?" said Mr. Lorimer fretfully.
Tudor proceeded to tell him, his tone deliberately unsympathetic. "She needs most careful treatment, most vigilant watching. There is a weakness of the lungs which might develop at any time. Mrs. Denys understands her and can take care of her. But she is in no state to be entrusted to strangers."
"Why was this not mentioned to me before?" said Mr. Lorimer querulously. "Though the head of the house, I am always the last to be told of anything of importance. I suppose you are sure of what you say?"
"Quite sure," said Tudor, "though I should be absolutely willing for you to have another opinion at any time. As to not telling you, I have always found it difficult to get you to listen, and, as a rule, I have no time to waste on persuasion." He looked at the clock. "I ought to be going now. You will consider what I have said about sending the other children away to school? You'll find it's the only thing to do."
Mr. Lorimer sighed again with deep melancholy.
Tudor squared his shoulders aggressively. "And with your permission I'll tell Mrs. Denys that you have reconsidered the matter and hope she will remain for a time at least, if she can see her way to do so."
He paused very definitely for a reply to this. Mr. Lorimer's mouth was drawn down at the corners, but he looked into the fire with the aloofness of a mind not occupied with mundane things.
Tudor faced him and waited with grim resolution; but several seconds passed ere his attitude seemed to become apparent to the abstracted Vicar. Then with extreme deliberation his eyelids were raised.
"Excuse me, doctor! My thoughts were for the moment elsewhere. Yes, you have my permission to tell her that. And—I agree with you. It seems advisable to remove the elder children from her influence without delay. I shall therefore take steps to do so."
Tudor nodded with a shrug of the shoulders. It did not matter to him in what garb his advice was dressed, so long as it was followed.
"Very well," he said. "I am now going to settle Gracie, and I shall tell her you have issued a free pardon all round, and no more will be said to anyone. I was told one of the boys was in hot water too, but you can let him off for once. You're much more likely to make him ashamed of himself that way."
Mr. Lorimer resumed his contemplation of the fire without speaking.
Tudor turned to go. He was fairly satisfied that he had established peace for the time being, and he was not ill-pleased with his success.
He told himself as he departed that he had discovered how to deal with the Reverend Stephen. It had never occurred to him to attempt such treatment before.
To Avery later he gave but few details of the interview, but she could not fail to see his grim elation and smiled at it.
"I am to stay then, am I?" she said.
"If you will graciously consent to do so," said Tudor, with his brief smile.
"I couldn't do anything else," she said.
"I'm glad of that," he said abruptly, "for my own sake."
And with that very suddenly he turned the subject.
At ten o'clock that night, Avery went round to bid each child good-night. She found Gracie sleeping peacefully with her bed pushed close to Jeanie's. The latter was awake and whispered a greeting. On the other side of the room Olive slept the sleep of the just. Avery did not pause by her bed, but went straight to Jeanie, who held her hand for a little and then gently begged her to go to bed herself.
"You must be so tired," she said.
Avery could not deny the fact. But she had arranged to sleep in Mrs.Lorimer's room, so she could not look forward to a night without care.She did not tell Jeanie this, however, but presently kissed her tenderlyand stole away.
She visited the younger boys, and found them all asleep; then slipped up to the attic in which the elder lads slept.
She heard their voices as she reached the closed door. She knocked softly therefore, and in a moment heard one of them leap to open it.
It was Ronald, clad in pyjamas but unfailingly courteous, who invited her to enter.
"I knew it must be you, Mrs. Denys. Come in! Very pleased to see you.Wait a second while I light a candle!"
He did so, and revealed Julian sitting up in bed with sullen defiance writ large upon his face. But he smiled at sight of her, and patted the side of his bed invitingly.
"Don't sit on the chair! It's untrustworthy. It's awfully decent of you to look us up like this,—that is, if you haven't come to preach."
"I haven't," said Avery, accepting the invitation since she felt too weary to stand.
