The Bars of Iron - Ethel May Dell (top novels .txt) 📗

he passed round the jutting headland, and was gone from her sight. Only when that happened did she draw a long, long breath and realize how much of her strength had been spent to gain what after all appeared to be but a very barren victory.


CHAPTER XXXI
THE RETURN

"_Ah! C'est Monsieur Pierre enfin!_" Eagerly Victor greeted the appearance of his young master. He looked as if he would have liked to embrace him.
Piers' attitude, however, did not encourage any display of tenderness. He flung himself gloomily down into a chair and regarded the man with sombre eyes.
"Where's Sir Beverley?" he said.
Victor spread forth expressive hands. _"Mais_, Sir Beverley, he sit up all the night attending you, _mon petit monsieur. Et moi_, I sit up also. _Mais Monsieur Pierre! Monsieur Pierre!"_
He began to shake his head at Piers in fond reproof, but Piers paid no attention.
"Sat up all night, what?" he said. "Then where is he now? In bed?"
There was a deep line between his black brows; all the gaiety and sparkle had gone from his eyes. He looked tired out.
It was close upon the luncheon-hour, and he had tramped up from the station. There were refreshments in front of him, but he bluntly refused to touch them.
"Why can't you speak, man?" he said irritably. "Tell me where he is!"
"He has gone for his ride as usual," Victor said, speaking through pursed lips. "But he is very, very feeble to-day, _Monsieur Pierre_. We beg him not to go. But what would you? He is the master. We could not stop him. But he sit in his saddle--like this."
Victor's gesture descriptive of the bent, stricken figure that had ridden forth that morning was painfully true to life.
Piers sprang to his feet. "And he isn't back yet? Where on earth can he be? Which way did he go?"
Victor raised his shoulders. "He go down the drive--as always. _Apres cela, je ne sais pas._"
"Confusion!" ejaculated Piers, and was gone.
He had returned by a short cut across the park, but now he tore down the long avenue, running like a trained athlete, head up and elbows in, possessed by the single purpose of reaching the lodge in as brief a time as possible. They would know at the lodge which way his grandfather had gone.
He found Marshall just turning in at his gate for the midday meal, and hailed him without ceremony.
The old man stopped and surveyed him with sour disapproval. The news of Piers' abrupt disappearance on the previous night had spread.
No, Marshall could give him no news as to the master's whereabouts; he had been out all the morning.
"Well, find Mrs. Marshall!" ordered Piers impatiently. "She'll know something. She must have opened the gate."
Mrs. Marshall, summoned by a surly yell from her husband, stood in the door-way, thin-lipped and austere, and announced briefly that Sir Beverley had gone down towards the Vicarage; she didn't know no more than that.
It was enough for Piers. He was gone again like a bird on the wing. The couple at the lodge looked after him with a species of unwilling admiration. His very arrogance fed their pride in him, disapprove though they might of his wild, foreign ways. Whatever the mixture in his veins, the old master's blood ran there, and they would always be loyal to that.
That run to the Vicarage taxed even Piers' powers. The steep hill at the end made him aware that his strength had its limits, and he was forced to pause for breath when he reached the top. He leaned against the Vicarage gate-post with the memory of that winter evening in his mind when Avery had come swift-footed to the rescue, and had cooled his fury with a bucket of cold water.
A step in the garden made him straighten himself abruptly. He turned to see a tall, black-coated figure emerge. The Reverend Stephen Lorimer came up with dignity and greeted him.
"Were you about to enter my humble abode?" he enquired.
"Is my grandfather here?" asked Piers.
Mr. Lorimer smiled benignly. He liked to imagine himself upon terms of intimacy with Sir Beverley though the latter did very little to justify the idea.
"Well, no," he said, "I have not had the pleasure of seeing him here to-day. Did he express the intention of paying me a visit?"
"No, sir, no!" said Piers impatiently. "I only thought it possible, that's all. Good-bye!"
He swung round and departed, leaving the worthy Vicar looking after him with a shrewd and not over-friendly smile at the corners of his eyes.
Beyond the Vicarage the road wound round again to the park, and Piers followed it. It led to a gate that opened upon a riding which was a favourite stretch for a gallop with both Sir Beverley and himself. Through this he passed, no longer running, but striding over the springy, turf between the budding beech saplings at a pace that soon took him into the heart of the woodland.
Pressing on, he came at length to a cross-riding, and here on boggy ground he discovered recent hoof-marks. There were a good many of them, and he was puzzled for a time as to the direction they had taken. The animal seemed to have wandered to and fro. But he found a continuous track at length and followed it.
It led to an old summer-house perched on a slope that overlooked the scene of Jeanie's accident in the winter. A cold wind drove down upon him as he ascended. The sky was grey with scurrying clouds. The bare downs looked indescribably desolate.
Piers hastened along with set teeth. The dread he would not acknowledge hung like a numbing weight upon him. Somehow, inexplicably, he knew that he was nearing the end of his quest.
The long moan of the wind was the only sound to be heard. It seemed to fill the world. No voice of bird or beast came from near or far. He seemed to travel through a vast emptiness--the only living thing astir.
