So with blunt defiance he made the announcement, and as he did so, it came to Avery suddenly and quite convincingly that she had been the cause of the quarrel. A shock of dismay went through her. She had not anticipated this. She felt that the suspicion must be verified or refuted at once.
"Piers," she said quickly, "why did you quarrel with your grandfather?Was it because of your affair with Miss Rose?"
"I never had an affair with Miss Rose," said Piers rather sullenly. He dug up a small stone, and flung it with vindictive force at the face of the cliff. "Ask her, if you don't believe me!"
He paused a moment, then went on in a dogged note: "I told him—of a certain intention of mine. He tackled me about it first, was absolutely intolerable. I just couldn't hold myself in. And then somehow we got violent. It was his fault. Anyway, he began it."
"You haven't told me—yet—what you quarrelled about," said Avery, with a sinking heart.
He shrugged his shoulders without looking at her. "It doesn't matter, does it?"
She made answer with a certain firmness. "Yes, I think it does."
"Well, then,"—abruptly he raised himself and faced round, his dark eyes raised to hers,—"I told him, Avery, that if I couldn't marry the woman I loved, I would never marry at all."
There was no sullenness about him now, only steadfast purpose. He looked her full in the face as he said it, and she quivered a little before the mastery of his look.
He laid a hand upon her knee as she sat above him in sore perplexity."Would you have me do anything else?" he said.
She answered him with a conscious effort. "I want you to love—and marry—the right woman."
He uttered a queer, unsteady laugh and leaned his head against her. "Oh, my dear," he said, "there is no other woman but you in all the world."
Something fiery that was almost like a dart of pain went through Avery at his words. She moved instinctively, but it was not in shrinking. After a moment she laid her hand upon his.
"Piers," she said, "I can't bear hurting you."
"You wouldn't hurt a fly," said Piers.
She smiled faintly. "Not if I could help it. But that doesn't prove that I am fond of flies. And now, Piers, I am going to ask a very big thing of you. I wonder if you will do it."
"I wonder," said Piers.
He had not moved at her touch, yet she felt his fingers close tensely as they lay upon her knee, and she guessed that he was still striving to control the inner tumult that had so nearly overwhelmed him a few minutes before.
"I know it is a big thing," she said. "Yet—for my sake if you like—I want you to do it."
"I will do anything for your sake," he made passionate answer.
"Thank you," she said gently. "Then, Piers, I want you—please—to go back to Sir Beverley at once, and make it up."
He withdrew his hand sharply from hers, and sat up, turning his back upon her. "No!" he said harshly. "No!"
"Please, Piers!" she said very earnestly.
He locked his arms round his knees and sat in silence, staring moodily out to sea.
"Please, Piers!" she said again, and lightly touched his shoulder with her fingers.
He hunched the shoulder away from her with a gesture of boyish impatience, and then abruptly, as if realizing what he had done, he turned back to her, caught the hand, and pressed it to his lips.
"I'm a brute, dear. Forgive me! Of course—if you wish it—I'll go back. But as to making it up, well—" he gulped once or twice—"it doesn't rest only with me, you know."
"Oh, Piers," she said, "you are all he has. He couldn't be hard to you!"
Piers smiled a wry smile, and said nothing.
"Besides," she went on gently, "there is really nothing for you to quarrel about,—that is, if I am the cause of the trouble. It is perfectly natural that your grandfather should wish you to make a suitable marriage, perfectly natural that he should not want you to run after the wrong woman. You can tell him, Piers, that I absolutely see his point of view, but that so far as I am concerned, he need not be anxious. It is not my intention to marry again."
"All right," said Piers.
He gave her hand a little shake and released it. For a second—only a second—she caught a sparkle in his eyes that seemed to her almost like a gleam of mockery. And then with characteristic suddenness he sprang to his feet.
"Well, I'd better be going," he said in a voice that was perfectly normal and free from agitation. "I can't stop to see the kiddie this time. I'm glad she's going on all right. I wonder when you'll be back again."
"Not at present, I think," said Avery, trying not to be disconcerted by his abruptness.
He looked down at her whimsically. "You're a good sort, Avery," he said."I won't be so violent next time."
"There mustn't be a next time," she said quickly. "Please Piers, that must be quite understood!"
"All right," he said again. "I understand."
And with that very suddenly he left her, so suddenly that she sat motionless on her rock and stared after him, not believing that he was really taking his leave.
He did not turn his head, however, and very soon he passed round the jutting headland, and was gone from her sight. Only when that happened did she draw a long, long breath and realize how much of her strength had been spent to gain what after all appeared to be but a very barren victory.
"Ah! C'est Monsieur Pierre enfin!" Eagerly Victor greeted the appearance of his young master. He looked as if he would have liked to embrace him.
Piers' attitude, however, did not encourage any display of tenderness. He flung himself gloomily down into a chair and regarded the man with sombre eyes.
"Where's Sir Beverley?" he said.
Victor spread forth expressive hands."Mais, Sir Beverley, he sit up all the night attending you,mon petit monsieur. Et moi, I sit up also.Mais Monsieur Pierre! Monsieur Pierre!"
He began to shake his head at Piers in fond reproof, but Piers paid no attention.
"Sat up all night, what?" he said. "Then where is he now? In bed?"
There was a deep line between his black brows; all the gaiety and sparkle had gone from his eyes. He looked tired out.
It was close upon the luncheon-hour, and he had tramped up from the station. There were refreshments in front of him, but he bluntly refused to touch them.
"Why can't you speak, man?" he said irritably. "Tell me where he is!"
"He has gone for his ride as usual," Victor said, speaking through pursed lips. "But he is very, very feeble to-day,Monsieur Pierre. We beg him not to go. But what would you? He is the master. We could not stop him. But he sit in his saddle—like this."
Victor's gesture descriptive of the bent, stricken figure that had ridden forth that morning was painfully true to life.
Piers sprang to his feet. "And he isn't back yet? Where on earth can he be? Which way did he go?"
Victor raised his shoulders. "He go down the drive—as always.Après cela, je ne sais pas."
"Confusion!" ejaculated Piers, and was gone.
He had returned by a short cut across the park, but now he tore down the long avenue, running like a trained athlete, head up and elbows in, possessed by the single purpose of reaching the lodge in as brief a time as possible. They would know at the lodge which way his grandfather had gone.
He found Marshall just turning in at his gate for the midday meal, and hailed him without ceremony.
The old man stopped and surveyed him with sour disapproval. The news ofPiers' abrupt disappearance on the previous night had spread.
