CHAPTER XXXIII
THE LAST DEBT
There was no combating the Vicar's decision. Avery realized that factfrom the outset even before Mrs. Lorimer's agitated note upon the subjectreached her. The fiat had gone forth, and submission was the only course.
Jeanie received the news without a murmur. "I don't mind really," shesaid. "It's very nice here, but then it's nice at home too when you arethere. And then there is Piers too."
Yes, there was Piers,--another consideration that filled Avery withuneasiness. No word from Piers had reached her since that early morningon the shore, but his silence did not reassure her. She had half expecteda boyish letter of apology, some friendly reassurance, some word at leastof his return to Rodding Abbey. But she had heard nothing. She did not somuch as know if he had returned or not.
Neither had she heard from her friend Edmund Crowther. With a sense ofkeen disappointment she wrote to his home in the North to tell him of thechange in her plans. She could not ask him to the Vicarage, and it seemedthat she might not meet him after all.
She also sent a hurried note to Lennox Tudor, but they had only threedays 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 thenote until the actual day of their return.
The other children were expected home from school during the week beforeEaster, and Mr. Lorimer desired that Avery should be at the Vicarage toprepare for them. So, early in the week, they returned.
It seemed that Spring had come at last. The hedges were all bursting intotenderest green, and all the world looked young.
"The primroses will be out in the Park woods," said Jeanie. "We will goand gather heaps and heaps."
"Are you allowed to go wherever you like there?" asked Avery, thinkingof the game.
"Oh no," said Jeanie thoughtfully. "But we always do. Mr. Marshall chasesus sometimes, but we always get away."
She smiled at the thought, and Avery frankly rejoiced to see herenthusiasm for the wicked game of trespassing in the Squire's preserves.She did not know that the amusement had been strictly prohibited by theVicar, and it did not occur to Jeanie to tell her. None of the childrenhad ever paid any attention to the prohibition. There were some rulesthat no one could keep.
The return of the rest of the family kept the days that succeeded theirreturn extremely lively. Jeanie was in higher spirits than Avery hadever seen her. She seemed more childish, more eager for fun, as thoughsome of the zest of life had got into her veins at last. Her motherascribed the change to Avery's influence, and was pathetic in hergratitude, though Avery disclaimed all credit declaring that the sea-airhad wrought the wonder.
When Lennox Tudor saw her, he looked at Avery with an odd smile behindhis glasses. "You've built the wall," he said.
They had met by the churchyard gate, and Jeanie and Pat were having ahopping race down the hill. Avery looked after them with a touch ofwistfulness. "But I wish she could have been away longer."
Tudor frowned. "Yes. Why on earth not? The Reverend Stephen again, Isuppose. I wish I had had your letter sooner, though as a matter of factI'm not in favour just now, and my interference would probably weigh inthe wrong balance. Keep the child out as much as possible! It's the onlyway. She has made good progress. There is no reason at present why sheshould go back again."
No, there was no reason; yet Avery's heart misgave her. She wished shemight have had longer for the building of that wall. Good Friday was moreor less a day of penance in the Vicar's family. It began with lengthyprayers in the dining-room, so lengthy that Avery feared that Mrs.Lorimer would faint ere they came to an end. Then after a rigorouslysilent breakfast the children were assembled in the study to bequestioned upon the Church Catechism--a species of discipline peculiarlyabhorrent to them all by reason of the Vicar's sarcastic comments upontheir ignorance.
At the end of this dreary exercise they were dismissed to prepare forchurch where there followed a service which Avery regarded as downrightrevolting. It consisted mainly of prayers--as many prayers as the Vicarcould get in, rendered in an emotionless monotone with small regard forsense and none whatever for feeling. The whole thing was drab andunattractive to the utmost limit, and Avery rose at length from herknees with a feeling of having been deliberately cheated of a thing shevalued. She left the church in an unwonted spirit of exasperation, whichlasted throughout the midday meal, which was as oppressively silent asbreakfast had been.
The open relief with which the children trooped away to the schoolroomfound a warm echo in her heart. She even almost smiled in sympathy whenJulian breathed a deep thanksgiving that that show was over for onemore year.
Neither Piers nor his grandfather had been in the church, and theirabsence did not surprise her. She did not feel that she herself couldever face such a service again. The memory of Piers at the organ came toher as she dressed to accompany the children upon their primrosingexpedition, and a sudden passionate longing followed it to hear thatmusic again. She was feeling starved in her soul that day.
But when they reached the green solitudes of the park woodlands thebitterness began to pass away. It was all so beautiful; the mossy ridingup which they turned was so springy underfoot, and the singing of athousand birds made endless music whichever way they wandered.
"It's better than church, isn't it?" said Jeanie softly, pressing closeto her. And Avery smiled in answer. It was balm to the spirit.
