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. _Après
cela, je ne sais pas._"
"Confusion!" ejaculated Piers, and was gone.
He had returned by a short cut across the park, but now he tore down
the long avenue, running like a trained athlete, head up and elbows in,
possessed by the single purpose of reaching the lodge in as brief a
time as possible. They would know at the lodge which way his
grandfather had gone.
He found Marshall just turning in at his gate for the midday meal, and
hailed him without ceremony.
The old man stopped and surveyed him with sour disapproval. The news 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 a
lengthy silence Sir Beverley turned his stone-grey eyes upon his grandson
and spoke.
"Well? What have you to say for yourself?"
Piers came out of a reverie and looked up with a faint rueful smile.
"Nothing, sir," he said.
"Nothing? What do you mean by that?" Sir Beverley's voice was sharp. "You
go away like a raving lunatic, and stay away all night, and then come
back with nothing to say. What have you been up to? Tell me that!"
Piers leaned slowly forward, took up the poker and gently pushed it
into the fire. "She won't have me," he said, with his eyes upon the
leaping flames.
"What?" exclaimed Sir Beverley. "You've been after that hussy again?"
Piers' brows drew together in a thick, ominous line; but he merely nodded
and said, "Yes."
"The devil you have!" ejaculated Sir Beverley. "And she refused you?"
"She did." Again very softly Piers poked at the blazing logs, his eyes
fixed and intent. "It served me right--in a way," he said, speaking
meditatively, almost as if to himself. "I was a hound--to ask her.
But--somehow--I was driven. However," he drove the poker in a little
further, "it's all the same now as she's refused me. That's why," he
turned his eyes suddenly upon Sir Beverley, "there's nothing to be said."
There was no defiance in his look, but it held something of a baffling
quality. It was almost as if in some fashion he were conscious of relief.
Sir Beverley stared at him, angry and incredulous. "Refused you! What the
devil for? Wanted my consent, I suppose? Thought I held the
purse-strings, eh?"
"Oh no," said Piers, again faintly smiling, "she didn't care a damn about
that. She knows I am not dependent upon you. But--she has no use for me,
that's all."
"No use for you!" Sir Beverley's voice rose. "What the--what the devil
does she want then, I should like to know?"
"She doesn't want anyone," said Piers. "At least she thinks she doesn't.
You see, she's been married before."
There was a species of irony in his voice that yet was without
bitterness. He turned back to his aimless stirring of the fire, and there
fell a silence between them.
But Sir Beverley's eyes were fixed upon his grandson's face in a close,
unsparing scrutiny. "So you thought you might as well come back," he
said at last.
"She made me," said Piers, without looking round.
"Made you!"
Again Piers nodded. "I was to tell you from her that she quite
understands your attitude; but that you needn't be anxious, as she has no
intention of marrying again."
"Confound her impudence!" ejaculated Sir Beverley.
"Oh no!" Piers' voice sounded too tired to be indignant. "I don't think
you can accuse her of that. There has never been any flirtation between
us. It wasn't her fault. I--made a fool of myself. It just happened in
the ordinary course of things."
He ceased to speak, laid down the poker without sound, and sat with
clasped hands, staring blindly before him.
Again there fell a silence. The clock in the corner ticked on with
melancholy regularity, the logs hissed and spluttered viciously; but
the two men sat in utter stillness, both bowed as if beneath a
pressing burden.
One of them moved at last, stretched out a bony, trembling hand, laid it
on the other's shoulder.
"Piers boy," Sir Beverley said, with slow articulation, "believe me,
there's not a woman on this earth worth grizzling about. They're liars
and impostors, every one."
Piers started a little, then with a very boyish movement, he laid his
cheek against the old bent fingers. "My dear sir," he said, "but you're a
woman-hater!"
"I know," said Sir Beverley, still in that heavy, fateful fashion. "And I
have reason. I tell you, boy,--and I know,--you would be better off in
your coffin than linked to a woman you seriously cared for. It's hell on
earth--hell on earth!"
"Or paradise," muttered Piers.
"A fool's paradise, boy; a paradise that turns to dust and ashes." Sir
Beverley's voice quivered suddenly. He withdrew his hand to fumble in an
inner pocket. In a moment he stretched it forth again with a key lying
on the palm.
"Take that!" he said. "Open that bureau thing behind you! Look in the
left-hand drawer! There's something there for you to see."
Piers obeyed him. There was that in Sir Beverley's manner that silenced
all questioning. He pulled out the drawer and looked in. It contained one
thing only--a revolver.
Sir Beverley went on speaking, calmly, dispassionately, wholly
impersonally. "It's loaded--has been loaded for fifty years. But I never
used it. And that not because my own particular hell wasn't hot enough,
but just because I wouldn't have it said that I'd ever loved any
she-devil enough to let her be my ruin. There were times enough when I
nearly did it. I've sat all night with the thing in my hand. But I hung
on for that reason, till at last the fire burnt out, and I didn't care.
Every woman is the same to me now. I know now--and you've got to know it
too--that woman is only fit to be the servant, not the mistress, of
man,--and a damn treacherous servant at that. She was made for man's
use, and if he is fool enough to let her get the upper hand, then Heaven
help him, for he certainly won't be in a position to help himself!"
He stopped abruptly, and in the silence Piers shut and relocked
the drawer. He dropped the key into his own pocket, and came back
to the fire.
Sir Beverley looked up at him with something of an effort. "Boy," he
said, "you've got to marry some day, I know. You've got to have
children. But--you're young, you know. There's plenty of time before
you. You might wait a bit--just a bit--till I'm out of the way. I won't
keep you long; and I won't beat you often either--if you'll condescend
to stay with me."
He smiled with the words, his own grim ironical smile; but the pathos of
it cut straight to Piers' heart. He went down on his knees beside the old
man and thrust his arm about the shrunken shoulders.
"I'll never leave you again, sir," he vowed earnestly. "I've been a
heartless brute, and I'm most infernally sorry. As to marrying,
well--there's no more question of that for me. I couldn't marry Ina Rose.
You understand that?"
"Never liked the chit," growled Sir Beverley. "Only thought she'd answer
your purpose better than some. For you've got to get an heir, boy;
remember that! You're the only Evesham left."
"Oh, damn!" said Piers very wearily. "What does it matter?"
Sir Beverley looked at him from under his thick brows piercingly but
without condemnation. "It's up to you, Piers," he said.
"Is it?" said Piers, with a groan. "Well, let's leave it at that for the
present! Sure you've forgiven me?"
Sir Beverley's grim face relaxed again. He put his arm round Piers and
held him hard for a moment.
Then: "Oh, drat it, Piers!" he said testily. "Get away, do! And behave
yourself for the future!"
Whereat Piers laughed, a short, unsteady laugh, and went back to
his chair.