The Bars of Iron by Ethel May Dell (page 3)

The lamplight from within shone on her upturned face with its saucy, confiding smile. Her head was uncovered and gleamed golden in the radiance. She was wearing a very ancient fur cloak belonging to her mother, and she glowed like a rose in the sombre drapery.

Piers stooped to her with hands invitingly outstretched. “Come along, Pixie! We shan’t eat you, and I’ll take you home on my shoulder afterwards and see you don’t get copped.”

She uttered a delighted little laugh, and went upwards into his hold like a scrap of floating thistledown.

He lifted her high in his arms, crossed the room with her, and set her down before the old man who still sat at the table, sardonically watching. “Miss Gracie Lorimer!” he said.

“Hullo, child!” growled Sir Beverley.

Gracie looked at him with sparkling, adventurous eyes. As she had told Piers, she was not a bit afraid. After the briefest pause she held out her hand with charming _insouciance_.

“How do you do?” she said.

Sir Beverley slowly took the hand, and pulled her towards him, gazing at her from under his black brows with a piercing scrutiny that would have terrified a more timid child.

Timidity however was not one of Gracie’s weaknesses. She gave him a friendly smile, and waited without the smallest sign of uneasiness for him to speak.

“What have you come here for?” he demanded gruffly at length.

“I’ll tell you,” said Gracie readily. She went close to him, confidingly close, looking straight into the formidable grey eyes. “You see, it was my idea. Pat didn’t want to come, but I made him.”

“Forward young minx!” commented Sir Beverley.

Gracie laughed at the compliment.

Piers, smoking his cigarette behind her, stood ready to take her part, but quite obviously she was fully equal to the occasion.

“Yes, I know,” she agreed, with disarming amiability. “But it wouldn’t have mattered a bit if you hadn’t found out who it was. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Why not?” demanded Sir Beverley.

Gracie pulled down her red lips, and cast up her dancing eyes. “There’d be such a scandal,” she said.

Piers broke into an involuntary laugh, and Sir Beverley’s thin lips twitched in a reluctant smile.

“You’re a saucy little baggage!” he observed. “Well, get on! Let’s hear what you’ve come for! Cadging money, I’ll be bound.”

Gracie nodded in eager confirmation of this suggestion. “That’s just it!” she said. “And that’s where the scandal would come in if you told. You see, poor children can go round squalling carols to their hearts’ content for pennies, but children like us who want pennies just as much haven’t any way of getting them. We mayn’t carry hand-bags, or open carriage-doors, or turn cart-wheels, or–or do anything to earn a living. It’s hard luck, you know.”

“Beastly shame!” said Piers.

Sir Beverley scowled at him. “You needn’t stick your oar in. Go and shut the window, do you hear? Now, child, let’s have the truth, so far as any female is capable of speaking it! You’ve come here for pennies, you say. Don’t you know that’s a form of begging? And begging is breaking the law.”

“I often do that,” said Grade, quite undismayed. “So would you, if you were me. I expect you did too when you were young.”

“I!” Sir Beverley uttered a harsh laugh, and released the child’s hand. “So you break the law, do you?” he said. “How often?”

Gracie’s laugh followed his like a silvery echo. “I shan’t tell you ‘cos you’re a magistrate. But we weren’t really begging, Pat and I. At least it wasn’t for ourselves.”

“Oh, of course not!” said Sir Beverley.

She looked at him with her clear eyes, unconscious of irony. “No. We wanted to buy a pair of gloves for someone for Christmas. And nice gloves cost such a lot, don’t they? And we hadn’t got more than tenpence-halfpenny among us. So I said I’d think of a plan to get more. And–that was the plan,” ended Grade, with her sweetest smile.

“I see,” said Sir Beverley, with his eyes still fixed immovably upon her. “And what made you come here?”

“Oh, we came here just because of Piers,” said Grade, without hesitation. “You see, he’s a great friend of ours.”

“Is he?” said Sir Beverley. “And so you think you’ll get what you can out of him, eh?”

“Sir!” said Piers sharply.

“Be quiet, Piers!” ordered his grandfather testily. “Who spoke to you? Well, madam, continue! How much do you consider him good for?”

Piers pulled a coin impetuously from his pocket and slapped it down on the table in front of Grade. “There you are, Pixie!” he said. “I’m good for that.”

Gracie stared at the coin with widening eyes, not offering to touch it.

“Oh, Piers!” she said, with a long indrawn breath. “It’s a whole sovereign! Oh no!”

He laughed a reckless laugh, while over her head his eyes challenged his grandfather’s. “That’s all right, Piccaninny,” he said lightly. “Put it in your pocket! And I’ll come round with the car to-morrow and run you into Wardenhurst to buy those gloves.”

But Gracie shook her head. “Gloves don’t cost all that,” she said practically. “And besides, you won’t have any left for yourself. Fancy giving away a whole sovereign at a time!” She addressed Sir Beverley. “It seems almost a tempting of Providence, doesn’t it!”

“The deed of a fool!” said Sir Beverley.

But Piers, with a sudden hardening of the jaw, stooped over Gracie. “Take it!” he said. “I wish it.”

She looked up at him. “No, Piers; I mustn’t really. It’s ever so nice of you.” She rubbed her golden head against his shoulder caressingly. “Please don’t be cross! I do thank you–awfully. But I don’t want it. Really, I don’t.”

“Rot!” said Piers. “Do as I tell you! Take it!”

Gracie turned to Sir Beverley. “I can’t, can I? Tell him I can’t!”

But Piers was not to be thwarted. With a sudden dive he seized the coin and without ceremony swept Gracie’s hair from her shoulders and dropped it down the back of her neck.

“There!” he said, slipping his hands over her arms and holding her while she squealed and writhed. “It’s quite beyond reach. You can’t in decency return it now. It’s no good wriggling. You won’t get it up again unless you stand on your head.”

“You’re horrid–horrid!” protested Gracie; but she reached back and kissed him notwithstanding. “Thank you ever so much. I hope I shan’t lose it. But I don’t know what I shall do with it all. It’s quite dreadful to think of. Please don’t be cross with him!” she said to Sir Beverley. “It’s–awfully–kind.”

Sir Beverley smiled sardonically. “And whom are the gloves for? Some other kind youth?”

“Oh no!” she laughed. “Only Aunt Avery. She tore hers all to bits this afternoon. I expect it was over a dog fight or something, but she wouldn’t tell us what. They were nice gloves too. She isn’t a bit rich, but she always wears nice gloves.”

“Being a woman!” growled Sir Beverley.

“Don’t you like women?” asked Gracie sympathetically. “I like men best too as a rule. But Aunt Avery is so very sweet. No one could help loving her, could they, Piers?”

“Have an orange!” said Piers, pulling the dish towards him.

“Oh, thank you, I mustn’t stop,” Gracie turned to Sir Beverley and lifted her bright face. “Good-bye! Thank you for being so kind.”

There was no irony in her thanks, and even he could scarcely refuse the friendly offer of her lips. He stooped and grimly received her farewell salute on his cheek.

Piers loaded her with as many oranges as she could carry, and they finally departed through the great hall which Gracie surveyed with eyes of reverent admiration.

“It’s as big as a church,” she said, in an awed whisper.

Sir Beverley followed them to the front-door, and saw them out into the night. Gracie waved an ardent farewell from her perch on Piers’ shoulder, and he heard the merry childish laugh more than once after they had passed from sight.

The night air was chilly, and he turned inwards at length with an inarticulate growl, and shut the door.