No, Marshall could give him no news as to the master's whereabouts; he had been out all the morning.
"Well, find Mrs. Marshall!" ordered Piers impatiently. "She'll know something. She must have opened the gate."
Mrs. Marshall, summoned by a surly yell from her husband, stood in the door-way, thin-lipped and austere, and announced briefly that Sir Beverley had gone down towards the Vicarage; she didn't know no more than that.
It was enough for Piers. He was gone again like a bird on the wing. The couple at the lodge looked after him with a species of unwilling admiration. His very arrogance fed their pride in him, disapprove though they might of his wild, foreign ways. Whatever the mixture in his veins, the old master's blood ran there, and they would always be loyal to that.
That run to the Vicarage taxed even Piers' powers. The steep hill at the end made him aware that his strength had its limits, and he was forced to pause for breath when he reached the top. He leaned against the Vicarage gate-post with the memory of that winter evening in his mind when Avery had come swift-footed to the rescue, and had cooled his fury with a bucket of cold water.
A step in the garden made him straighten himself abruptly. He turned to see a tall, black-coated figure emerge. The Reverend Stephen Lorimer came up with dignity and greeted him.
"Were you about to enter my humble abode?" he enquired.
"Is my grandfather here?" asked Piers.
Mr. Lorimer smiled benignly. He liked to imagine himself upon terms of intimacy with Sir Beverley though the latter did very little to justify the idea.
"Well, no," he said, "I have not had the pleasure of seeing him here to-day. Did he express the intention of paying me a visit?"
"No, sir, no!" said Piers impatiently. "I only thought it possible, that's all. Good-bye!"
He swung round and departed, leaving the worthy Vicar looking after him with a shrewd and not over-friendly smile at the corners of his eyes.
Beyond the Vicarage the road wound round again to the park, and Piers followed it. It led to a gate that opened upon a riding which was a favourite stretch for a gallop with both Sir Beverley and himself. Through this he passed, no longer running, but striding over the springy, turf between the budding beech saplings at a pace that soon took him into the heart of the woodland.
Pressing on, he came at length to a cross-riding, and here on boggy ground he discovered recent hoof-marks. There were a good many of them, and he was puzzled for a time as to the direction they had taken. The animal seemed to have wandered to and fro. But he found a continuous track at length and followed it.
It led to an old summer-house perched on a slope that overlooked the scene of Jeanie's accident in the winter. A cold wind drove down upon him as he ascended. The sky was grey with scurrying clouds. The bare downs looked indescribably desolate.
Piers hastened along with set teeth. The dread he would not acknowledge hung like a numbing weight upon him. Somehow, inexplicably, he knew that he was nearing the end of his quest.
The long moan of the wind was the only sound to be heard. It seemed to fill the world. No voice of bird or beast came from near or far. He seemed to travel through a vast emptiness—the only living thing astir.
He reached the thatched summer-house at last, noted with a curious detachment that it was beginning to look dilapidated, wondered if he would find it after all deserted, and the next moment was nearly overwhelmed by a huge grey body that hurled itself upon him from the interior of the little arbour.
It was Caesar the great Dalmatian who greeted him thus effusively, and Piers realized in an instant that the dog had some news to impart. He pushed him aside with a brief word of welcome and entered the ivy-grown place.
"Hullo!" gasped a voice with painful utterance. "Hullo!"
And in a moment he discerned Sir Beverley crouched in a corner, grey-faced, his riding-whip still clutched in his hand.
Impetuously he went to him, stooped above him. "What on earth has happened, sir? You haven't been thrown?" he queried anxiously.
"Thrown! I!" Sir Beverley's voice cracked derisively. "No! I got off—to have a look at the place,—and the brute jibbed—and gave me the slip."
The words came with difficult jerks, his breathing was short and laboured. Piers, bending over him, saw a spasm of pain contract the grey face that nevertheless looked so indomitably into his.
"He'll go back to stables," growled Sir Beverley. "It's a way colts have—when they've had their fling. What have you come back for, eh? Thought I couldn't do without you?"
There was a stony glint in his eyes as he asked the question. His thin lips curved sardonically.
Piers, still with anxiety lying cold at his heart, had no place left for resentment. He made swift and winning answer. "I've been a brute, sir. I've come back to ask your forgiveness."
The sardonic lips parted. "Instead of—a hiding—eh?" gasped SirBeverley.
Piers drew back momentarily; but the grey, drawn face compelled his pity. He stifled his wrath unborn. "I'll take that first, sir," he said steadily.
Sir Beverley's frown deepened, but his breathing was growing less oppressed. He suddenly collected his energies and spoke with his usual irascibility.
"Oh, don't try any of your damned heroics on me, sir! Apologize like a gentleman—if you can! If not—if not—" He broke off panting, his lips still forming words that he lacked the strength to utter.
Piers sat down beside him on the crazy bench. "I will do anything you wish, sir," he said. "I'm horribly sorry for the way I've treated you. I'm ready to make any amends in my power."
"Oh, get away!" growled out Sir Beverley. But with the words his hand came gropingly forth and fastened in a hard grip on Piers' arm. "You talk like a Sunday-school book," he said. "What the devil did you do it for, eh?"
It was roughly spoken, but Piers was quick to recognize the spirit behind the words. He clapped his own hand upon his grandfather's, and was shocked afresh at its icy coldness.
"I say, do let's go" he said. "We can't talk here. It's downright madness to sit in this draughty hole. Come along, sir!" He thrust a vigorous arm about the old man and hoisted him to his feet.
"Oh, you're mighty strong!" gasped Sir Beverley. "Strong enough—to kick over—the traces, eh?"
"Never again, sir," said Piers with decision.
Whereat Sir Beverley looked at him searchingly, and gibed no more.
They went out together on to the open wind-swept hillside, Piers still strongly supporting him, for he stumbled painfully. It was a difficult progress for them both, and haste was altogether out of the question.
Sir Beverley revived somewhat as they went, but more than once he had to pause to get his breath. His weakness was a revelation to Piers though he sought to reassure himself with the reflection that it was the natural outcome of his night's vigil; and moment by moment his compunction grew.
They were no more than a mile from the Abbey, but it took them the greater part of two hours to accomplish the distance, and at the end of it Sir Beverley was hanging upon Piers in a state that bordered upon collapse.
His animal had just returned riderless, and considerable consternation prevailed. Victor, who was on the watch, rushed to meet them with characteristic nimbleness, and he and Piers between them carried Sir Beverley in, and laid him down before the great hall fire.