Julian nodded approval. "That's right. I knew you were too much of a brick. I'm awaiting my next swishing for upsetting my cup at breakfast in your defence, so I hardly think I deserve any pi-jaw from you, do I?"
"Oh, I'm not at all pi, I assure you," Avery said. "And if it was done for my sake, I'm quite grateful, though I wish you hadn't."
Julian grinned at her, and she proceeded.
"I don't think you need wait any longer for the swishing. Your father has decided, I understand, not to carry the matter any further."
Julian opened his eyes wide. "What? You've been at him, have you?"
Avery smiled even while she sighed.
"Oh, I'm no good, Julian. I only make things worse when I interfere. No, it's not due to me. But, all the same, I hope and believe the trouble has blown over for the present. Do—do try and keep the peace in the future!"
Her weariness sounded in her voice; it quivered in spite of her.
Julian placed a quick, clammy hand on hers and squeezed it affectionately.
"Anything to oblige!" he promised generously. "Here Ron! Shy over those letters! She wants something to cheer her up."
"Letters!" Avery looked round sharply. "I had forgotten my letters!" she said.
"Here they are!" Ronald came forward and placed them in her hand. "I picked 'em up this morning, and then when you sent me off for the doc, I forgot all about 'em. I'm sorry. I only came across them when I was undressing, and you were busy in the mater's room, so I thought I'd keep them safe till to-morrow. I hope they are not important," he added.
"I don't suppose so," said Avery; yet her heart jerked oddly as she slipped them into her dress. "Thank you for taking care of them. I must be going now. You are going to be good?"
She looked at Julian, who, still feeling generous, thrust a rough, boyish arm about her neck and kissed her.
"You're a trump!" he said. "There! Good-night! I'll be as meek as Moses in the morning."
It was a definite promise, and Avery felt relieved. She took leave of Ronald more ceremoniously. His scrupulous politeness demanded it. And then with feet that felt strangely light, considering her fatigue, she ran softly down again to Mrs. Lorimer's room.
In the dressing-room adjoining, she opened and read her letters. One of them—the one with the Australian stamp, characteristically brief but kind—was to tell her that the writer, a friend of some standing, was coming to England, and hoped to see her again ere long.
The other, bearing the sinister Evesham crest, lay on the table unopened till she was undressed and ready to join Mrs. Lorimer. Then—for the first time in all that weary day of turmoil—Avery stole a few moments of luxury.
She sat down and opened Piers' letter.
It began impetuously, without preliminary. "I wonder whether you have any idea what it costs to clear out without a word of farewell. Perhaps you are even thinking that I've forgotten. Or perhaps it matters so little to you that you haven't thought at all. I know you won't tell me, so it's not much good speculating. But lest you should misunderstand in any way, I want to explain that I haven't been fit to come near you since we parted on Christmas Eve. You were angry with me then, weren't you? Avery in a temper! Do you remember how it went? At least you meant to be, but somehow you didn't get up the steam. You wished me a happy Christmas instead, and I ought to have had one in consequence. But I didn't. I played the giddy goat off and on all day long, and my grandfather—dear old chap—thought what a merry infant I was. But—you've heard of the worm that dieth not and the fire that is not quenched? The Reverend Stephen has taken care of that. Do you remember his 'penny-terrible' of a Sunday or two ago? You were very angry about it, Avery. I love you when you're angry. And how he dilated on the gates of brass and the bars of iron and the outer darkness etc, etc, till we all went home and shivered in our beds! Well, that's the sort of place I spent my Christmas in, and I wanted to come to you and Jeanie and be made happy, but—I couldn't. I was too fast in prison. I felt too murderous. I hunted all the next day to try and get more wholesome. But it was no good. I was seeing red all the time. And at night something happened that touched me off like an exploded train of gunpowder. Has Tudor told you about it yet? Doubtless he will. I tried to murder him, and succeeded in cracking his eye-glass. Banal, wasn't it? And I have an uneasy feeling that he came out top-dog after all, confound him!