Heavily he tramped across to the old carved settle before the fire, and dropped down upon it, his whole bearing expressive of utter weariness.

David came in with stealthy footfall and softly replenished the fire.

“Shall I bring the coffee, Sir Beverley?” he asked him.

“No,” said Sir Beverley. “I’ll ring.”

And David effaced himself without sound.

Half an hour passed, and Sir Beverley still sat there motionless as a statue, with thin lips drawn in a single bitter line, and eyes that gazed aloofly at the fire. The silence was intense. The hall seemed desolate as a vault. Over in a corner a grandfather’s clock ticked the seconds away–slowly, monotonously, as though very weary of its task.

Suddenly in the distance there came a faint sound, the opening of a door; and a breath of night-air, pure and cold, blew in across the stillness. In a moment there followed a light, elastic step, and Piers came into view at the other end of the hall. He moved swiftly as though he trod air. His head was thrown back, his face rapt and intent as though he saw a vision. He did not see the lonely figure sitting there before the hearth, but turned aside ere he neared it and entered an unlighted room, shutting himself gently in.

Again the silence descended, but only for a few seconds. Then softly it was dispelled, as through it there stole the tender, passionate-sweet harmonies of a Chopin nocturne.

At the first note Sir Beverley started, almost winced as at the sudden piercing of a nerve. Then as the music continued, he leaned rigidly back again and became as still as before.

Very softly the music thrilled through the silence. It might have come from somewhere very far away. There was something almost unearthly about it, a depth and a mystery that seemed to spread as it were invisible wings, filling the place with dim echoes of the Divine.

It died away at last into a silence like the hush of prayer. And then the still figure of the old man before the fire became suddenly vitalized. He sat up abruptly and seized with impatience a small hand-bell from the table beside him.

David made his discreet appearance with the coffee almost at the first tinkle.

“Coffee!” his master flung at him. “And fetch Master Piers!”

David set down the tray at his master’s elbow, and turned to obey the second behest. But the door of the drawing-room opened ere he reached it, and Piers came out. His dark eyes were shining. He whistled softly as he came.

David stood respectfully on one side, and Piers passed him like a man in a dream. He came to his grandfather, and threw himself on to the settle by his side in silence.

“Well?” said Sir Beverley. “You took that chattering monkey back, I suppose?”

Piers started and seemed to awake. “Oh yes, I got her safely home. We had to dodge the Reverend Stephen. But it was all right. She and the boy got in without being caught.”

He stirred his coffee thoughtfully, and fell silent again.

“You’d better go to bed,” said Sir Beverley abruptly.

Piers looked up, meeting the hard grey eyes with the memory of his dream still lingering in his own.

Slowly the dream melted. He began to smile. “I think I’d better,” he said. “I’m infernally sleepy, and it’s getting late.” He drank off his coffee and rose. “You must be pretty tired yourself, sir,” he remarked. “Time you trotted to bed too.”

He moved round to the back of the settle and paused, looking down at the thick white hair with a curious expression of hesitancy in his eyes.

“Oh, go on! Go on!” said Sir Beverley irritably. “What are you waiting for?”

Piers stooped impulsively in response, his hand on the old man’s shoulder, and kissed him on the forehead.

“Good-night, sir!” he said softly.

The action was purely boyish. It pleaded for tolerance. Sir Beverley jerked his head impatiently, but he did not repulse him.

“There! Be off with you!” he said. “Go to bed and behave yourself! Good-night, you scamp! Good-night!”

And Piers went from him lightfooted, a smile upon his lips. He knew that his tacit overture for peace had been accepted for the time at least.

CHAPTER XIII

THE VISION

It was growing very dark in the little church, almost too dark to see the carving of the choir-stalls, and Avery gave a short sigh of weariness.

She had so nearly finished her task that she had sent the children in to prepare for tea, declaring that she would follow them in five minutes, and then just at the last a whole mass of ivy and holly, upon which the boys had been at work, had slipped and strewn the chancel-floor. She was the only one left in the church, and it behooved her to remove the litter. It had been a hard day, and she was frankly tired of the very sight and smell of the evergreens.

There was no help for it, however. The chancel must be made tidy before she could go, and she went to the cupboard under the belfry for the dustpan and brush which the sexton’s wife kept there. She found a candle also, and thus armed she returned to the scene of her labours at the other end of the dim little church. She tried to put her customary energy into the task, but it would not rise to the occasion, and after a few strenuous seconds she paused to rest.

It was very still and peaceful, and she was glad of the solitude. All day long she had felt the need of it; and all day long it had been denied her. She had been decorating under Miss Whalley’s superintendence, and the task had been no light one. Save for the fact that she had gone in Mrs. Lorimer’s stead, she had scarcely undertaken it. For Miss Whalley was as exacting as though the church were her own private property. She deferred to the Vicar alone, and he was more than willing to leave the matter in her hands. “My capable assistant” was his pet name for this formidable member of his flock, and very conscientiously did Miss Whalley maintain her calling. She would have preferred to direct Mrs. Lorimer rather than the mother’s help, but since the latter had firmly determined to take the former’s place, she had accepted her with condescension and allotted to her all the hardest work.

Avery had laboured uncomplainingly in her quiet, methodical fashion, but now that the stress was over and Miss Whalley safely installed in the Vicarage drawing-room for tea, she found it impossible not to relax somewhat, and to make the most of those few exquisite moments of sanctuary.

She was very far from expecting any invasion of her solitude, and when after a moment or two she went on with her sweeping she had no suspicion of another presence in the dark building. She had set herself resolutely to finish her task, and so energetic was she that she heard no sound of feet along the aisle behind her.

Some unaccountable impulse induced her to pause at length and still kneeling, brush in hand, to throw a backward glance along the nave. Then it was that she saw a man’s figure standing on the chancel-steps, and so unexpected was the apparition that her weary nerves leapt with violence out of all proportion to the event, and she sprang to her feet with a startled cry that echoed weirdly through the empty place. Then with a rush of self-ridicule she recognized Piers Evesham. “Oh, it is you!” she said. “How stupid of me!”

He came straight to her with an air of determination that would brook no opposition and took the brush out of her hand. “That’s not your job,” he said. “You go and sit down!”

She stared at him in silence, trying to still the wild agitation that his unlooked-for coming had raised in her. He was wearing a heavy motor-coat, but he divested himself of this, and without further parley bent himself to the task of which he had deprived her.

Avery sat down somewhat limply on the pulpit-stairs and watched him. He was very thorough and far brisker than she could have been. In a very few minutes the litter was all collected, and Piers turned round and looked back at her across the dim chancel.

“Feeling better?” he said.

She did not answer him. “What made you come in like that?” she asked.

He replied to the question with absolute simplicity. “I’ve just brought Gracie home again. She asked me to tea in the schoolroom, but you weren’t there, and they said I should find you here, so I came to fetch you.”

He moved slowly across and stood before her, looking down into her tired eyes with an odd species of relentlessness in his own.

“It’s an infernal shame that you should work so hard!” he said, with sudden resentment. “You’re looking fagged to death.”

Avery smiled a little. “I like hard work,” she said.

“Not such as this!” said Piers. “It isn’t fit for you. Why can’t the lazy hound do it himself?”

Her smile passed. “Hush, Piers!” she said. “Not here!”

He glanced towards the altar, and she thought a shade of reverence came into his face for a moment. But he turned to her again immediately with his flashing, boyish smile.

“Well, it isn’t good for you to overwork, you know, Avery. I hate to think of it. And you have no one to take care of you and see you don’t.”