But though so exhausted as to be scarcely conscious, he still clung fast to Piers, not suffering him to stir from side; and there Piers remained, chafing the cold hands administering brandy, while Victor, invaluable in an emergency, procured pillows, blankets, hot-water bottles, everything that his fertile brain could suggest to restore the failing strength.
Again, though slowly, Sir Beverley rallied, recovered his faculties, came back to full understanding. "Had anything to eat?" he rapped out so suddenly that Piers, kneeling beside him, jumped with astonishment.
"I, sir? No, I'm not hungry," he said. "You're feeling better, what? CanI get you something?"
"Oh, don't be a damn' fool!" said Sir Beverley. "Tell 'em to fetch some lunch!"
It was the turning-point. From that moment he began to recover in a fashion that amazed Piers, cast aside blankets and pillows, sternly forbade Piers to summon the doctor, and sat up before the fire with a grim refusal to be coddled any longer.
They lunched together in the warmth of the blazing logs, and Sir Beverley became so normal in his attitude that Piers began at last to feel reassured.
He did not broach the matter that lay between them, knowing well that his grandfather's temperament was not such as to leave it long in abeyance; and they smoked together in peace after the meal as though the strife of the previous evening had never been.
But the memory of it overhung them both, and finally at the end of a lengthy silence Sir Beverley turned his stone-grey eyes upon his grandson and spoke.
"Well? What have you to say for yourself?"
Piers came out of a reverie and looked up with a faint rueful smile."Nothing, sir," he said.
"Nothing? What do you mean by that?" Sir Beverley's voice was sharp. "You go away like a raving lunatic, and stay away all night, and then come back with nothing to say. What have you been up to? Tell me that!"
Piers leaned slowly forward, took up the poker and gently pushed it into the fire. "She won't have me," he said, with his eyes upon the leaping flames.
"What?" exclaimed Sir Beverley. "You've been after that hussy again?"
Piers' brows drew together in a thick, ominous line; but he merely nodded and said, "Yes."
"The devil you have!" ejaculated Sir Beverley. "And she refused you?"
"She did." Again very softly Piers poked at the blazing logs, his eyes fixed and intent. "It served me right—in a way," he said, speaking meditatively, almost as if to himself. "I was a hound—to ask her. But—somehow—I was driven. However," he drove the poker in a little further, "it's all the same now as she's refused me. That's why," he turned his eyes suddenly upon Sir Beverley, "there's nothing to be said."
There was no defiance in his look, but it held something of a baffling quality. It was almost as if in some fashion he were conscious of relief.
Sir Beverley stared at him, angry and incredulous. "Refused you! What the devil for? Wanted my consent, I suppose? Thought I held the purse-strings, eh?"
"Oh no," said Piers, again faintly smiling, "she didn't care a damn about that. She knows I am not dependent upon you. But—she has no use for me, that's all."
"No use for you!" Sir Beverley's voice rose. "What the—what the devil does she want then, I should like to know?"
"She doesn't want anyone," said Piers. "At least she thinks she doesn't.You see, she's been married before."
There was a species of irony in his voice that yet was without bitterness. He turned back to his aimless stirring of the fire, and there fell a silence between them.
But Sir Beverley's eyes were fixed upon his grandson's face in a close, unsparing scrutiny. "So you thought you might as well come back," he said at last.
"She made me," said Piers, without looking round.
"Made you!"
Again Piers nodded. "I was to tell you from her that she quite understands your attitude; but that you needn't be anxious, as she has no intention of marrying again."
"Confound her impudence!" ejaculated Sir Beverley.
"Oh no!" Piers' voice sounded too tired to be indignant. "I don't think you can accuse her of that. There has never been any flirtation between us. It wasn't her fault. I—made a fool of myself. It just happened in the ordinary course of things."
He ceased to speak, laid down the poker without sound, and sat with clasped hands, staring blindly before him.
Again there fell a silence. The clock in the corner ticked on with melancholy regularity, the logs hissed and spluttered viciously; but the two men sat in utter stillness, both bowed as if beneath a pressing burden.
One of them moved at last, stretched out a bony, trembling hand, laid it on the other's shoulder.
"Piers boy," Sir Beverley said, with slow articulation, "believe me, there's not a woman on this earth worth grizzling about. They're liars and impostors, every one."
Piers started a little, then with a very boyish movement, he laid his cheek against the old bent fingers. "My dear sir," he said, "but you're a woman-hater!"
"I know," said Sir Beverley, still in that heavy, fateful fashion. "And I have reason. I tell you, boy,—and I know,—you would be better off in your coffin than linked to a woman you seriously cared for. It's hell on earth—hell on earth!"
"Or paradise," muttered Piers.
"A fool's paradise, boy; a paradise that turns to dust and ashes." Sir Beverley's voice quivered suddenly. He withdrew his hand to fumble in an inner pocket. In a moment he stretched it forth again with a key lying on the palm.
"Take that!" he said. "Open that bureau thing behind you! Look in the left-hand drawer! There's something there for you to see."
Piers obeyed him. There was that in Sir Beverley's manner that silenced all questioning. He pulled out the drawer and looked in. It contained one thing only—a revolver.
Sir Beverley went on speaking, calmly, dispassionately, wholly impersonally. "It's loaded—has been loaded for fifty years. But I never used it. And that not because my own particular hell wasn't hot enough, but just because I wouldn't have it said that I'd ever loved any she-devil enough to let her be my ruin. There were times enough when I nearly did it. I've sat all night with the thing in my hand. But I hung on for that reason, till at last the fire burnt out, and I didn't care. Every woman is the same to me now. I know now—and you've got to know it too—that woman is only fit to be the servant, not the mistress, of man,—and a damn treacherous servant at that. She was made for man's use, and if he is fool enough to let her get the upper hand, then Heaven help him, for he certainly won't be in a position to help himself!"
He stopped abruptly, and in the silence Piers shut and relocked the drawer. He dropped the key into his own pocket, and came back to the fire.
Sir Beverley looked up at him with something of an effort. "Boy," he said, "you've got to marry some day, I know. You've got to have children. But—you're young, you know. There's plenty of time before you. You might wait a bit—just a bit—till I'm out of the way. I won't keep you long; and I won't beat you often either—if you'll condescend to stay with me."
He smiled with the words, his own grim ironical smile; but the pathos of it cut straight to Piers' heart. He went down on his knees beside the old man and thrust his arm about the shrunken shoulders.
"I'll never leave you again, sir," he vowed earnestly. "I've been a heartless brute, and I'm most infernally sorry. As to marrying, well—there's no more question of that for me. I couldn't marry Ina Rose. You understand that?"