"Avery, whomever else you have no use for, I know you're not in love with him, and in my saner moments I realize that you never could be. But I wasn't sane just then. I love you so! I love you so! It's good to be able to get it right out before you have time to stop me. For I worship you, Avery, my darling! You don't realize it. How should you? You think it is just the passing fancy of a boy. A boy—ye gods!
"I think of you hour by hour. You are always close in your own secret place in my heart. I hold you in my arms when no one else is near. I kiss your forehead, your eyes, your hair. No, not your lips, dear, even in fancy. I have never in my maddest dreams kissed your lips. But I ache and crave and long for them, though—till you give me leave—I dare not even pretend that they are mine. Will you ever give me leave? You say No now. Yet I think you will, Avery. I think you will. I have known ever since that first moment when you held me back from flaying poor old Caesar that I have met my Fate, and because I know it I'm trying—for your sweet sake—to make myself a better man. It's beastly uphill work, and that episode with Tudor has pulled me back. Confound him! By the way though, it's done me good in one sense, for I find I don't detest him quite so hideously as I did. The man has his points.
"And now Avery,—dear Avery, will you forgive me for writing all this? I know you won't write to me, but I send my address in case! And I shall watch every mail day after day, night after night, for the letter that will never come.
"Pathetic picture, isn't it? Good-bye!
"My love to the Queen of all good fairies, and tell Pixie that I hope the gloves fitted."
Avery's lips parted in a smile; a soft flush overspread her face. That costly gift from the children—she had guessed from the beginning whence it came.
And then slowly, even with reverence, she folded the letter up, and rose. Her smile became a little tremulous. It had been a day of many troubles, and she was very tired. The boy's adoration was strangely sweet to her wearied senses. She felt subtly softened and tender towards him.
No, it must not be! It could not be! He must forget her. She would write to-morrow and tell him so. Yet for that one night the charm held her. She viewed from afar an enchanted land—a land of sunshine and singing birds—a land where it was always spring. It was a country she had seen before, but only in her dreams. Her feet had never wandered there. The path she had followed had not led to it. Perhaps it was all a mirage. Perhaps there was no path.
Yet in her dreams she crossed the boundary, and entered the forbidden land.
"Eternal sunshine!" said Piers, with a grimace at the deep, deep blue of the slumbering water that stretched below him to the horizon. "And at night eternal moonshine. Romantic but monotonous. I wonder if the post is in."
He cast an irresolute glance up the path behind him, but decided to remain where he was. He had looked so many times in vain.
There were a good many people in the hotel, but he was not feeling sociable. The night before he had dropped a considerable sum at the Casino, but it had not greatly interested him. Regretfully he had come to the conclusion that gambling in that form did not attract him. The greedy crowd that pushed and strove in the heated rooms, he regarded as downright revolting. He himself had been robbed with astonishing audacity by a lady with painted eyes who had snatched his only winnings before he could reach them. It was a small episode, and he had let it pass, but it had not rendered the tables more attractive. He had in fact left them in utter disgust.
Altogether he was feeling decidedly out of tune with his surroundings that morning, and the beauty of the scene irritated rather than soothed him. In the garden a short distance from him, a voluble French party were chattering with great animation and a good deal of cackling laughter. He wondered what on earth they found to amuse them so persistently. He also wondered if a swim in that faultless blue would do anything to improve his temper, and decided with another wry grimace that it was hardly worth while to try.
It was at this point that there fell a step on the winding path below him that led down amongst shrubs to the sea. The top of a Panama hat caught Piers' attention. He watched it idly as it ascended, speculating without much interest as to the face beneath it. It mounted with the utmost steadiness, neither hastening nor lingering. There was something about its unvarying progress that struck Piers as British. His interest increased at once. He suddenly discovered that he wanted someone British to talk to, forgetting the fact that he had fled but ten minutes before from the boring society of an Anglo-Indian colonel.
