THE LAST DEBT
There was no combating the Vicar's decision. Avery realized that fact
from the outset even before Mrs. Lorimer's agitated note upon the subject
reached her. The fiat had gone forth, and submission was the only course.
Jeanie received the news without a murmur. "I don't mind really," she
said. "It's very nice here, but then it's nice at home too when you are
there. And then there is Piers too."
Yes, there was Piers,--another consideration that filled Avery with
uneasiness. No word from Piers had reached her since that early morning
on the shore, but his silence did not reassure her. She had half expected
a boyish letter of apology, some friendly reassurance, some word at least
of his return to Rodding Abbey. But she had heard nothing. She did not so
much as know if he had returned or not.
Neither had she heard from her friend Edmund Crowther. With a sense of
keen disappointment she wrote to his home in the North to tell him of the
change in her plans. She could not ask him to the Vicarage, and it seemed
that she might not meet him after all.
She also sent a hurried note to Lennox Tudor, but they had only three
days in which to terminate their visit, and she received no reply. Later,
she heard that Tudor had been away for those days and did not open the
note until the actual day of their return.
The other children were expected home from school during the week before
Easter, and Mr. Lorimer desired that Avery should be at the Vicarage to
prepare for them. So, early in the week, they returned.
It seemed that Spring had come at last. The hedges were all bursting into
tenderest green, and all the world looked young.
"The primroses will be out in the Park woods," said Jeanie. "We will go
and gather heaps and heaps."
"Are you allowed to go wherever you like there?" asked Avery, thinking
of the game.
"Oh no," said Jeanie thoughtfully. "But we always do. Mr. Marshall chases
us sometimes, but we always get away."
She smiled at the thought, and Avery frankly rejoiced to see her
enthusiasm for the wicked game of trespassing in the Squire's preserves.
She did not know that the amusement had been strictly prohibited by the
Vicar, and it did not occur to Jeanie to tell her. None of the children
had ever paid any attention to the prohibition. There were some rules
that no one could keep.
The return of the rest of the family kept the days that succeeded their
return extremely lively. Jeanie was in higher spirits than Avery had
ever seen her. She seemed more childish, more eager for fun, as though
some of the zest of life had got into her veins at last. Her mother
ascribed the change to Avery's influence, and was pathetic in her
gratitude, though Avery disclaimed all credit declaring that the sea-air
had wrought the wonder.
When Lennox Tudor saw her, he looked at Avery with an odd smile behind
his glasses. "You've built the wall," he said.
They had met by the churchyard gate, and Jeanie and Pat were having a
hopping race down the hill. Avery looked after them with a touch of
wistfulness. "But I wish she could have been away longer."
Tudor frowned. "Yes. Why on earth not? The Reverend Stephen again, I
suppose. I wish I had had your letter sooner, though as a matter of fact
I'm not in favour just now, and my interference would probably weigh in
the wrong balance. Keep the child out as much as possible! It's the only
way. She has made good progress. There is no reason at present why she
should go back again."
No, there was no reason; yet Avery's heart misgave her. She wished she
might have had longer for the building of that wall. Good Friday was more
or less a day of penance in the Vicar's family. It began with lengthy
prayers in the dining-room, so lengthy that Avery feared that Mrs.
Lorimer would faint ere they came to an end. Then after a rigorously
silent breakfast the children were assembled in the study to be
questioned upon the Church Catechism--a species of discipline peculiarly
abhorrent to them all by reason of the Vicar's sarcastic comments upon
their ignorance.
At the end of this dreary exercise they were dismissed to prepare for
church where there followed a service which Avery regarded as downright
revolting. It consisted mainly of prayers--as many prayers as the Vicar
could get in, rendered in an emotionless monotone with small regard for
sense and none whatever for feeling. The whole thing was drab and
unattractive to the utmost limit, and Avery rose at length from her
knees with a feeling of having been deliberately cheated of a thing she
valued. She left the church in an unwonted spirit of exasperation, which
lasted throughout the midday meal, which was as oppressively silent as
breakfast had been.
The open relief with which the children trooped away to the schoolroom
found a warm echo in her heart. She even almost smiled in sympathy when
Julian breathed a deep thanksgiving that that show was over for one
more year.
Neither Piers nor his grandfather had been in the church, and their
absence did not surprise her. She did not feel that she herself could
ever face such a service again. The memory of Piers at the organ came to
her as she dressed to accompany the children upon their primrosing
expedition, and a sudden passionate longing followed it to hear that
music again. She was feeling starved in her soul that day.