"Never liked the chit," growled Sir Beverley. "Only thought she'd answer your purpose better than some. For you've got to get an heir, boy; remember that! You're the only Evesham left."
"Oh, damn!" said Piers very wearily. "What does it matter?"
Sir Beverley looked at him from under his thick brows piercingly but without condemnation. "It's up to you, Piers," he said.
"Is it?" said Piers, with a groan. "Well, let's leave it at that for the present! Sure you've forgiven me?"
Sir Beverley's grim face relaxed again. He put his arm round Piers and held him hard for a moment.
Then: "Oh, drat it, Piers!" he said testily. "Get away, do! And behave yourself for the future!"
Whereat Piers laughed, a short, unsteady laugh, and went back to his chair.
"The matter is settled," said the Reverend Stephen Lorimer, in the tones of icy decision with which his wife was but too tragically familiar. "I engaged Mrs. Denys to be a help to you, not exclusively to Jeanie. The child is quite well enough to return home, and I do not feel myself justified in incurring any further expense now that her health is quite sufficiently restored."
"But the children were all counting on going to Stanbury Cliffs for the Easter holidays," protested Mrs. Lorimer almost tearfully. "We cannot disappoint them, Stephen!" Mr. Lorimer's lips closed very firmly for a few seconds. Then, "The change home will be quite sufficient for them," he said. "I have given the matter my full consideration, my dear Adelaide, and no argument of yours will now move me. Mrs. Denys and Jeanie have been away for a month, and they must now return. It is your turn for a change, and as soon as Eastertide is over I intend to take you away with me for ten days or so and leave Mrs. Denys in charge of—the bear-garden, as I fear it but too truly resembles. You are quite unfit for the noise and racket of the holidays. And I myself have been feeling lately the need of a little—shall I call it recreation?" Mr. Lorimer smiled self-indulgently over the term. He liked to play with words. "I presume you have no vital objection to accompanying me?"
"Oh, of course not. I should like it above all things," Mrs. Lorimer hastened to assure him, "if it were not for Jeanie. I don't like the thought of bringing her home just when her visit is beginning to do her so much good."
"She cannot remain away for ever," said Mr. Lorimer. "Moreover, her delicacy must have been considerably exaggerated, or such a sudden improvement could scarcely have taken place. At all events, so it appears to me. She must therefore return home and spend the holidays in wholesome amusements with the other children; and when they are over, I really must turn my serious attention to her education which has been so sadly neglected since Christmas. Mrs. Denys is doubtless a very excellent woman in her way, but she is not, I fear, one to whom I could safely entrust the intellectual development of a child of Jeanie's age." He paused, looking up with complacent enquiry at his wife's troubled face. "And now what scruples are stirring in the mind of my spouse?" he asked, with playful affection.
Mrs. Lorimer did not smile in answer. Her worried little face only drew into more anxious lines. "Stephen," she said, "I do wish you would consult Dr. Tudor before you quite decide to have Jeanie home at present."
The Vicar's mouth turned down, and he looked for a moment so extremely unpleasant that Mrs. Lorimer quailed. Then, "My dear," he said deliberately, "when I decide upon a specific course of action, I carry it through invariably. If I were not convinced that what I am about to do were right, I should not do it. Pray let me hear no more upon the subject! And remember, Adelaide, it is my express command that you do not approach Dr. Tudor in this matter. He is a most interfering person, and would welcome any excuse to obtain a footing in this house again. But now that I have at length succeeded in shaking him off, I intend to keep him at a distance for the future. And he is not to be called in—understand this very clearly, if you please—except in a case of extreme urgency. This is a distinct order, Adelaide, and I shall be severely displeased if you fail to observe it. And now," he resumed his lighter manner again as he rose from his chair, "I must hie me to the parish room where my good Miss Whalley is awaiting me."
He stretched forth a firm, kind hand and patted his wife's shoulder.
"We must see what we can do to bring a little colour into those pale cheeks," he said. "A fortnight in the Cornish Riviera perhaps. Or we might take a peep at Shakespeare's country. But we shall see, we shall see! I will write to Mrs. Denys and acquaint her with my decision this evening."
He was gone, leaving Mrs. Lorimer to pace up and down his study in futile distress of mind. Only that morning a letter from Avery had reached her, telling her of Jeanie's continued progress, and urging her to come and take her place for a little while. It was such a change as her tired soul craved, but she had not dared to tell her husband so. And now, it seemed, Jeanie's good time also was to be terminated.
There was no doubt about it. Rodding did not suit the child. She was never well at home. The Vicarage was shut in by trees, a damp, unhealthy place. And Dr. Tudor had told her in plain terms that Jeanie lacked the strength to make any headway there. She was like a wilting plant in that atmosphere. She could not thrive in it. Dry warmth was what she needed, and it had made all the difference to her. Avery's letter had been full of hope. She referred to Dr. Tudor's simile of the building of a sea-wall. "We are strengthening it every day," she wrote. "In a few more weeks it ought to be proof against any ordinary tide."
A few more weeks! Mrs. Lorimer wrung her hands. Stephen did not know, did not realize; and she was powerless to convince him. Avery would not convince him either. He tolerated only Avery because she was so useful.
She knew exactly the sort of letter he would write, desiring their return; and Avery, for all her quiet strength, would have to submit. Oh, it was cruel—cruel!
The tears were coursing down her cheeks when the door opened unexpectedly and Olive entered. She paused at sight of her mother, looking at her with just the Vicar's air of chill enquiry.
"Is anything the matter?" she asked.
Mrs. Lorimer turned hastily to the window and began to dry her eyes.
Olive went to a bookshelf and stood before it. After a moment she took out a book and deliberately turned the leaves. Her attitude was plainly repressive.
Finally she returned the book to the shelf and turned. "Why are you crying, Mother?"
Mrs. Lorimer leaned her head against the window-frame with a heavy sigh."I am very miserable, Olive," she said, a catch in her voice.
"No one need be that," observed Olive. "Father says that misery is a sign of mental weakness."
Mrs. Lorimer was silent.
"Don't you think you had better leave off crying and find something to do?" suggested her daughter in her cool, young voice.
Still Mrs. Lorimer neither moved nor spoke.
Olive came a step nearer. There was obvious distaste on her face. "I wish you would try to be a little brighter—for Father's sake," she said. "I don't think you treat him very kindly."
It was evident that she spoke from a sense of duty. Mrs. Lorimer straightened herself with another weary sigh.
"Run along, my dear!" she said. "I am sure you are busy."