He reached the thatched summer-house at last, noted with a curious detachment that it was beginning to look dilapidated, wondered if he would find it after all deserted, and the next moment was nearly overwhelmed by a huge grey body that hurled itself upon him from the interior of the little arbour.
It was Caesar the great Dalmatian who greeted him thus effusively, and Piers realized in an instant that the dog had some news to impart. He pushed him aside with a brief word of welcome and entered the ivy-grown place.
"Hullo!" gasped a voice with painful utterance. "Hullo!"
And in a moment he discerned Sir Beverley crouched in a corner, grey-faced, his riding-whip still clutched in his hand.
Impetuously he went to him, stooped above him. "What on earth has happened, sir? You haven't been thrown?" he queried anxiously.
"Thrown! I!" Sir Beverley's voice cracked derisively. "No! I got off--to have a look at the place,--and the brute jibbed--and gave me the slip."
The words came with difficult jerks, his breathing was short and laboured. Piers, bending over him, saw a spasm of pain contract the grey face that nevertheless looked so indomitably into his.
"He'll go back to stables," growled Sir Beverley. "It's a way colts have--when they've had their fling. What have you come back for, eh? Thought I couldn't do without you?"
There was a stony glint in his eyes as he asked the question. His thin lips curved sardonically.
Piers, still with anxiety lying cold at his heart, had no place left for resentment. He made swift and winning answer. "I've been a brute, sir. I've come back to ask your forgiveness."
The sardonic lips parted. "Instead of--a hiding--eh?" gasped Sir Beverley.
Piers drew back momentarily; but the grey, drawn face compelled his pity. He stifled his wrath unborn. "I'll take that first, sir," he said steadily.
Sir Beverley's frown deepened, but his breathing was growing less oppressed. He suddenly collected his energies and spoke with his usual irascibility.
"Oh, don't try any of your damned heroics on me, sir! Apologize like a gentleman--if you can! If not--if not--" He broke off panting, his lips still forming words that he lacked the strength to utter.
Piers sat down beside him on the crazy bench. "I will do anything you wish, sir," he said. "I'm horribly sorry for the way I've treated you. I'm ready to make any amends in my power."
"Oh, get away!" growled out Sir Beverley. But with the words his hand came gropingly forth and fastened in a hard grip on Piers' arm. "You talk like a Sunday-school book," he said. "What the devil did you do it for, eh?"
It was roughly spoken, but Piers was quick to recognize the spirit behind the words. He clapped his own hand upon his grandfather's, and was shocked afresh at its icy coldness.
"I say, do let's go" he said. "We can't talk here. It's downright madness to sit in this draughty hole. Come along, sir!" He thrust a vigorous arm about the old man and hoisted him to his feet.
"Oh, you're mighty strong!" gasped Sir Beverley. "Strong enough--to kick over--the traces, eh?"
"Never again, sir," said Piers with decision.
Whereat Sir Beverley looked at him searchingly, and gibed no more.
They went out together on to the open wind-swept hillside, Piers still strongly supporting him, for he stumbled painfully. It was a difficult progress for them both, and haste was altogether out of the question.
Sir Beverley revived somewhat as they went, but more than once he had to pause to get his breath. His weakness was a revelation to Piers though he sought to reassure himself with the reflection that it was the natural outcome of his night's vigil; and moment by moment his compunction grew.
They were no more than a mile from the Abbey, but it took them the greater part of two hours to accomplish the distance, and at the end of it Sir Beverley was hanging upon Piers in a state that bordered upon collapse.
His animal had just returned riderless, and considerable consternation prevailed. Victor, who was on the watch, rushed to meet them with characteristic nimbleness, and he and Piers between them carried Sir Beverley in, and laid him down before the great hall fire.
But though so exhausted as to be scarcely conscious, he still clung fast to Piers, not suffering him to stir from side; and there Piers remained, chafing the cold hands administering brandy, while Victor, invaluable in an emergency, procured pillows, blankets, hot-water bottles, everything that his fertile brain could suggest to restore the failing strength.
Again, though slowly, Sir Beverley rallied, recovered his faculties, came back to full understanding. "Had anything to eat?" he rapped out so suddenly that Piers, kneeling beside him, jumped with astonishment.
"I, sir? No, I'm not hungry," he said. "You're feeling better, what? Can I get you something?"
"Oh, don't be a damn' fool!" said Sir Beverley. "Tell 'em to fetch some lunch!"
It was the turning-point. From that moment he began to recover in a fashion that amazed Piers, cast aside blankets and pillows, sternly forbade Piers to summon the doctor, and sat up before the fire with a grim refusal to be coddled any longer.
They lunched together in the warmth of the blazing logs, and Sir Beverley became so normal in his attitude that Piers began at last to feel reassured.
He did not broach the matter that lay between them, knowing well that his grandfather's temperament was not such as to leave it long in abeyance; and they smoked together in peace after the meal as though the strife of the previous evening had never been.
But the memory of it overhung them both, and finally at the end of