But when they reached the green solitudes of the park woodlands the
bitterness began to pass away. It was all so beautiful; the mossy riding
up which they turned was so springy underfoot, and the singing of a
thousand birds made endless music whichever way they wandered.
"It's better than church, isn't it?" said Jeanie softly, pressing close
to her. And Avery smiled in answer. It was balm to the spirit.
The Squire's preserves were enclosed in wire netting, and over this they
climbed into their primrose paradise. Several partridges rose from the
children's feet, and whirred noisily away, to the huge delight of the
boys but to Avery's considerable dismay. However, Marshall was evidently
not within earshot, and they settled down to the serious business of
filling their baskets for the church decorations without interference.
The primroses grew thickly in a wonderful carpet that spread in all
directions, sloping down to a glade where gurgled a brown stream. Down
this glade Avery directed her party, keeping a somewhat anxious eye upon
Gracie and the three boys who were in the wildest spirits after the
severe strain of the morning. She and Jeanie picked rapidly and
methodically. Olive had decided not to accompany the expedition. She did
not care for primrosing, she told Avery, and her father had promised to
read the Testament in Greek with her later in the afternoon, an
intellectual exercise which she plainly regarded as extremely
meritorious.
Her absence troubled no one; in fact Julian, having over-heard her
excuse, remarked rudely that if she was going to put on side, they were
better off without her; and Avery secretly agreed with him.
So in cheery accord they went their careless way through the preserves,
scaring the birds and filling their baskets with great industry. They had
reached the end of the glade and were contemplating fording the brook
when like a bolt from the blue discovery came upon them. A sound, like
the blare of an angry bull, assailed them--a furious inarticulate sound
that speedily resolved into words.
"What the devil are you mischievous brats doing there?"
The whole party jumped violently at the suddenness of the attack. Avery's
heart gave a most unpleasant jerk. She knew that voice.
Swiftly she turned in the direction whence it came, and saw again the
huge white horse of the trampling hoofs that had once before been urged
against her.
He was stamping and fretting on the other side of the stream, the banks
of which were so steep as almost to form a chasm, and from his back the
terrible old Squire hurled the vials of his wrath.
Ronald drew near to Avery, while Jeanie slipped a nervous hand into hers.
Julian, however, turned a defiant face. "It's all right. He can't get at
us," he said audibly.
At which remark Gracie laughed a little hysterically, and Pat made
a grimace.
Perhaps it was this last that chiefly infuriated the Squire, for he
literally bellowed with rage, snatched his animal back with a merciless
hand, and then with whip and spur set him full at the stream.
It was a dangerous leap, for the ground on both banks was yielding and
slippery. Avery stood transfixed to watch the result.
The horse made a great effort to obey his master's behests. It almost
seemed as if he were furious too, Avery thought, as he pounded forward to
clear the obstacle. His leap was superb, clearing the stream by a good
six feet, but as he landed among the primroses disaster overtook him. It
must have been a rabbit-hole, Avery reflected later; for he blundered as
he touched the ground, plunged forward, and fell headlong.
There followed a few moments of sickening confusion during which the
horrified spectators had time to realize that Sir Beverley was pinned
under the kicking animal; then with a savage effort the great brute
rolled over and struggled to his feet.
With a promptitude that spoke well for his nerve, Julian sprang forward
and caught the dangling bridle. The creature tried to jib back upon his
prostrate master, but he dragged him forward and held him fast.
Old Sir Beverley lay prone on the ground, in an awful stillness, with his
white face turned to the sky. His eyes were fast shut, his arms flung
wide, one hand still grasping the whip which he had wielded so fiercely a
few seconds before.
"Is he dead?" whispered Jeanie, clinging close to Avery.
Avery gently released herself and moved forward. "No, dear, no! He--he is
only stunned."
She knelt beside Sir Beverley, overcoming a horrible sensation of
sickness as she did so. The whole catastrophe had been of so sudden and
so violent a nature that she felt almost stunned herself.
She slipped an arm under the old man's head, and it hung upon her like a
leaden weight.
"Oh, Avery, how dreadful!" exclaimed Gracie, aghast.
"Take my handkerchief!" said Avery quickly. "Run down and soak it in the
stream! Mind how you go! It's very steep."
Gracie went like the wind.
Avery began with fingers that shook in spite of her utmost resolution,
to try to loosen Sir Beverley's collar.
"Let me!" said Ronald, gently.
She glanced up gratefully and relinquished the task to him. Ronald was
neat in all his ways.
The return of Gracie with the wet handkerchief gave her something to do,
and she tenderly moistened the stark, white face. But the children's
fears were crowding thick in her own heart. That awful inertness looked
so terribly like death.