Olive turned, half-vexed and half-relieved, and walked to the door. Her mother watched her wistfully. It was in her mind to call her back, fold her in her arms, and appeal for sympathy. But the severity of the child's pose was too suggestive of the Vicar's unbending attitude towards feminine weakness, and she restrained the impulse, knowing that she would appeal in vain. There was infinitely more comfort to be found in the society of Baby Phil, and, smiling wanly at the thought, she went up to the nursery in search of it.
There was no combating the Vicar's decision. Avery realized that fact from the outset even before Mrs. Lorimer's agitated note upon the subject reached her. The fiat had gone forth, and submission was the only course.
Jeanie received the news without a murmur. "I don't mind really," she said. "It's very nice here, but then it's nice at home too when you are there. And then there is Piers too."
Yes, there was Piers,—another consideration that filled Avery with uneasiness. No word from Piers had reached her since that early morning on the shore, but his silence did not reassure her. She had half expected a boyish letter of apology, some friendly reassurance, some word at least of his return to Rodding Abbey. But she had heard nothing. She did not so much as know if he had returned or not.
Neither had she heard from her friend Edmund Crowther. With a sense of keen disappointment she wrote to his home in the North to tell him of the change in her plans. She could not ask him to the Vicarage, and it seemed that she might not meet him after all.
She also sent a hurried note to Lennox Tudor, but they had only three days in which to terminate their visit, and she received no reply. Later, she heard that Tudor had been away for those days and did not open the note until the actual day of their return.
The other children were expected home from school during the week before Easter, and Mr. Lorimer desired that Avery should be at the Vicarage to prepare for them. So, early in the week, they returned.
It seemed that Spring had come at last. The hedges were all bursting into tenderest green, and all the world looked young.
"The primroses will be out in the Park woods," said Jeanie. "We will go and gather heaps and heaps."
"Are you allowed to go wherever you like there?" asked Avery, thinking of the game.
"Oh no," said Jeanie thoughtfully. "But we always do. Mr. Marshall chases us sometimes, but we always get away."
She smiled at the thought, and Avery frankly rejoiced to see her enthusiasm for the wicked game of trespassing in the Squire's preserves. She did not know that the amusement had been strictly prohibited by the Vicar, and it did not occur to Jeanie to tell her. None of the children had ever paid any attention to the prohibition. There were some rules that no one could keep.
The return of the rest of the family kept the days that succeeded their return extremely lively. Jeanie was in higher spirits than Avery had ever seen her. She seemed more childish, more eager for fun, as though some of the zest of life had got into her veins at last. Her mother ascribed the change to Avery's influence, and was pathetic in her gratitude, though Avery disclaimed all credit declaring that the sea-air had wrought the wonder.
When Lennox Tudor saw her, he looked at Avery with an odd smile behind his glasses. "You've built the wall," he said.
They had met by the churchyard gate, and Jeanie and Pat were having a hopping race down the hill. Avery looked after them with a touch of wistfulness. "But I wish she could have been away longer."
Tudor frowned. "Yes. Why on earth not? The Reverend Stephen again, I suppose. I wish I had had your letter sooner, though as a matter of fact I'm not in favour just now, and my interference would probably weigh in the wrong balance. Keep the child out as much as possible! It's the only way. She has made good progress. There is no reason at present why she should go back again."
No, there was no reason; yet Avery's heart misgave her. She wished she might have had longer for the building of that wall. Good Friday was more or less a day of penance in the Vicar's family. It began with lengthy prayers in the dining-room, so lengthy that Avery feared that Mrs. Lorimer would faint ere they came to an end. Then after a rigorously silent breakfast the children were assembled in the study to be questioned upon the Church Catechism—a species of discipline peculiarly abhorrent to them all by reason of the Vicar's sarcastic comments upon their ignorance.
At the end of this dreary exercise they were dismissed to prepare for church where there followed a service which Avery regarded as downright revolting. It consisted mainly of prayers—as many prayers as the Vicar could get in, rendered in an emotionless monotone with small regard for sense and none whatever for feeling. The whole thing was drab and unattractive to the utmost limit, and Avery rose at length from her knees with a feeling of having been deliberately cheated of a thing she valued. She left the church in an unwonted spirit of exasperation, which lasted throughout the midday meal, which was as oppressively silent as breakfast had been.
The open relief with which the children trooped away to the schoolroom found a warm echo in her heart. She even almost smiled in sympathy when Julian breathed a deep thanksgiving that that show was over for one more year.
Neither Piers nor his grandfather had been in the church, and their absence did not surprise her. She did not feel that she herself could ever face such a service again. The memory of Piers at the organ came to her as she dressed to accompany the children upon their primrosing expedition, and a sudden passionate longing followed it to hear that music again. She was feeling starved in her soul that day.
But when they reached the green solitudes of the park woodlands the bitterness began to pass away. It was all so beautiful; the mossy riding up which they turned was so springy underfoot, and the singing of a thousand birds made endless music whichever way they wandered.
"It's better than church, isn't it?" said Jeanie softly, pressing close to her. And Avery smiled in answer. It was balm to the spirit.
The Squire's preserves were enclosed in wire netting, and over this they climbed into their primrose paradise. Several partridges rose from the children's feet, and whirred noisily away, to the huge delight of the boys but to Avery's considerable dismay. However, Marshall was evidently not within earshot, and they settled down to the serious business of filling their baskets for the church decorations without interference.
The primroses grew thickly in a wonderful carpet that spread in all directions, sloping down to a glade where gurgled a brown stream. Down this glade Avery directed her party, keeping a somewhat anxious eye upon Gracie and the three boys who were in the wildest spirits after the severe strain of the morning. She and Jeanie picked rapidly and methodically. Olive had decided not to accompany the expedition. She did not care for primrosing, she told Avery, and her father had promised to read the Testament in Greek with her later in the afternoon, an intellectual exercise which she plainly regarded as extremely meritorious.
Her absence troubled no one; in fact Julian, having over-heard her excuse, remarked rudely that if she was going to put on side, they were better off without her; and Avery secretly agreed with him.
So in cheery accord they went their careless way through the preserves, scaring the birds and filling their baskets with great industry. They had reached the end of the glade and were contemplating fording the brook when like a bolt from the blue discovery came upon them. A sound, like the blare of an angry bull, assailed them—a furious inarticulate sound that speedily resolved into words.
"What the devil are you mischievous brats doing there?"
The whole party jumped violently at the suddenness of the attack. Avery's heart gave a most unpleasant jerk. She knew that voice.
Swiftly she turned in the direction whence it came, and saw again the huge white horse of the trampling hoofs that had once before been urged against her.