Avery got up slowly. Her own face was severe in the candlelight, but before she could speak he went lightly on.

“Would you like me to play you something before we go? Or are you too tired to blow? It’s rather a shame to suggest it. But it’s such a grand opportunity.”

Avery turned at once to the organ with a feeling of relief. As usual she found it very hard to rebuke him as he deserved.

“Yes, I will blow for you,” she said. “But it must be something short, for we ought to be going.”

She sat down and began to blow.

Piers took his place at once at the organ. It was characteristic of him that he never paused for inspiration. His fingers moved over the keys as it were by instinct, and in a few moments Avery forgot that she was tired and dispirited with the bearing of many burdens, forgot all the problems and difficulties of life, forgot even her charges at the Vicarage and the waiting schoolroom tea, and sat wrapt as it were in a golden mist of delight, watching the slow spreading of a dawn such as she had never seen even in her dreams. What he played she knew not, and yet the music was not wholly unfamiliar to her. It waked within her soul harmonies that vibrated in throbbing response. He spoke to her in a language that she knew. And as the magic moments passed, the wonderful dawn so grew and deepened that it seemed to her that all pain, all sorrow, had fallen utterly away, and she stood on the threshold of a new world.

Wider and wider spread the glory. There came to her an overwhelming sense of greatness about to be revealed. She became strung to a pitch of expectancy that was almost anguish, while the music swelled and swelled like the distant coming of a vast procession as yet unseen. She stood as it were on a mountain-top before the closed gates of heaven, waiting for the moment of revelation.

It came. Just when she felt that she could bear no more, just when the wild beating of her heart seemed as if it would choke her, the music changed, became suddenly all-conquering, a paean of triumph, and the gates swung back before her eager eyes.

In spirit she entered the Holy Place, and the same hand that had admitted her lifted for her the last great Veil. For one moment of unutterable rapture such as no poor palpitating mortal body could endure for long, the vision was her own. She saw Heaven opened….

And then the Veil descended, and the Gates closed. She came down from the mountain-top, leaving the golden dawn very far behind her. She opened her eyes in darkness and silence.

Someone was bending over her. She felt warm hands about her own. She heard a voice, sudden and imploring, close to her.

“Avery! Avery darling! For God’s sake, dear, speak to me! What is it? Are you ill?”

“Ill!” she said, bewildered.

His hands gripped hers impetuously. “You gave me such a fright,” he said. “I thought you’d fainted. Did you faint?”

“Of course not!” she said slowly. “I never faint. Why did you stop playing?”

“I didn’t,” said Piers. “At least, you stopped first.”

“Oh, did I forget to blow?” she said. “I’m sorry.”

She knew that she ought not to suffer that close clasp of his, but somehow for the moment she was powerless to resist it. She sat quite still, gazing out before her with a curious sense of powerlessness.

“You’re tired out,” said Piers softly. “It was a shame to keep you here. I’m awfully sorry, dear.”

She stirred at that, beginning to seek for freedom. “Don’t, Piers!” she said. “It–it isn’t right of you. It isn’t fair.”

He knelt swiftly down before her. His voice came quick and passionate in answer. “It can’t be wrong to love you,” he said. “And you will never be any the worse for my love. Let me love you, Avery! Let me love you!”

The words rushed out tempestuously. His forehead was bowed upon her hands. He became silent, and through the silence she heard his breathing, hard and difficult,–the breathing of a man who faces stupendous odds.

With an effort she summoned her strength. Yet she could not speak harshly to him, for her heart went out in pity. “No, you mustn’t, Piers,” she said. “You mustn’t indeed. I am years older than you are, and it is utterly unsuitable. You must forget it. You must indeed. There! Let us be friends! I like you well enough for that.”

He uttered a laugh that sounded as though it covered a groan. “Yes, you’re awfully good to me,” he said. “But you’re not–in one sense–anything approaching my age, and pray Heaven you never will be!”

He raised his head and looked at her. “And you’re not angry with me?” he said, half wistfully.

No, she was not angry. She could not even pretend to be. “But please be sensible!” she begged. “I know it was partly my fault. If I hadn’t been so tired, it wouldn’t have happened.”

He got to his feet, still holding her hands. “No; you’re not to blame yourself,” he said. “What has happened was bound to happen, right from the very beginning. But I’m sorry if it has upset you. There is no reason why it should that I can see. You are better now?”

He helped her gently to rise. They stood face to face in the dim candlelight, and his eyes looked into hers with such friendly concern that again she had it not in her heart to be other than kind.

“I am quite well,” she assured him. “Please forget my foolishness! Tell me what it was you played just now!”

“That last thing?” he said. “Surely you know that! It was Handel’s _Largo_.”

She started. “Of course! I remember now! But–I’ve never heard it played like that before.”

A very strange smile crossed his face. “No one but you would have understood,” he said. “I wanted you to hear it–like that.”

She withdrew her hands from his. Something in his words sent a curious feeling that was almost dread through her heart.

“I don’t–quite–know what you mean,” she said.

“Don’t you?” said Piers, and in his voice there rang a note of recklessness. “It’s a difficult thing to put into words, isn’t it? I just wanted you to see the Open Heaven as I have seen it–and as I shall never see it again.”

“Piers!” she said.

He answered her almost fiercely. “No, you won’t understand. Of course you can’t understand. You will never stand hammering at the bars, breaking your heart in the dark. Wasn’t that the sort of picture our kindly parson drew for us on Sunday? It’s a pretty theme–the tortures of the damned!”

“My dear Piers!” Avery spoke quickly and vehemently. “Surely you have too much sense to take such a discourse as that seriously! I longed to tell the children not to listen. It is wicked–wicked–to try to spread spiritual terror in people’s hearts, and to call it the teaching of religion. It is no more like religion than a penny-terrible is like life. It is a cruel and fantastic distortion of the truth.”

She paused. Piers was listening to her with that odd hunger in his eyes that had looked out of them the night before.

“You don’t believe in hell then?” he said quietly, after a moment.

“As a place of future torment–no!” she said. “The only real hell is here on earth–here in our hearts when we fall away from God. Hell is the state of sin and all that goes with it–the fiery hell of the spirit. It is here and now. How could it be otherwise? Can you imagine a God of Love devising hideous tortures hereafter, for the punishment of the pigmies who had offended Him? Tortures that were never to do them any good, but just to keep them in misery for ever and ever? It is unthinkable–it’s almost ludicrous. What is the good of suffering except to purify? That we can understand and thank God for. But the other–oh, the other is sheer imagery, more mythical than Jonah and the whale. It just doesn’t go.” Again she paused, then very frankly held out her hand to him. “But I like your picture of the Open Heaven, Piers,” she said. “Show it me again some day–when I’m not as tired and stupid as I am to-day.”

He bent over her hand with a gesture that betrayed the foreign blood in him, and his lips, hot and passionate, pressed her cold fingers. He did not utter a word. Only when he stood up again he looked at her with eyes that burned with the deep fires of manhood, and suddenly all-unbidden the woman’s heart in her quivered in response. She bent her head and turned away.

CHAPTER XIV

A MAN’S CONFIDENCE

“Aren’t you going to kiss Aunt Avery under the mistletoe?” asked Gracie.

“No,” said Piers. “Aunt Avery may kiss me if she likes.” He looked at Avery with his sudden, boyish laugh. “But I know she doesn’t like, so that’s an end of the matter.”

“How do you know?” persisted Gracie. “She’s very fond of kissing. And anyone may kiss under the mistletoe.”