The Squire's preserves were enclosed in wire netting, and over this theyclimbed into their primrose paradise. Several partridges rose from thechildren's feet, and whirred noisily away, to the huge delight of theboys but to Avery's considerable dismay. However, Marshall was evidentlynot within earshot, and they settled down to the serious business offilling their baskets for the church decorations without interference.
The primroses grew thickly in a wonderful carpet that spread in alldirections, sloping down to a glade where gurgled a brown stream. Downthis glade Avery directed her party, keeping a somewhat anxious eye uponGracie and the three boys who were in the wildest spirits after thesevere strain of the morning. She and Jeanie picked rapidly andmethodically. Olive had decided not to accompany the expedition. She didnot care for primrosing, she told Avery, and her father had promised toread the Testament in Greek with her later in the afternoon, anintellectual exercise which she plainly regarded as extremelymeritorious.
Her absence troubled no one; in fact Julian, having over-heard herexcuse, remarked rudely that if she was going to put on side, they werebetter 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 hadreached the end of the glade and were contemplating fording the brookwhen like a bolt from the blue discovery came upon them. A sound, likethe blare of an angry bull, assailed them--a furious inarticulate soundthat 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'sheart gave a most unpleasant jerk. She knew that voice.
Swiftly she turned in the direction whence it came, and saw again thehuge white horse of the trampling hoofs that had once before been urgedagainst her.
He was stamping and fretting on the other side of the stream, the banksof which were so steep as almost to form a chasm, and from his back theterrible 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 atus," he said audibly.
At which remark Gracie laughed a little hysterically, and Pat madea grimace.
Perhaps it was this last that chiefly infuriated the Squire, for heliterally bellowed with rage, snatched his animal back with a mercilesshand, 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 andslippery. Avery stood transfixed to watch the result.
The horse made a great effort to obey his master's behests. It almostseemed as if he were furious too, Avery thought, as he pounded forward toclear the obstacle. His leap was superb, clearing the stream by a goodsix feet, but as he landed among the primroses disaster overtook him. Itmust have been a rabbit-hole, Avery reflected later; for he blundered ashe touched the ground, plunged forward, and fell headlong.
There followed a few moments of sickening confusion during which thehorrified spectators had time to realize that Sir Beverley was pinnedunder the kicking animal; then with a savage effort the great bruterolled over and struggled to his feet.
With a promptitude that spoke well for his nerve, Julian sprang forwardand caught the dangling bridle. The creature tried to jib back upon hisprostrate master, but he dragged him forward and held him fast.
Old Sir Beverley lay prone on the ground, in an awful stillness, with hiswhite face turned to the sky. His eyes were fast shut, his arms flungwide, one hand still grasping the whip which he had wielded so fiercely afew seconds before.
"Is he dead?" whispered Jeanie, clinging close to Avery.
Avery gently released herself and moved forward. "No, dear, no! He--he isonly stunned."
She knelt beside Sir Beverley, overcoming a horrible sensation ofsickness as she did so. The whole catastrophe had been of so sudden andso 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 aleaden weight.
"Oh, Avery, how dreadful!" exclaimed Gracie, aghast.
"Take my handkerchief!" said Avery quickly. "Run down and soak it in thestream! 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 wasneat 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'sfears were crowding thick in her own heart. That awful inertness lookedso terribly like death.
And then suddenly the grim lips parted and a quivering sigh passedthrough them.
The next moment abruptly the grey eyes opened and gazed full at Averywith a wide, glassy stare.
"What the--what the--" stammered Sir Beverley, and broke off with ahard gasp.
Avery sought to raise him higher, but his weight was too much for hereven 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. Heopened 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," hesaid, in a choked whisper.
Avery waited, supporting him as strongly as she could, listening to theshort laboured breathing with deep foreboding.
"Couldn't I run down to the Abbey for help?" suggested Julian, who hadsucceeded 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'dbetter go," the boy urged, with his eyes on the deathly face.
And after a moment Avery agreed with him. "Yes, I think perhaps you'dbetter. Gracie and Pat might go for Dr. Tudor meanwhile. I do hope youwill find Piers. Tell him to bring two men, and something that they cancarry him on. Jeanie dear, you run home to your mother and tell her howit 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 whowould not have done anything for her. And so they scattered, departingupon their several missions, leaving Ronald only to share her vigil bythe old Squire's side.
For a long time after their departure, there was no change in SirBeverley's state. He lay propped against Avery's arm and Ronald's kneebreathing quickly, with painful effort, through his parted lips. He kepthis eyes closed, but they knew that he was conscious by the heavy frownthat drew his forehead. Once Avery offered him more brandy, but herefused it impatiently, and she desisted.