He was stamping and fretting on the other side of the stream, the banks of which were so steep as almost to form a chasm, and from his back the terrible old Squire hurled the vials of his wrath.
Ronald drew near to Avery, while Jeanie slipped a nervous hand into hers. Julian, however, turned a defiant face. "It's all right. He can't get at us," he said audibly.
At which remark Gracie laughed a little hysterically, and Pat made a grimace.
Perhaps it was this last that chiefly infuriated the Squire, for he literally bellowed with rage, snatched his animal back with a merciless hand, and then with whip and spur set him full at the stream.
It was a dangerous leap, for the ground on both banks was yielding and slippery. Avery stood transfixed to watch the result.
The horse made a great effort to obey his master's behests. It almost seemed as if he were furious too, Avery thought, as he pounded forward to clear the obstacle. His leap was superb, clearing the stream by a good six feet, but as he landed among the primroses disaster overtook him. It must have been a rabbit-hole, Avery reflected later; for he blundered as he touched the ground, plunged forward, and fell headlong.
There followed a few moments of sickening confusion during which the horrified spectators had time to realize that Sir Beverley was pinned under the kicking animal; then with a savage effort the great brute rolled over and struggled to his feet.
With a promptitude that spoke well for his nerve, Julian sprang forward and caught the dangling bridle. The creature tried to jib back upon his prostrate master, but he dragged him forward and held him fast.
Old Sir Beverley lay prone on the ground, in an awful stillness, with his white face turned to the sky. His eyes were fast shut, his arms flung wide, one hand still grasping the whip which he had wielded so fiercely a few seconds before.
"Is he dead?" whispered Jeanie, clinging close to Avery.
Avery gently released herself and moved forward. "No, dear, no! He—he is only stunned."
She knelt beside Sir Beverley, overcoming a horrible sensation of sickness as she did so. The whole catastrophe had been of so sudden and so violent a nature that she felt almost stunned herself.
She slipped an arm under the old man's head, and it hung upon her like a leaden weight.
"Oh, Avery, how dreadful!" exclaimed Gracie, aghast.
"Take my handkerchief!" said Avery quickly. "Run down and soak it in the stream! Mind how you go! It's very steep."
Gracie went like the wind.
Avery began with fingers that shook in spite of her utmost resolution, to try to loosen Sir Beverley's collar.
"Let me!" said Ronald, gently.
She glanced up gratefully and relinquished the task to him. Ronald was neat in all his ways.
The return of Gracie with the wet handkerchief gave her something to do, and she tenderly moistened the stark, white face. But the children's fears were crowding thick in her own heart. That awful inertness looked so terribly like death.
And then suddenly the grim lips parted and a quivering sigh passed through them.
The next moment abruptly the grey eyes opened and gazed full at Avery with a wide, glassy stare.
"What the—what the—" stammered Sir Beverley, and broke off with a hard gasp.
Avery sought to raise him higher, but his weight was too much for her even with Ronald assisting.
"Find my—flask!" jerked out Sir Beverley, with panting breath.
Ronald began to search in his pockets and finally drew it forth. He opened it and gave it to Avery who held it to the twitching lips.
Sir Beverley drank and closed his eyes. "I shall be—better soon," he said, in a choked whisper.
Avery waited, supporting him as strongly as she could, listening to the short laboured breathing with deep foreboding.
"Couldn't I run down to the Abbey for help?" suggested Julian, who had succeeded at length in tying the chafing animal to a tree.
Avery considered. "I don't know. How far is it?"
"Not more than a mile. P'r'aps I should find Piers there. I'm sure I'd better go," the boy urged, with his eyes on the deathly face.
And after a moment Avery agreed with him. "Yes, I think perhaps you'd better. Gracie and Pat might go for Dr. Tudor meanwhile. I do hope you will find Piers. Tell him to bring two men, and something that they can carry him on. Jeanie dear, you run home to your mother and tell her how it is that we shall be late for tea. You won't startle her, I know."
They fell in with her desires at once. There was not one of them who would not have done anything for her. And so they scattered, departing upon their several missions, leaving Ronald only to share her vigil by the old Squire's side.
For a long time after their departure, there was no change in Sir Beverley's state. He lay propped against Avery's arm and Ronald's knee breathing quickly, with painful effort, through his parted lips. He kept his eyes closed, but they knew that he was conscious by the heavy frown that drew his forehead. Once Avery offered him more brandy, but he refused it impatiently, and she desisted.
The deathly pallor had, however, begun to give place to a more natural hue, and as the minutes passed his breathing gradually grew less distressed. Once more his eyes opened, and he stared into Avery's face.
"Help me—to sit up!" he commanded.
They did their best, he struggling with piteously feeble efforts to help himself. Finally he managed to drag himself to a leaning position on one elbow, though for several seconds thereafter his gasping was terrible to hear.
Avery saw his lips move several times before any sound came from them. At length, "Send—that boy—away!" he gasped out.
Avery and Ronald looked at each other, and the boy got to his feet with an undecided air.
"Do you hear? Go!" rapped out Sir Beverley.
"Shall I, Avery?" whispered Ronald.
She nodded. "Yes, just a little way! I'll call you if I want you."
And half-reluctantly Ronald obeyed.
"Has he gone?" asked Sir Beverley.
"Yes." Avery remained on her knees beside him. He looked as if he might collapse at any moment.
For awhile he lay struggling for breath with his face towards the ground; then very suddenly his strength seemed to return. He raised his head and regarded her piercingly.
"You," he said curtly, "are the young woman who refused to marry my grandson."
The words were so totally unexpected that Avery literally gasped with astonishment. To be taken to task on this subject was an ordeal for which she was wholly unprepared.
"Well?" he said irritably. "That is so, I believe? You did refuse to marry him?"
"Yes," Avery admitted, feeling the hot colour flood her face under the merciless scrutiny of the stone-grey eyes.
"But—but—"
"Well?" he said again, still more irritably. "But what?"
"Oh, need we discuss it?" she said appealingly. "I would so much rather not."
"I desire to discuss it," said Sir Beverley autocratically. "I desire to know—what objection you have to my grandson. Many women, let me tell you, of far higher social standing than yourself would jump at such a chance. But you—you take upon yourself to refuse it. I desire to know why."
He spoke with a stubbornness that overbore all bodily weakness. He would be a tyrant to his last breath.
But Avery could not bring herself to answer him. She felt as if he were trying to force his way into a place which regarded as peculiarly sacred, from which in some fashion she owed it to Piers as well as to herself to bar him out.