“That quite does away with the charm of it in my opinion,” declared Piers. “I don’t appreciate things when you can get ’em cheap.”

He moved over to Jeanie’s sofa and sat down on the edge. Her soft eyes smiled a welcome, the little thin hand slipped into his.

“I’ve been wishing for you all day long,” she said.

He leaned towards her. “Have you, my fairy queen? Well, I’m here at last.”

Avery, from the head of the schoolroom table, looked across at them with a feeling of fulness at her heart. She never liked Piers so well as when she saw him in company with her little favourite. His gentleness and chivalry made of him a very perfect knight.

“Yes,” said Jeanie, giving his hand a little squeeze. “We’re going to have our Christmas Tree to-night, and Dr. Tudor is coming. You don’t like him, I know. But he’s really quite a nice man.”

She spoke the last words pleadingly, in response to a slight frown between Piers’ brows.

“Oh, is he?” said Piers, without enthusiasm.

“He’s been very kind,” said Jeanie in a tone of apology.

“He’d better be anything else–to you!” said Piers, with a smile that was somewhat grim.

Jeanie’s fingers caressed his again propitiatingly. “Do let’s all be nice to each other just for to-night!” she said.

Piers’ smile became tender again. “As your gracious majesty decrees!” he said. “Where is the ceremony to be held?”

“Up in the nursery. We’ve had the little ones in here all day, while Mother and Nurse have been getting it ready. I haven’t seen it yet.”

“Can’t we creep up when no one’s looking and have a private view?” suggested Piers.

Jeanie beamed at the idea. “I would like to, for I’ve been in the secret from the very beginning. But you must finish your tea first. We’ll go when the crackers begin.”

As the pulling of crackers was the signal for every child at the table to make as much noise as possible, it was not difficult to effect their retreat without exciting general attention. Avery alone noted their departure and smiled at Jeanie’s flushed face as the child nodded farewell to her over Piers’ shoulder.

“You do carry me so beautifully,” Jeanie confided to him as he mounted the stairs to the top of the house. “I love the feel of your arms. They are so strong and kind. You’re sure I’m not too heavy?”

“I could carry a dozen of you,” said Piers.

They found the nursery brilliantly lighted and lavishly adorned with festoons of coloured paper.

“Aunt Avery and I did most of that,” said Jeanie proudly.

Piers bore her round the room, admiring every detail, finally depositing her in a big arm-chair close to the tall screen that hid the Christmas Tree. Jeanie’s leg was mending rapidly, and gave her little trouble now. She lay back contentedly, with shining eyes upon her cavalier.

“It was very nice of you to be so kind to Gracie last night,” she said. “She told me all about it to-day. Of course she ought not to have done it. I hope–I hope Sir Beverley wasn’t angry about it.”

Piers laughed a little. “Oh no! He got over it. Was Gracie scared?”

“Not really. She said she thought he wasn’t quite pleased with you. I do hope he didn’t think it was your fault.”

“My shoulders are fairly broad,” said Piers.

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be right,” maintained Jeanie. “I think I ought to write to him and explain.”

“No, no!” said Piers. “You leave the old chap alone. He understands–quite as much as he wants to understand.”

There was a note of bitterness in his voice which Jeanie was quick to discern. She reached up a sympathetic hand to his. “Dear Sir Galahad!” she said softly.

Piers looked down at her for a few moments in silence. And then, very suddenly, moved by the utter devotion that looked back at him from her eyes, he went down on his knees beside her and held her to his heart.

“It’s a beast of a world, Jeanie,” he said.

“Is it?” whispered Jeanie, with his hand pressed tight against her cheek.

There was silence between them for a little space; then she lifted her face to his, to murmur in a motherly tone, “I expect you’re tired.”

“Tired!” said Piers with gloomy vehemence. “Yes, I am tired–sick to death of everything. I’m like a dog on a chain. I can see what I want, but it’s always just out of my reach.”

Jeanie’s hand came up and softly stroked his face. “I wish I could get it for you,” she said.

“Bless you, sweetheart!” said Piers. “You don’t so much as know what it is, do you?”

“Yes, I do,” said Jeanie. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, looking up into his face with all her child’s soul shining in her eyes. “It’s–Aunt Avery; isn’t it?”

“How did you know?” said Piers.

“I don’t know,” said Jeanie. “It just–came to me–that day in the schoolroom when you talked about the ticket of leave. You were unhappy that day, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Piers. He added after a moment, “You see, I’m not good enough for her.”

“Not good enough!” Jeanie’s face became incredulous and a little distressed. “I’m sure–she–doesn’t think that,” she said.

“She doesn’t know me properly,” said Piers. “Nor do you. If you did, you’d be shocked,–you’d be horrified.”

He spoke recklessly, almost defiantly; but Jeanie only stretched up a thin arm and wound it about his neck. “Never!” she told him softly. “No, never!”

He held her to him; but he would not be silenced. “I assure you, I’m no saint,” he said. “I feel more like a devil sometimes. I’ve done bad things, Jeanie, I can’t tell you how bad. It would only hurt you.”

The words ran out impulsively. His breathing came quick and short; his hold was tense. In that moment the child’s pure spirit recognized that the image had crumbled in her shrine, but the brave heart of her did not flinch. Very tenderly she veiled the ruin. The element of worship had vanished in that single instant of revelation; but her love remained, and it shone out to him like a beacon as he knelt there in abasement by her side.

“But you’re sorry,” she whispered. “You would undo the bad things if you could.”

“God knows I would!” he said.

“Perhaps He will undo them for you,” she murmured softly. “Have you asked Him?”

“There are some things that can’t be undone,” groaned Piers. “It would be too big a job even for Him.”

“Nothing is that,” said Jeanie with conviction. “If we are sorry and if we pray, some day He will undo all the bad we’ve ever done.”

“I haven’t prayed for six years,” said Piers. “Things went wrong with me. I felt as if I were under a curse. And I gave it up.”

“Oh, Piers!” she said, holding him closer. “How miserable you must have been!”

“I’ve been in hell!” he said with bitter vehemence. “And the gates tight shut! Not that I was ever very great in the spiritual lines,” he added more calmly. “But I used to think God took a friendly interest in my affairs till–till I went down into hell and the gates shut on me; and then–” he spoke grimly–“I knew He didn’t care a rap.”

“But, dear, He does care!” said Jeanie very earnestly.

“He doesn’t!” said Piers moodily. “He can’t!”

“Piers, He does!” She raised her head and looked him straight in the eyes. “Everyone feels like that sometimes,” she said. “But Aunt Avery says it’s only because we are too little to understand. Won’t you begin and pray again? It does make a difference even though we can’t see it.”

“I can’t,” said Piers. And then with swift compunction he kissed her face of disappointment. “Never mind, my queen! Don’t you bother your little head about me! I shall rub along all right even if I don’t come out on top.”

“But I want you to be happy,” said Jeanie. “I wish I could help you, Piers,–dear Piers.”

“You do help me,” said Piers.

There came the sound of voices on the stairs, and he got up.

Jeanie looked up at him wistfully. “I shall try,” she said. “I shall try–hard.”

He patted her head and turned away.

Mr. Lorimer and Miss Whalley entered the room. The former raised his brows momentarily at the sight of Piers, but he greeted him with much geniality.

“I am quite delighted to welcome you to the children’s Christmas party,” he declared, with Piers’ hand held impressively in his. “And how is your grandfather, my dear lad?”

Piers contracted instinctively. “He is quite well, thanks,” he said. “I haven’t come to stay. I only looked in for a moment.”