The man in the Panama came nearer. Piers from above began to have a glimpse of a tweed coat and a strong brown hand that swung in time to the steady stride. The path curved immediately below him, and the last few yards of it led directly to the spot on which he stood. As the stranger rounded the curve he came into full view.
He was a big man, broadly built and powerful. His whole personality was suggestive of squareness. And yet to Piers' critical eyes he did not look wholly British. His gait was that of a man accustomed to long hours in the saddle. Under the turned-down Panama the square, determined chin showed massively. It was a chin that obviously required constant shaving.
Quietly the man drew near. He did not see Piers under his lowered hat-brim till he was within a few feet of him. Then, becoming suddenly aware of him, he raised his eyes. A moment later, his hand went up in a brief, friendly salute.
Piers' hand made instant response. "Splendid morning!" he began to say—and stopped with the words half-uttered. The blood surged up to his forehead in a great wave. "Good Heavens!" he said instead.
The other man paused. He did not look at Piers very narrowly, but merely glanced towards him and then turned his eyes towards the wonderful, far-stretching blue below them.
"Yes, splendid," he said quietly. "Worth remembering—a scene like this."
His tone was absolutely impersonal. He stood beside Piers for a moment or two, gazing forth into the infinite distance; then with a slight gesture of leave-taking he turned as if to continue his progress.
In that instant, however, Piers recovered himself sufficiently to speak. His face was still deeply flushed, but his voice was steady enough as he turned fully and addressed the new-comer.
"Don't you know me? We have met before."
The other man stopped at once. He held out his hand. "Yes, of course I know you—knew you the moment I set eyes on you. But I wasn't sure that you would care to be recognized by me."
"What on earth do you take me for?" said Piers bluntly.
He gripped the hand hard, looking straight into the calm eyes with a curious sense of being sustained thereby. "I believe," he said, with an odd impulse of impetuosity, "that you are the one man in the world that I couldn't be other than pleased to see."
The elder man smiled. "That's very kind of you," he said.
He had the slow speech of one accustomed to solitude. He kept Piers' hand in his in a warm, firm grip. "I have often thought about you," he said. "You know, I never heard your name."
"My name is Evesham," said Piers, with the quick, gracious manner habitual to him. "Piers Evesham."
"Thank you. Mine is Edmund Crowther. Odd that we should meet like this!"
"A piece of luck I didn't expect!" said Piers boyishly. "Have you only just arrived?"
"I came here last night from Marseilles." Crowther's eyes rested on the smiling face with its proud, patrician features with the look of a man examining a perfect bronze. "It's very kind of you to welcome me like this," he said. "I was feeling a stranger in a strange land as I came up that path."
"I've been watching you," said Piers. "I liked the business-like way you tackled it. It was British."
Crowther smiled. "I suppose it has become second nature with me to put business first," he said.
"Wish I could say the same," said Piers; and then, with his hand on the other man's arm: "Come and have a drink! You are staying for some time, I hope?"
"No, not for long," said Crowther. "It was yielding to temptation to come here at all."
"Are you alone?" asked Piers.
"Quite alone."
"Then there's no occasion to hurry," said Piers. "You stay here for a bit, and kill time with me."
"I never kill time," said Crowther deliberately. "It's too scarce a commodity."
"It is when you're happy," said Piers.
Crowther looked at him with a question in his eyes that he did not put into words, and in answer to which Piers laughed a reckless laugh.
They were walking side by side up the hotel-garden, and each successive group of visitors that they passed turned to stare. For both men were in a fashion remarkable. The massive strength of the elder with his square, dogged face and purposeful stride; the lithe, muscular power of the younger with his superb carriage and haughty nobility of feature, formed a contrast as complete as it was arresting.
They ascended the steps that led up to the terrace, and here Piers paused. "You sit down here while I go and order drinks! Here's a comfortable seat, and here's an English paper!"