"I am sorry," she said gently after a moment, "but I am afraid that is just what I can't tell you."
She saw Sir Beverley's chin thrust out at just the indomitable angle with which Piers had made her familiar, and she realized that he had no intention of abandoning his point.
"You told him, I suppose?" he demanded gruffly.
A faint sense of amusement arose within her, her anxiety notwithstanding.It struck her as ludicrous that she should be browbeaten on this point.
She made answer with more assurance. "I told him that the idea was unsuitable, out of the question, that he ought to marry a girl of his own age and station—not a middle-aged widow like me."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Sir Beverley impatiently. "You belong to the same generation, don't you? What more do you want?"
If he had slapped her face, Avery would scarcely have felt more amazed,She gazed at him in silence, wondering if she could have heard aright.
Sir Beverley frowned upon her fiercely, the iron will of him scorning and surmounting his physical weakness.
"You've got nothing against the boy, I suppose?" he pursued, with the evident determination to get at the truth despite all opposition. "He has never given you any cause for complaint? He's behaved himself like a gentleman, hey?"
"Oh, of course, of course!" Avery said in distress. "It's not that!"
Sir Beverley frowned still more heavily. "Then—what the devil is it?" he demanded. "Don't you like him well enough? Aren't you—in love with him?" His lips curled ironically over the words; they sounded inexpressibly bitter.
Avery's eyes fell before his pitiless stare. She began with fingers that trembled to pluck the primroses that grew in a large tuft close to her, saying no word.
"Well?" said Sir Beverley, with growing impatience.
She kept her eyes lowered, for she felt she could not meet his look as she made reluctant answer. "No, it is not either. In fact, if I were a girl—I had not been married before—I think I should say Yes. But—but—" she paused, searching for words, striving to restrain a rising agitation, "as it is, I don't think it would be quite fair to him. I don't know if I could make him happy. I am not young enough, fresh enough, gay enough. I can't offer him a girl's first love, and that is what he ought to have. I so want him to have the best. I so want him to be happy."
The words were out with a rush, almost before she was aware of uttering them, and suddenly her eyes were full of tears, tears that caught her off her guard, so that she had neither time nor strength to check them. She turned quickly from him, fighting for self-control.
Sir Beverley uttered a grunt that might have denoted either surprise or disgust, and there followed a silence that she found peculiarly difficult to bear.
"So," he said at last, in a tone that was strictly devoid of feeling, "you care for him too much to marry him? Is that it?"
It sounded preposterous, but she was still too near tears for any sense of humour to penetrate her distress. She felt as if he had remorselessly wrested from her and dragged to light a treasure upon which she herself had scarcely dared to look. She continued feverishly to pluck the pale flowers that grew all about them, her eyes fixed upon her task.
With a growling effort, Sir Beverley raised himself, thrust forward a quivering hand and gripped hers.
Startled, she turned towards him, meeting not hostility but a certain grim kindliness in the hard old eyes.
"Will you honour me with your attention for a moment?" he asked, with ironical courtesy.
"I am attending," she answered meekly.
"Then," he said, dropping all pretence at courtesy without further ceremony, "permit me to say that if you don't marry my grandson, you'll be a bigger fool than I take you for. And in my opinion, a sober-minded woman like you who will see to his comfort and be faithful to him is more likely to make him happy than any of your headlong, flighty girls."
He stopped; but he did not relinquish his hold upon her. There was to Avery something oddly pathetic in the close grasp of those unsteady fingers. It was as if they made an appeal which he would have scorned to utter.
"You really wish me to marry him?" she said.
He snarled at her like a surly dog. "Wish it? I! Good Heavens above, if I had my way I'd never let him marry at all! But unfortunately circumstances demand it; and the boy himself—the boy himself, well—" his voice softened imperceptibly, rasped on a note of tenderness, "he wants looking after; he's young, you know. He'll be all alone very soon, and—it isn't considered good for a man to live alone—not a young man anyway."
He broke off, still looking hard at Avery from under his drawn white brows as if daring her to dispute the matter.
But she said nothing, and after a moment he resumed more equably: "That's all I have to say on the subject. I wish you to understand that for the boy's sake—and for other considerations—I have withdrawn my opposition. You can marry him—as soon as you like."
He sank down again on his elbow, and she saw a look of exhaustion on his face. His head drooped forward on his chest, and, watching him, she realized that he was an old, old man and very tired of life.
Suddenly he jerked his head up again and met her pitying eyes.
"I'm done, yes," he said grimly, as if in response to her unspoken thought. "But I've paid my debts—all of 'em, including this last." His voice began to fail, but he forced it on, speaking spasmodically, with increasing difficulty. "You sent my boy back to me—the other day—against his will. Now I—make you a present of him—in return. There's good stuff in the lad,—nothing shabby about him. If you care for him at all—you ought to be able to hold him—make him happy. Anyway—anyway—you might try!"
The appeal in the last words, whispered though they were, was undisguised; and swiftly, impulsively, almost before she knew what she was doing, Avery responded to it.
"Oh, I will try!" she said very earnestly. "I will indeed!"
He looked at her fixedly for a moment with eyes of deep searching that she never forgot, and then his head dropped forward heavily.
"You—have—said it!" he said, and sank unconscious upon the ground.
"My good Mrs. Denys, it is quite fruitless for you to argue the matter. Nothing you can say can alter the fact that you took the children trespassing in the Rodding Park preserves against my most stringent commands, and this deplorable accident to the Squire is the direct outcome of the most flagrant insubordination. I have borne a good deal from you, but this I cannot overlook. You will therefore take a month's notice from to-day, and as it is quite impossible for me to reconsider my decision in this respect it would be wasted effort on your part to lodge any appeal against it. As for the children, I shall deal with them in my own way."
The Vicar's thin lips closed upon the words with the severity of an irrevocable resolution. Avery heard him with a sense of wild rebellion at her heart to which she knew she must not give rein. She stood before him, a defenceless culprit brought up for punishment.
It was difficult to be dignified under such circumstances, but she did her best.
"I am extremely sorry that I took the children into the preserves," she said. "But I accept the full responsibility for having done so. They were not greatly to blame in the matter."
"Upon that point," observed Mr. Lorimer, "I am the best judge. The children will be punished as severely as I deem necessary. Meantime, you quite understand, do you not, that your duties here must terminate a month from now? I am only sorry that I allowed myself to be persuaded to reconsider my decision on the last occasion. For more than one reason I think it is to be regretted. However,—" he completed the sentence with a heavy sigh and said no more.