He glanced towards Miss Whalley whom he had never met before. The Vicar smilingly introduced him. “This is the Squire’s grandson and heir, Miss Whalley. Doubtless you know him by sight as well as by repute–the keenest sportsman in the county, eh, my young friend?” His eyes disappeared with the words as if pulled inwards by a string.

“I don’t know,” said Piers, becoming extremely blunt and British. “I’m certainly keen, but so are dozens of others.” He bowed to Miss Whalley with stiff courtesy. “Pleased to meet you,” he said formally.

Miss Whalley acknowledged the compliment with a severe air of incredulity. She had never approved of Piers since a certain Sunday morning ten years before when she had caught him shooting at the choir-boys with a catapult, during the litany, over the top of the squire’s large square pew.

She had reported the crime to the Vicar, and the Vicar had lodged a formal complaint with Sir Beverley, who had soundly caned the delinquent in his presence, and given him half a sovereign as soon as the clerical back had been turned for taking the punishment like a man.

But in Miss Whalley’s eyes Piers had from that moment ceased to be regarded as one of the elect, and his curt reception of the good Vicar’s patronage did not further elevate him in her esteem. She made as brief a response to the introduction as politeness demanded, and crossed the room to Jeanie.

“I must be off,” said Piers. “I’ve stayed longer than I intended already.”

“Pray do not hurry!” urged Mr. Lorimer. “The festivities are but just beginning.”

But Piers was insistent, and even Jeanie’s wistful eyes could not detain him. He waved her a careless farewell, and extricated himself as quickly as possible from surroundings that had become uncongenial.

Descending the stairs somewhat precipitately, he nearly ran into Avery ascending with a troop of children, and stopped to say good-bye.

“You’re not going!” cried Gracie, with keen disappointment.

“Yes, I am. I can’t stop. It’s later than I thought. See you to-morrow!” said Piers.

He held Avery’s hand again in his, and for one fleeting second his eyes looked into hers. Then lightly he pressed her fingers and passed on without further words.

On the first landing he encountered Mrs. Lorimer. She smiled upon him kindly. “Oh, Piers, is it you?” she said. “Have you been having tea in the schoolroom?”

He admitted that he had.

“And must you really go?” she said. “I’m sorry for that. Come again, won’t you?”

Her tone was full of gentle friendliness, and Piers was touched. “It’s awfully good of you to ask me,” he said.

“I like to see you here,” she answered simply. “And I am so grateful to you for your kindness to my little Jeanie.”

“Oh, please don’t!” said Piers. “I assure you it’s quite the other way round. I shall certainly come again since you are good enough to ask me.”

He smiled with boyish gallantry into the wistful, faded face, carried her fingers lightly to his lips, and passed on.

“Such a nice boy!” Mrs. Lorimer murmured to herself as she went up to the nursery.

“Poor little soul!” was Piers’ inward comment as he ran down to the hall.

Here he paused, finding himself face to face with Lennox Tudor who was taking off his coat preparatory to ascending.

The doctor nodded to him without cordiality. Neither of them ever pretended to take any pleasure in the other’s society.

“Are you just going?” he asked. “Your grandfather is wanting you.”

“Who says so?” said Piers aggressively.

“I say so.” Curtly Tudor made answer, meeting Piers’ quick frown with one equally decided.

Piers stood still in front of him. “Have you just come from the Abbey?” he demanded.

“I have.” Tudor’s tone was non-committal. He stood facing Piers, waiting to pass.

“What are you always going there for?” burst forth Piers, with heat. “He doesn’t want you–never follows your advice, and does excellently well without it.”

“Really!” said Tudor. He uttered a short, sarcastic laugh, albeit his thick brows met closely above his glasses. “Well, you ought to know–being such a devoted and attentive grandson.”

Piers’ hands clenched at the words. He looked suddenly dangerous. “What in thunder do you mean?” he demanded.

Tudor was nothing loth to enlighten him. He was plainly angry himself. “I mean,” he said, “if you must have it, that the time you spend philandering here would be better employed in looking after the old man, who has spent a good deal over you and gets precious little interest out of the investment.”

“Confound you!” exclaimed Piers violently. “Who the devil are you to talk to me like this? Do you think I’m going to put up with it, what? If so, you’re damned well mistaken. You leave me alone–and my grandfather too; do you hear? If you don’t–” He broke off, breathing short and hard.

But Tudor remained unimpressed. He looked at Piers as one might look at an animal raging behind bars. “Well?” he said. “Pray finish! If I don’t–“

Piers’ face was very pale. His eyes blazed out of it, red and threatening. “If you don’t–I’ll murder you!” he said.

And at that he stopped short and suddenly wheeled round as he caught the swish of a dress on the stairs. He looked up into Avery’s face as she came swiftly down, and the blood rose in a deep, dark wave to his forehead. He made no attempt to cover or excuse his passionate outburst, which it was perfectly obvious she must have heard. He merely made way for her, his hands still hard clenched, his eyes immovably upon her.

Avery passed him with scarcely a glance, but her voice as she addressed Lennox Tudor sounded a trifle austere. “I heard you speaking,” she said, “and ran down to fetch you upstairs. Will you come up at once, please? The ceremony is just beginning.”

Tudor held out a steady hand, “Very kind of you, Mrs. Denys,” he said. “Will you lead the way?” And then for a moment he turned from her to Piers. “If you have anything further to say to me, Evesham, I shall be quite ready to give you a hearing on a more suitable occasion.”

“I have nothing further to say,” said Piers, still with his eyes upon Avery.

She would not look at him. With deliberate intention, she ignored his look. “Come, doctor!” she said.

They mounted the stairs together, Piers still standing motionless, still mutely watching. There was no temper nor anger in his face. Simply he stood and waited. And, as if that silent gaze drew her, even against her will, suddenly at the top she turned. Her own sweet smile flashed into her face. She threw a friendly glance down to him.

“Good-night, Mr. Evesham!” she called softly. “A happy Christmas to you!”

And as if that were what he had been waiting for, Piers bowed very low in answer and at once turned away.

His face as he went out into the night wore a very curious expression. It was not grim, nor ashamed, nor triumphant, and yet there was in it a suggestion of all three moods.

He reached his car, standing as he had left it in the deserted lane, and stooped to start the engine. Then, as it throbbed in answer, he straightened himself, and very suddenly he laughed. But it was not a happy laugh; and in a moment more he shot away into the dark as though pursued by fiends. If he had gained his end, if he had in any fashion achieved his desire, it was plain that it did not give him any great satisfaction. He went like a fury through the night.

CHAPTER XV

THE SCHEME

“Look here, boy!” Very suddenly, almost fiercely, Sir Beverley addressed his grandson that evening as they sat together over dessert. “I’ve had enough of this infernal English climate. I’m going away.”

Piers was peeling a walnut. He did not raise his eyes or make the faintest sign of surprise. Steadily his fingers continued their task. His lips hardened a little, that was all.

“Do you hear?” rapped out Sir Beverley.

Piers bent his head. “What about the hunting?” he said.

“Damn the hunting!” growled Sir Beverley.

Piers was silent a moment. Then: “I suggested it to you myself, didn’t I?” he said deliberately, “six weeks ago. And you wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Confound your impertinence!” began Sir Beverley. But abruptly Piers raised his eyes, and he stopped. “What do you mean?” he said, in a calmer tone.

Very steadily Piers met his look. “That’s a question I should like to ask, sir,” he said. “Why do you want to go abroad? Aren’t you well?”