The deathly pallor had, however, begun to give place to a more naturalhue, and as the minutes passed his breathing gradually grew lessdistressed. 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 tohelp himself. Finally he managed to drag himself to a leaning positionon one elbow, though for several seconds thereafter his gasping wasterrible to hear.
Avery saw his lips move several times before any sound came from them. Atlength, "Send--that boy--away!" he gasped out.
Avery and Ronald looked at each other, and the boy got to his feet withan 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 mightcollapse 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 andregarded her piercingly.
"You," he said curtly, "are the young woman who refused to marry mygrandson."
The words were so totally unexpected that Avery literally gasped withastonishment. To be taken to task on this subject was an ordeal for whichshe was wholly unprepared.
"Well?" he said irritably. "That is so, I believe? You did refuse tomarry him?"
"Yes," Avery admitted, feeling the hot colour flood her face under themerciless 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 muchrather not."
"I desire to discuss it," said Sir Beverley autocratically. "I desireto know--what objection you have to my grandson. Many women, let metell you, of far higher social standing than yourself would jump atsuch a chance. But you--you take upon yourself to refuse it. I desireto know why."
He spoke with a stubbornness that overbore all bodily weakness. He wouldbe a tyrant to his last breath.
But Avery could not bring herself to answer him. She felt as if he weretrying 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 tobar him out.
"I am sorry," she said gently after a moment, "but I am afraid that isjust what I can't tell you."
She saw Sir Beverley's chin thrust out at just the indomitable angle withwhich Piers had made her familiar, and she realized that he had nointention 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 wasunsuitable, out of the question, that he ought to marry a girl of his ownage and station--not a middle-aged widow like me."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Sir Beverley impatiently. "You belong to the samegeneration, 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 andsurmounting his physical weakness.
"You've got nothing against the boy, I suppose?" he pursued, with theevident determination to get at the truth despite all opposition. "He hasnever given you any cause for complai
nt? He's behaved himself like agentleman, 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 withhim?" His lips curled ironically over the words; they soundedinexpressibly bitter.
Avery's eyes fell before his pitiless stare. She began with fingers thattrembled 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 asshe made reluctant answer. "No, it is not either. In fact, if I were agirl--I had not been married before--I think I should say Yes.But--but--" she paused, searching for words, striving to restrain arising 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, freshenough, gay enough. I can't offer him a girl's first love, and that iswhat he ought to have. I so want him to have the best. I so want him tobe happy."
The words were out with a rush, almost before she was aware of utteringthem, and suddenly her eyes were full of tears, tears that caught her offher guard, so that she had neither time nor strength to check them. Sheturned quickly from him, fighting for self-control.
Sir Beverley uttered a grunt that might have denoted either surprise ordisgust, and there followed a silence that she found peculiarlydifficult 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 senseof humour to penetrate her distress. She felt as if he had remorselesslywrested from her and dragged to light a treasure upon which she herselfhad scarcely dared to look. She continued feverishly to pluck the paleflowers that grew all about them, her eyes fixed upon her task.
With a growling effort, Sir Beverley raised himself, thrust forward aquivering hand and gripped hers.
Startled, she turned towards him, meeting not hostility but a certaingrim kindliness in the hard old eyes.
"Will you honour me with your attention for a moment?" he asked, withironical courtesy.
"I am attending," she answered meekly.
"Then," he said, dropping all pretence at courtesy without furtherceremony, "permit me to say that if you don't marry my grandson, you'llbe a bigger fool than I take you for. And in my opinion, a sober-mindedwoman like you who will see to his comfort and be faithful to him is morelikely to make him happy than any of your headlong, flighty girls."
He stopped; but he did not relinquish his hold upon her. There wasto Avery something oddly pathetic in the close grasp of thoseunsteady fingers. It was as if they made an appeal which he wouldhave 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, ifI had my way I'd never let him marry at all! But unfortunatelycircumstances demand it; and the boy himself--the boy himself, well--"his voice softened imperceptibly, rasped on a note of tenderness, "hewants looking after; he's young, you know. He'll be all alone verysoon, and--it isn't considered good for a man to live alone--not a youngman anyway."
He broke off, still looking hard at Avery from under his drawn whitebrows as if daring her to dispute the matter.
But she said nothing, and after a moment he resumed more equably: "That'sall I have to say on the subject. I wish you to understand that for theboy'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 hisface. His head drooped forward on his chest, and, watching him, sherealized 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 unspokenthought. "But I've paid my debts--all of 'em, including this last." Hisvoice began to fail, but he forced it on, speaking spasmodically, withincreasing difficulty. "You sent my boy back to me--the otherday--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 forhim 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, wasundisguised; and swiftly, impulsively, almost before she knew what shewas 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 thatshe never forgot, and then his head dropped forward heavily.
"You--have--said it!" he said, and sank unconscious upon the ground.