It was evident that he desired to close the interview, yet Avery lingered. She could not go with the children's fate still in the balance.
He looked at her interrogatively with raised brows.
"You will not surely punish the children very severely?" she said.
He waved a hand of cool dismissal. "I shall do whatever seems to me right and advisable," he said.
It came to Avery that interference on this subject would do more harm than good, and she turned to go. At the door his voice arrested her. "This day month then, Mrs. Denys!"
She bent her head in silent acquiescence, and went out.
In the passage Gracie awaited her and wound eager arms about her.
"Was he very horrid to you, Avery darling? What did he say?"
Avery went with her to the schoolroom where the other offenders were assembled. It seemed to her almost cruel to attempt to suppress the truth, but their reception of it went to her heart. Jeanie—the placid, sweet-tempered Jeanie—wept tears of such anguished distress that she feared she would make herself ill. Gracie was too angry to weep. She wanted to go straight to the study and beard the lion in his den, and only Avery's most strenuous opposition restrained her. And into the midst of their tribulation came Mrs. Lorimer to mingle her tears with theirs.
"What I shall do without you, Avery, I can't think," was the burden of her lament.
Avery couldn't think either, for she knew better even than Mrs. Lorimer herself how much the latter had come to lean upon her.
She had to turn her energies to comforting her disconsolate companions, but this task was still unaccomplished when the door opened and the Vicar stalked in upon them.
He observed his wife's presence with cold displeasure, and at once proceeded to dismiss her.
"I desire your presence in the study for a few moments, Adelaide. Perhaps you will be kind enough to precede me thither."
He held the door open for her with elaborate ceremony, and Mrs. Lorimer had no choice but to obey. She departed with a scared effort to check her tears under the stern disapproval of his look.
He closed the door upon her and advanced to the table, gazing round upon them with judicial severity.
"I am here," he announced, "to pass sentence."
Jeanie, crying softly in her corner, made desperate attempts to control herself under the awful look that was at this point concentrated upon her.
After a pause the Vicar proceeded, with a spiteful glance at Avery. "It is my intention to impose a holiday-task of sufficient magnitude to keep you all out of mischief during the rest of the holidays. You will therefore commit to memory various different portions of Milton'sParadise Lostwhich I shall select, and which must be repeated to me in their entirety without mistake on my return from my own hard-earned holiday. And let me give you all fair warning," he raised his voice and looked round again, regarding poor Jeanie with marked austerity, "that if any one of you is not word-perfect in his or her task by the day of my return—boy or girl I care not, the offence is the same—he or she will receive a sound caning and the task will be returned."
Thus he delivered himself, and turned to go; but paused at the door to add, "Also, Mrs. Denys, will you be good enough to remember that it is against my express command that either you or any of the children should enter any part of Rodding Park during my absence. I desire that to be clearly understood."
"It is understood," said Avery in a low voice.
"That is well," said the Reverend Stephen, and walked majestically from the room.
A few seconds of awed silence followed his departure; then to Avery's horror Gracie snatched off one of her shoes and flung it violently at the door that he had closed behind him. Luckily for Gracie, her father was at the foot of the stairs before this episode took place and beyond earshot also of the furious storm of tears that followed it, with which even Avery found it difficult to cope.
It had been a tragic day throughout, and she was thankful when at length it drew to a close.
But when night came at last, and she lay down in the darkness, she found herself much too full of thought for sleep. Till then, she had not had time to review the day's happenings, but they crowded upon her as she lay, driving away all possibility of repose.
What was she going to do? Over and over again she asked herself the question, bringing herself as it were each time to contemplate afresh the obstacle that had arisen in her path. Had she really promised to marry Piers? The Squire evidently thought she had. The memory of those last words of his came back to her again and again. He had been very much in earnest, very anxious to provide for his boy's future, desperately afraid of leaving him alone. How would he view his impetuous action, she wondered, on the morrow? Had he not even now possibly begun to repent? Would he really desire her to take him literally?
And Piers,—what of Piers? A sudden, warm thrill ran through her. She glowed from head to foot. She had not seen Piers since that morning by the sea. She had a feeling that he was purposely avoiding her, and yet deep in the secret heart of her she knew that what she had rejected over and over again was still irrevocably her own. He would come back to her. She knew he would come back. And again that strange warmth filled her veins. The memory of him just then was like a burst of sunshine after a day of storm.
He had not been at home when Julian had taken the news of the Squire's accident to the Abbey, and only menservants had come to the rescue. She had accompanied them part of the way back, but Tudor had overtaken them in the drive, and she and the boys had turned back. Sir Beverley had been exhausted and but half-conscious, and he had not uttered another word to her. She wished Dr. Tudor had looked in on his way home, and then wondered if the Squire's condition were such as to necessitate his spending the night at the Abbey. He had once told her that Sir Beverley suffered from a weakness of the heart which might develop seriously at any time; but though himself fully aware of the fact, the old man had never permitted Piers to be told. She had deemed it unfair to Piers, but it was no matter for interference. A great longing to know what was happening possessed her. Surely—surely Mr. Lorimer would send up in the morning to enquire!
Her thoughts took another turn. She had been given definite notice to go. In her efforts to console Mrs. Lorimer, and the children, she had scarcely herself realized all that it would imply. She began to picture the parting, and a quiver of pain went through her. How they had all grown about her heart! How would she bear to say good-bye to her little delicate Jeanie? And how would the child fare without her? She hardly dared to think.
And then again that blinding ray of sunshine burst riotously through her clouds. If the impossible happened, if she ever married Piers—for the first time she deliberately faced and contemplated the thought—would she not be at least within reach if trouble came? A little thrill of spiteful humour ran through her at this point. She was quite sure that under such circumstances she would not be refused admittance to the Vicar's home. As Piers' wife, its doors would always be open to her.
As Piers' wife! She found herself repeating the words, repeating and repeating them till their strangeness began to give place to a certain familiarity. Was it after all true, as he had once so vehemently asserted, that they were meant for each other, belonged to each other, that the fate of each was bound in that of the other? What if she were a woman grown? What if her years outnumbered his? Had he not waked in her such music as her soul had never known before? Had he not opened for her the gates of the forbidden land? And was there after all, any actual reason that she should refuse to enter? That land where the sun shone always and the flowers bloomed without fading! That land where it was always spring!
There came in her soul a sudden swift ecstasy that was like the singing of many birds in the dawning, thrilling her through and through. She rose from her bed as though in answer to a call, and went to her open window.
There before her, silver against the darkness, there shone a single star. The throbbing splendour of it seemed to pierce her. She held her breath as one waiting for a message.