“I am perfectly well,” declared Sir Beverley, who furiously resented any enquiry as to his health. “Can’t a man take it into his head that he’d like a change from this beastly damp hole of a country without being at death’s door, I should like to know?”

“You generally have a reason for what you do, sir,” observed Piers.

“Of course I have a reason,” flung back Sir Beverley.

A faint smile touched the corners of Piers’ mouth. “But I am not to know what it is, what?” he asked.

Sir Beverley glared at him. There were times when he was possessed by an uneasy suspicion that the boy was growing up into a manhood that threatened to overthrow his control. He had a feeling that Piers’ submission to his authority had become a matter of choice rather than of necessity. He had inherited his Italian grandmother’s fortune, moreover,–a sore point with Sir Beverley who would have repudiated every penny had it been left at his disposal–and was therefore independent.

“I’ve given you a reason. What more do you want?” he growled.

Piers looked straight at him for a few seconds longer; then broke into his sudden boyish laugh. “All right, sir. When shall we start?” he said.

Sir Beverley stared. “What the devil are you laughing at?” he demanded.

Piers had returned to the peeling of his walnut. “Nothing, sir,” he said airily. “At least, nothing more important than your reason for going abroad.”

“Damn your impudence!” said Sir Beverley, and then for some reason he too began to smile. “That’s settled then. We’ll go to Monte Carlo, eh, Piers? You’ll like that.”

“Do you think I am to be trusted at Monte Carlo?” said Piers.

“I let you go round the world by yourself while you were still an infant, so I almost think I can trust you at Monte Carlo under my own eye,” returned Sir Beverley.

Piers was silent. The smile had left his lips. He frowned slightly over his task.

“Well?” said Sir Beverley, suddenly and sharply.

“Well, sir?” Piers raised his brows without looking up.

The old man brought down an impatient fist on the table. “Why can’t you say what you think?” he demanded angrily. “You sit there with your mouth shut as if–as if–” His eyes went suddenly to the woman’s face on the wall with the red lips that smiled half-sadly, half-mockingly, and the eyes that perpetually followed him but never smiled at all. “Confound you, Piers!” he said. “I sometimes think that voyage round the world did you more harm than good.”

“Why, sir?” said Piers quickly.

Sir Beverley’s look left the smiling, baffling face upon the wall and sought his grandson’s. “You were so mad to be off the bearing-rein, weren’t you?” he said. “So keen to feel your own feet? I thought it would make a man of you, but I was a fool to do it. I’d better have kept you on the rein after all.”

“I should have run away if you had,” said Piers. He poured himself out a glass of wine and raised it to his lips. He looked at Sir Beverley above it with a smile half-sad, half-mocking, and eyes that veiled his soul. “I should have gone to the devil if you had, sir,” he said, “and–probably–I shouldn’t have come back.” He drank slowly, his eyes still upon Sir Beverley’s face.

When he set the glass down again he was openly laughing. “Besides, you horsewhipped me for something or other, do you remember? It hurts to be horsewhipped at nineteen.”

Sir Beverley growled at him inarticulately.

“Yes, I know,” said Piers, “But it doesn’t affect me so much now. I’m past the sensitive age.” He ate his walnut, drained his glass, and rose.

“You–puppy!” said Sir Beverley, looking up at him.

Piers came to his side. He suddenly knelt down and pulled the old man’s arm round his shoulders. “I say, I’m going to enjoy that trip,” he said boyishly. “Let’s get away before the New Year!”

Sir Beverley suffered the action with no further protest than a frown. “You weren’t so mighty anxious when I first suggested it,” he grumbled.

Piers laughed. “Can’t a man change his mind? I’m keen enough now.”

“What do you want to go for?” Sir Beverley looked at him suspiciously.

But Piers’ frank return of his look told him nothing. “I love the South as you know,” he said.

“Damn it, yes!” said Sir Beverley irritably. He could never endure any mention of the Southern blood in Piers.

“And–” Piers’ brown fingers grew suddenly tight upon the bony hand he had drawn over his shoulder–“I like going away with you.”

“Oh, stow it, Piers!” growled Sir Beverley.

“The truth, sir!” protested Piers, with eyes that suddenly danced. “It does me good to be with you. It keeps me young.”

“Young!” ejaculated Sir Beverley. “You–infant!”

Piers broke into a laugh. He looked a mere boy when he gave himself up to merriment. “And it’ll do you good too,” he said, “to get away from that beastly doctor who is always hanging around. I long to give him the boot whenever I see him.”

“You don’t like each other, eh?” Sir Beverley’s smile was sardonic.

“We loathe and detest each other,” said Piers. All the boyishness went out of his face with the words; he looked suddenly grim, and in that moment the likeness between them was very marked. “I presume this change of air scheme was his suggestion,” he said abruptly.

“And if it was?” said Sir Beverley.

Piers threw back his head and laughed again through clenched teeth. “For which piece of consideration he has my sincere gratitude,” he said. He pressed his grandfather’s hand again and rose. “So it’s to be Monte Carlo, is it? Well, the sooner the better for me. I’ll tell Victor to look up the trains. We can’t get away to-morrow or the next day. But we ought to be able to manage the day after.”

He strolled across to the fire, and stood there with his back to the room, whistling below his breath.

Sir Beverley regarded him frowningly. There was no denying the fact, he did not understand Piers. He had expected a strenuous opposition to his scheme. He had been prepared to do battle with the boy. But Piers had refused the conflict. What was the fellow’s game, he asked himself? Why this prompt compliance with his wishes? He was not to be deceived into the belief that he wanted to go. The attraction was too great for that. Unless indeed–he looked across at the bent black head in sudden doubt–was it possible that the boy had met with a check in the least likely direction of all? Could it be that the woman’s plans did not include him after all?

No! No! That was out of the question. He knew women. A hard laugh rose to his lips. If she had put a check upon Piers’ advances it was not with the ultimate purpose of stopping him. She knew what she was about too well for that, confound her!

He stared at Piers who had wheeled suddenly from the fire at the sound of the laugh. “Well?” he said irritably. “Well? What’s the matter now?”

The eyes that countered his were hard, with just a hint of defiance. “You laughed, sir,” said Piers curtly.

“Well, what of it?” threw back Sir Beverley. “You’re deuced suspicious. I wasn’t laughing at you.”

“I know that,” said Piers. He spoke deliberately, as one choosing his words. His face was stern. “I don’t want to know the joke if it’s private. But I should like to know how long you want to be away.”

“How long? How the devil can I tell?” growled Sir Beverley. “Till I’ve had enough of it, I suppose.”

“Does it depend on that only?” said Piers.

Sir Beverley pushed back his chair with fierce impatience. “Oh, leave me alone, boy, do! I’ll let you know when it’s time to come home again.”

Piers came towards him. He halted with the light from the lamp full on his resolute face. “If you are going to wait on Tudor’s convenience,” he said, “you’ll wait–longer than I shall.”

“What the devil do you mean?” thundered Sir Beverley.

But again Piers turned aside from open conflict. He put a quiet hand through his grandfather’s arm.

“Come along, sir! We’ll smoke in the hall,” he said. “I think you understand me. If you don’t–” he paused and smiled his sudden, winning smile into the old man’s wrathful eyes–“I’ll explain more fully when the time comes.”

“Confound you, Piers!” was Sir Beverley’s only answer.

Yet he left the room with the boy’s arm linked in his. And the woman’s face on the wall smiled behind them–the smile of a witch, mysterious, derisive, aloof, yet touched with that same magic with which Piers had learned even in his infancy to charm away the evil spirit that lurked in his grandfather’s soul.