He thrust it into Crowther's hand and departed with a careless whistle on his lips. But Crowther did not look at the paper. His eyes followed Piers as long as he was in sight, and then with that look in them as of one who watches from afar turned contemplatively towards the sea. After a little he took his hat off and suffered the morning-breeze to blow across his forehead. He had the serene brow of a child, though the hair above it was broadly streaked with grey.
He was still sitting thus when there came the sound of jerky footsteps on the terrace behind him and an irascible voice addressed him with scarcely concealed impatience.
"Excuse me! I saw you talking to my grandson just now. Do you know where the young fool is gone to?"
Crowther turned in his solid, imperturbable fashion, looked at the speaker, and got to his feet.
"I can," he said, with a smile. "He has gone to procure drinks in my honour. He and I are—old friends."
"Oh!" said Sir Beverley, and looked him up and down in a fashion which another man might have found offensive. "And who may you be?"
"My name is Crowther," said the other with simplicity.
Sir Beverley grunted. "That doesn't tell me much. Never heard of you before."
"I daresay not." Crowther was quite unmoved; there was even a hint of humour in his tone. "Your grandson is probably a man of many friends."
"Why should you say that?" demanded Sir Beverley suspiciously.
"Won't you sit down?" said Crowther.
Sir Beverley hesitated a moment, then abruptly complied with the suggestion. Crowther followed his example, and they faced one another across the little table.
"I say it," said Crowther, "because that is the sort of lad I take him to be."
Sir Beverley grunted again. "And when and where did you make his acquaintance?" he enquired, with a stern, unsparing scrutiny of the calm face opposite.
"We met in Australia," said Crowther. "It must be six years or more ago."
"Australia's a big place," observed Sir Beverley.
Crowther's slow smile appeared. "Yes, sir, it is. It's so mighty big that it makes all the other places of the world seem small. Have you ever been in Queensland—ever seen a sheep-farm?"
"No, I've never been in Queensland," snapped Sir Beverley. "But as to sheep-farms, I've got one of my own."
"How many acres?" asked Crowther.
"Oh, don't ask me! Piers will tell you. Piers knows. Where the devil is the boy? Why doesn't he come?"
"Here, sir, here!" cried Piers, coming up behind him. "I see you have made the acquaintance of my friend. Crowther, let me present you to my grandfather, Sir Beverley Evesham! I've just been to look for you," he added to the latter. "But Victor told me you had gone out, and then I spied you out of the window."
"I told you I was coming out, didn't I?" growled Sir Beverley. "So this is a friend of yours, is it? How is it I've never heard of him before?"
"We lost sight of each other," explained Piers, pulling forward a chair between them and dropping into it. "But that state of affairs is not going to happen again. How long are you over for, Crowther?"
"Possibly a year, possibly more." Again Crowther's eyes were upon him, critical but kindly.
"Going to spend your time in England?" asked Piers.
Crowther nodded. "Most of it, yes."
"Good!" said Piers with satisfaction. "We shall see plenty of you then."
"But I am going to be busy," said Crowther, with a smile.
"Of course you are. You can come down and teach me how to make the HomeFarm a success," laughed Piers.
"I shall be very pleased to try," said Crowther, "though," he turned towards Sir Beverley, "I expect you, sir, know as much on that subject as either of us."
Sir Beverley's eyes were upon him with searching directness. He seemed to be trying to discover a reason for his boy's obvious pleasure in his unexpected meeting with this man who must have been nearly twice his age.
"I've never done much in the farming line," he said briefly, in answer to Crowther's observation. "It's been more of a pastime with me than anything else. It's the same with Piers here. He's only putting in time with it till the constituency falls vacant."
"I see," said Crowther, adding with his quiet smile: "There seems to be plenty of time anyhow in the old country, whatever else she may be short of."
Piers laughed as he lifted his glass. "Time for everything but work, Crowther. She has developed beastly loose morals in her old age. Some day there'll come a nasty bust up, and she may pull herself together and do things again, or she may go to pieces. I wonder which."
"I don't," said Crowther.