And then suddenly the grim lips parted and a quivering sigh passed
through them.
The next moment abruptly the grey eyes opened and gazed full at Avery
with a wide, glassy stare.
"What the--what the--" stammered Sir Beverley, and broke off with a
hard gasp.
Avery sought to raise him higher, but his weight was too much for her
even with Ronald assisting.
"Find my--flask!" jerked out Sir Beverley, with panting breath.
Ronald began to search in his pockets and finally drew it forth. He
opened it and gave it to Avery who held it to the twitching lips.
Sir Beverley drank and closed his eyes. "I shall be--better soon," he
said, in a choked whisper.
Avery waited, supporting him as strongly as she could, listening to the
short laboured breathing with deep foreboding.
"Couldn't I run down to the Abbey for help?" suggested Julian, who had
succeeded at length in tying the chafing animal to a tree.
Avery considered. "I don't know. How far is it?"
"Not more than a mile. P'r'aps I should find Piers there. I'm sure I'd
better go," the boy urged, with his eyes on the deathly face.
And after a moment Avery agreed with him. "Yes, I think perhaps you'd
better. Gracie and Pat might go for Dr. Tudor meanwhile. I do hope you
will find Piers. Tell him to bring two men, and something that they can
carry him on. Jeanie dear, you run home to your mother and tell her how
it is that we shall be late for tea. You won't startle her, I know."
They fell in with her desires at once. There was not one of them who
would not have done anything for her. And so they scattered, departing
upon their several missions, leaving Ronald only to share her vigil by
the old Squire's side.
For a long time after their departure, there was no change in Sir
Beverley's state. He lay propped against Avery's arm and Ronald's knee
breathing quickly, with painful effort, through his parted lips. He kept
his eyes closed, but they knew that he was conscious by the heavy frown
that drew his forehead. Once Avery offered him more brandy, but he
refused it impatiently, and she desisted.
The deathly pallor had, however, begun to give place to a more natural
hue, and as the minutes passed his breathing gradually grew less
distressed. Once more his eyes opened, and he stared into Avery's face.
"Help me--to sit up!" he commanded.
They did their best, he struggling with piteously feeble efforts to
help himself. Finally he managed to drag himself to a leaning position
on one elbow, though for several seconds thereafter his gasping was
terrible to hear.
Avery saw his lips move several times before any sound came from them. At
length, "Send--that boy--away!" he gasped out.
Avery and Ronald looked at each other, and the boy got to his feet with
an undecided air.
"Do you hear? Go!" rapped out Sir Beverley.
"Shall I, Avery?" whispered Ronald.
She nodded. "Yes, just a little way! I'll call you if I want you."
And half-reluctantly Ronald obeyed.
"Has he gone?" asked Sir Beverley.
"Yes." Avery remained on her knees beside him. He looked as if he might
collapse at any moment.
For awhile he lay struggling for breath with his face towards the ground;
then very suddenly his strength seemed to return. He raised his head and
regarded her piercingly.
"You," he said curtly, "are the young woman who refused to marry my
grandson."
The words were so totally unexpected that Avery literally gasped with
astonishment. To be taken to task on this subject was an ordeal for which
she was wholly unprepared.
"Well?" he said irritably. "That is so, I believe? You did refuse to
marry him?"
"Yes," Avery admitted, feeling the hot colour flood her face under the
merciless scrutiny of the stone-grey eyes.
"But--but--"
"Well?" he said again, still more irritably. "But what?"
"Oh, need we discuss it?" she said appealingly. "I would so much
rather not."
"I desire to discuss it," said Sir Beverley autocratically. "I desire
to know--what objection you have to my grandson. Many women, let me
tell you, of far higher social standing than yourself would jump at
such a chance. But you--you take upon yourself to refuse it. I desire
to know why."
He spoke with a stubbornness that overbore all bodily weakness. He would
be a tyrant to his last breath.
But Avery could not bring herself to answer him. She felt as if he were
trying to force his way into a place which regarded as peculiarly sacred,
from which in some fashion she owed it to Piers as well as to herself to
bar him out.
"I am sorry," she said gently after a moment, "but I am afraid that is
just what I can't tell you."
She saw Sir Beverley's chin thrust out at just the indomitable angle with
which Piers had made her familiar, and she realized that he had no
intention of abandoning his point.
"You told him, I suppose?" he demanded gruffly.
A faint sense of amusement arose within her, her anxiety notwithstanding.
It struck her as ludicrous that she should be browbeaten on this point.