CHAPTER XVI

THE WARNING

“Going away to-morrow, are you?” said Ina Rose, in her cool young voice. “I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

“Thanks!” said Piers. “No doubt I shall.”

He spoke with his eyes on the dainty lace fan he had taken from her.

Ina frankly studied his face. She had always found Piers Evesham interesting.

“I should be wild if I were in your place,” she remarked, after a moment.

He shrugged his shoulders, and his brown face slightly smiled. “Because of the hunting?” he said, and turned his eyes upon her fresh, girlish face. “But there’s always next year, what?”

“Good gracious!” said Ina. “You talk as if you were older than your grandfather. It wouldn’t comfort me in the least to think of next season’s hunting. And I don’t believe it does you either. You are only putting it on.”

“All right!” said Piers. His eyes dwelt upon her with a species of mocking homage that yet in a fashion subtly flattered. He always knew how to please Ina Rose, though not always did he take the trouble. “Let us say–for the sake of argument–that I am quite inconsolable. It doesn’t matter to anyone, does it?”

“I don’t know why you should say that,” said Ina. “It ought to matter–anyhow to your grandfather. Why don’t you make him go by himself?”

Piers laughed a careless laugh, still boldly watching her. “That wouldn’t be very dutiful of me, would it?” he said.

“I suppose you’re not afraid of him?” said Ina, who knew not the meaning of the word.

“Why should you suppose that?” said Piers.

She met his look in momentary surprise. “To judge by the way you behaved the other day, I should say you were not.”

Piers frowned. “Which day?”

Ina explained without embarrassment. “The day that girl held up the whole Hunt in Holland’s meadow. My word, Piers, how furious the old man was! Does he often behave like that?”

Piers still frowned. His fingers were working restlessly at the ivory sticks of her fan. “If you mean, does he often thrash me with a horsewhip, no, he doesn’t,” he said shortly. “And he wouldn’t have done it then if I’d had a hand to spare. I’m glad you enjoyed the spectacle. Hope you were all edified.”

“You needn’t be waxy,” said Ina calmly. “I assure you, you never showed to greater advantage. I hope your lady friend was duly grateful to her deliverer. I rather liked her pluck, Piers. Who is she?”

There was a sudden crack between Piers’ fingers. He looked down hastily, and in a moment displayed three broken ivory fan-sticks to the girl beside him. “I’m horribly sorry, Ina,” he said.

Ina looked at the damage, and from it to his face of contrition. “You did it on purpose,” she said.

“I did not,” said Piers.

“You’re very rude,” she rejoined.

“No, I’m not,” he protested. “I’m sorry. I hope you didn’t value it for any particular reason. I’ll send you another from Paris.”

She spurned the broken thing with a careless gesture. “Not you! You’d be afraid to.”

Piers’ brows went up. “Afraid?”

“Of your grandfather,” she said, with a derisive smile. “If he caught you sending anything to me–or to the lady of the meadow–” she paused eloquently.

Piers looked grim. “Of course I shall send you a fan if you’ll accept it.”

“How nice of you!” said Ina. “Wouldn’t you like to send something for her in the same parcel? I’ll deliver it for you–if you’ll tell me the lady’s address.”

Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she made the suggestion. Piers frowned yet a moment longer, then laughed back with abrupt friendliness.

“Thanks awfully! But I won’t trouble you. It’s decent of you not to be angry over this. I’ll get you a ripping one to make up.”

Ina nodded. “That’ll be quite amusing. Everyone will think that you’re really in earnest at last. Poor Dick will be furious when he knows.”

“You’ll probably console him pretty soon,” returned Piers.

“Think so?” Ina’s eyes narrowed a little; she looked at Piers speculatively. “That’s what you want to believe, is it?”

“I? Of course not!” Piers laughed again. “I never wished any girl engaged yet.”

“Save one,” suggested Ina, and an odd little gleam hovered behind her lashes with the words. “Why won’t you tell me her name? You might as well.”

“Why?” said Piers.

“I shall find it out in any case,” she assured him. “I know already that she dwells under the Vicar’s virtuous roof, and that the worthy Dr. Tudor finds it necessary to drop in every day. I suppose she is the nurse-cook-housekeeper of that establishment.”

“I say, how clever of you!” said Piers.

The girl laughed carelessly. “Isn’t it? I’ve studied her in church–and you too, my cavalier. I don’t believe you have ever attended so regularly before, have you? Did she ever tell you her age?”

“Never,” said Piers.

“I wonder,” said Ina coolly. And then rather suddenly she rose. “Piers, if I’m a prying cat, you’re a hard-mouthed mule! There! Why can’t you admit that you’re in love with her?”

Piers faced her with no sign of surprise. “Why don’t you tell me that you’re in love with Guyes?” he said.

“Because it wouldn’t be true!” She flung back her answer with a laugh that sounded unaccountably bitter. “I have yet to meet the man who is worth the trouble.”

“Oh, really!” said Piers. “Don’t flatter us more than you need! I’m sorry for Guyes myself. If he weren’t so keen on you, it’s my belief you’d like him better.”

“Oh no, I shouldn’t!” Ina spoke with a touch of scorn. “I shouldn’t like him either less or more, whatever he did. I couldn’t. But of course he’s extremely eligible, isn’t he?”

“Does that count with you?” said Piers curiously.

She looked at him. “It doesn’t with you of course?” she said.

“Not in the least,” he returned with emphasis.

She laughed again, and pushed the remnants of her fan with her foot. “It wouldn’t. You’re so charmingly young and romantic. Well, mind the doctor doesn’t cut you out in your absence! He would be a much more suitable _parti_ for her, you know, both as to age and station. Shall we go back to the ball-room now? I am engaged to Dick for the next dance. I mustn’t cut him in his own house.”

It was an annual affair but quite informal–this Boxing Night dance at the Guyes’. Dick himself called it a survival of his schoolboy days, and it was always referred to in the neighbourhood as “Dick’s Christmas party.” He and his mother would no more have dreamed of discontinuing the festivity than of foregoing their Christmas dinner, and the Roses of Wardenhurst were invariably invited and as invariably attended it. Piers was not so constant a guest. Dick had thrown him an open invitation on the hunting-field a day or two before, and Piers, having nothing better to do, had decided to present himself.

He liked dancing, and was easily the best dancer among the men. He also liked Ina Rose, or at least she had always thought so, till that night. They were friends of the hunting-field rather than of the drawing-room, but they always drifted together wherever they met. Sir Beverley had never troubled himself about the intimacy. The girl belonged to the county, and if not quite the brilliant match for Piers that he would have chosen, she came at least of good old English stock. He knew and liked her father, and he would not have made any very strenuous opposition to an alliance between the two. The girl was well bred and heiress to the Colonel’s estate. She would have added considerably to Piers’ importance as a landowner, and she knew already how to hold up her head in society. Also, she led a wholesome, outdoor existence, and was not the sort of girl to play with a man’s honour.

No, on the whole Sir Beverley had no serious objection to the prospect of a marriage between them, save that he had no desire to see Piers married for another five years at feast. But Ina could very well afford to wait five years for such a prize as Piers. Meanwhile, if they cared to get engaged–it would keep the boy out of mischief, and there would be no harm in it.

So had run Sir Beverley’s thoughts prior to the appearance of the mother’s help at the Vicarage. But she–the woman with the resolute mouth and grey, steadfast eyes–had upset all his calculations. It had not needed Lennox Tudor’s hint to put him on his guard. He had known whither the boy’s wayward fancy was tending before that. The scene in the hunting-field had been sufficient revelation for him, and had lent strength to his arm and fury to his indignation.

Piers’ decision to spend his last night in England at a dance had been a surprise to him, but then the boy had puzzled him a good many times of late. He had even asked himself once or twice if it had been his deliberate intention to do so. But since it was absolutely certain that the schemer at the Vicarage would not be present at Dick Guyes’ party, Sir Beverley did not see any urgent necessity for keeping his grandson at his side. He even hoped that Piers would enjoy himself though he deemed him a fool to go.

And, to judge from appearances, Piers was enjoying himself. Having parted from Ina, he claimed for his partner his hostess,–a pretty, graceful woman who danced under protest, but so exquisitely that he would hardly be persuaded to give her up when the dance was over.

He scarcely left the ball-room for the rest of the evening, and when the party broke up he was among the last to leave. Dick ingenuously thanked him for helping to make the affair a success. He was not feeling particularly happy himself, since Ina had consistently snubbed him throughout; but he did not hold Piers in any way responsible for her attitude. Dick’s outlook on life was supremely simple. He never attempted to comprehend the ways of women, being serenely content to regard them as beyond his comprehension. He hoped and believed that one day Ina would be kind to him, but he was quite prepared to wait an indefinite time for that day to dawn. He took all rebuffs with resignation, and could generally muster a smile soon after.

He smiled tranquilly upon Piers at parting and congratulated him upon the prospect of missing the worst of the winter. To which Piers threw back a laugh as he drove away in his little two-seater, coupled with the careless assurance that he meant to make the most of his time, whatever the weather.

“Lucky dog!” said Guyes, as he watched him disappear down the drive.

But if he had seen the expression that succeeded Piers’ laugh, he might have suppressed the remark. For Piers’ face, as he raced alone through the darkness, was the set, grim face of a man who carries a deadly purpose in his soul. He had laughed and danced throughout the evening, but in his first moment of solitude the devil he had kept at bay had entered into full possession.

To the rush and throb of his engine, he heard over and over the gibing, malicious words of a girl’s sore heart: “Mind the doctor doesn’t cut you out in your absence!”

Obviously then this affair was the common talk of the neighbourhood since news of it had even penetrated to Wardenhurst. People were openly watching the rivalry between Lennox Tudor and himself, watching and speculating as to the result. And he, about to be ignominiously removed from the conflict by his grandfather, at Tudor’s suggestion, had become the laughing-stock of the place. Piers’ teeth nearly met in his lower lip. Let them laugh! And let them chatter! He would give them ample food for amusement and gossip before he left.

He had yielded to his grandfather’s desire because instinct had told him that his absence just at that stage of his wooing would be more beneficial than his presence. He was shrewd enough to realize that the hot blood in him was driving him too fast, urging him to a pace which might irreparably damage his cause. For that reason alone, he was ready to curb his fierce impetuosity. But to leave a free field for Lennox Tudor was not a part of his plan. He had scarcely begun to regard the man in the light of a serious rival, although fully aware of the fact that Tudor was doing his utmost to remove him from his path. But if Ina thought him so, he had probably underestimated the danger.

He had always detested Tudor very thoroughly. Piers never did anything by halves, and the doctor’s undisguised criticism of him never failed to arouse his fiercest resentment. That Tudor disliked him in return was a fact that could scarcely escape the notice of the most careless observer. The two were plainly antipathetic, and were scarcely civil to one another even in public.

But that night Piers’ antagonism flared to a deadly hatred. The smouldering fire had leaped to a fierce blaze. Two nights before he had smothered it with the exultant conviction that Tudor’s chances with Avery were practically non-existent. He had known with absolute certainty that he was not the type of man to attract her. But to-night his mood had changed. Whether Tudor’s chances had improved or not, he scarcely stopped to question, but that other people regarded them as possibly greater than his own was a fact that sent the mad blood to his head. He tore back through the winter night like a man possessed, with Ina Rose’s scoffing warning beating a devil’s tattoo in his brain.

CHAPTER XVII

THE PLACE OF TORMENT

The surgery-bell pealed imperiously, and Tudor looked up from his book. It was his custom to read far into the night, for he was a poor sleeper and preferred a cosy fireside to his bed. But that night he was even later than usual. Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, he saw that it was a quarter to two. With a shrug of the shoulders expressive rather of weariness than indifference, he rose to answer the bell.

It pealed again before he reached the door, and the doctor frowned. He was never very tolerant of impatience. He unfastened the bolts without haste. The case might be urgent, but a steady hand and cool nerve were usually even more essential than speed in his opinion. He opened the door therefore with a certain deliberation, and faced the sharp night air with grim resignation. “Well? Who is it? Come in!”

He expected to see some village messenger, and the sight of Piers, stern-faced, with the fur collar of his motor-coat turned up to his ears, was a complete surprise.

“Hullo!” he said, staring at him. “Anything wrong?”

Piers stared back with eyes of burning hostility. “I want a word with you,” he announced curtly. “Will you come out, or shall I come in?”

“You’d better come in,” said Tudor, suppressing a shiver, “unless I’m wanted up at the Abbey.”

“You’re not,” said Piers.

He stepped into the passage, and impetuously stripped off his heavy coat. Tudor shut the door, and turned round. He surveyed his visitor’s evening-dress with a touch of contempt. He himself was clad in an ancient smoking-jacket, much frayed at the cuffs; and his carpet-slippers were so trodden down at the heel that he could only just manage to shuffle along in them.

“Go into the consulting-room!” he said. “There’s a light there.”

Piers strode in, and waited for him. Seen by the light of the gas that burned there, his face was pale and set in lines of iron determination. His eyes shone out of it like the eyes of an infuriated wild beast.

“Do you know what I’ve come for?” he said, as Tudor shambled into the room.

Tudor looked him over briefly and comprehensively. “No, I don’t,” he said. “I hoped I’d seen the last of you.”

His words were as brief as his look. It was obvious that he had no intention of wasting time in mere courtesy.

Piers’ lips tightened at his tone. He looked full and straight at the baffling glasses that hid the other man’s contemptuous eyes.

“I’ve come for a reckoning with you,” he said.

“Really?” said Tudor. He glanced again at the clock. “Rather an unusual hour, isn’t it?”

Piers passed the question by. He was chafing on his feet like a caged animal. Abruptly he came to the point.

“I told you the other day that I wouldn’t put up with any interference from you. I didn’t know then how far your interference had gone. I do know now. This scheme to get me out of the country was of your contrivance.”

Fiercely he flung the words. He was quivering with passionate indignation. But the effect on Tudor was scarcely perceptible. He only looked a little colder, a little more satirical, than was his wont.

“Well?” he said. “What of it?”

Piers showed his teeth momentarily. His hands were hard gripped behind him, as though he restrained himself by main force from open violence.

“You don’t deny it?” he said.

“Why should I?” Tudor’s thin lips displayed a faint sneer. “I certainly advised your grandfather to go away, and I think the advice was sound.”

“It was–from your point of view.” A tremor of fierce humour ran through Piers’ speech. “But plans–even clever ones–don’t always turn out as they should. This one for instance–what do you think you are going to gain by it?”

“What do you mean?” Tudor stood by the table facing Piers, his attitude one of supreme indifference. He seemed scarcely to feel the stormy atmosphere that pulsated almost visibly around the younger man. His eyes behind their glasses were cold and shrewd, wholly emotionless.

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.

CHAPTER XVIII

HORNS AND HOOFS

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 usual _pied-a-terre_ has 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 the _fracas_.

“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 tossed Avery’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,