She made answer with more assurance. "I told him that the idea was
unsuitable, out of the question, that he ought to marry a girl of his own
age and station--not a middle-aged widow like me."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Sir Beverley impatiently. "You belong to the same
generation, don't you? What more do you want?"
If he had slapped her face, Avery would scarcely have felt more amazed,
She gazed at him in silence, wondering if she could have heard aright.
Sir Beverley frowned upon her fiercely, the iron will of him scorning and
surmounting his physical weakness.
"You've got nothing against the boy, I suppose?" he pursued, with the
evident determination to get at the truth despite all opposition. "He has
never given you any cause for complaint? He's behaved himself like a
gentleman, hey?"
"Oh, of course, of course!" Avery said in distress. "It's not that!"
Sir Beverley frowned still more heavily. "Then--what the devil is it?"
he demanded. "Don't you like him well enough? Aren't you--in love with
him?" His lips curled ironically over the words; they sounded
inexpressibly bitter.
Avery's eyes fell before his pitiless stare. She began with fingers that
trembled to pluck the primroses that grew in a large tuft close to her,
saying no word.
"Well?" said Sir Beverley, with growing impatience.
She kept her eyes lowered, for she felt she could not meet his look as
she made reluctant answer. "No, it is not either. In fact, if I were a
girl--I had not been married before--I think I should say Yes.
But--but--" she paused, searching for words, striving to restrain a
rising agitation, "as it is, I don't think it would be quite fair to him.
I don't know if I could make him happy. I am not young enough, fresh
enough, gay enough. I can't offer him a girl's first love, and that is
what he ought to have. I so want him to have the best. I so want him to
be happy."
The words were out with a rush, almost before she was aware of uttering
them, and suddenly her eyes were full of tears, tears that caught her off
her guard, so that she had neither time nor strength to check them. She
turned quickly from him, fighting for self-control.
Sir Beverley uttered a grunt that might have denoted either surprise or
disgust, and there followed a silence that she found peculiarly
difficult to bear.
"So," he said at last, in a tone that was strictly devoid of feeling,
"you care for him too much to marry him? Is that it?"
It sounded preposterous, but she was still too near tears for any sense
of humour to penetrate her distress. She felt as if he had remorselessly
wrested from her and dragged to light a treasure upon which she herself
had scarcely dared to look. She continued feverishly to pluck the pale
flowers that grew all about them, her eyes fixed upon her task.
With a growling effort, Sir Beverley raised himself, thrust forward a
quivering hand and gripped hers.
Startled, she turned towards him, meeting not hostility but a certain
grim kindliness in the hard old eyes.
"Will you honour me with your attention for a moment?" he asked, with
ironical courtesy.
"I am attending," she answered meekly.
"Then," he said, dropping all pretence at courtesy without further
ceremony, "permit me to say that if you don't marry my grandson, you'll
be a bigger fool than I take you for. And in my opinion, a sober-minded
woman like you who will see to his comfort and be faithful to him is more
likely to make him happy than any of your headlong, flighty girls."
He stopped; but he did not relinquish his hold upon her. There was
to Avery something oddly pathetic in the close grasp of those
unsteady fingers. It was as if they made an appeal which he would
have scorned to utter.
"You really wish me to marry him?" she said.
He snarled at her like a surly dog. "Wish it? I! Good Heavens above, if
I had my way I'd never let him marry at all! But unfortunately
circumstances demand it; and the boy himself--the boy himself, well--"
his voice softened imperceptibly, rasped on a note of tenderness, "he
wants looking after; he's young, you know. He'll be all alone very
soon, and--it isn't considered good for a man to live alone--not a young
man anyway."
He broke off, still looking hard at Avery from under his drawn white
brows as if daring her to dispute the matter.
But she said nothing, and after a moment he resumed more equably: "That's
all I have to say on the subject. I wish you to understand that for the
boy's sake--and for other considerations--I have withdrawn my opposition.
You can marry him--as soon as you like."
He sank down again on his elbow, and she saw a look of exhaustion on his
face. His head drooped forward on his chest, and, watching him, she
realized that he was an old, old man and very tired of life.
Suddenly he jerked his head up again and met her pitying eyes.
"I'm done, yes," he said grimly, as if in response to her unspoken
thought. "But I've paid my debts--all of 'em, including this last." His
voice began to fail, but he forced it on, speaking spasmodically, with
increasing difficulty. "You sent my boy back to me--the other
day--against his will. Now I--make you a present of him--in return.
There's good stuff in the lad,--nothing shabby about him. If you care for
him at all--you ought to be able to hold him--make him happy.
Anyway--anyway--you might try!"
The appeal in the last words, whispered though they were, was
undisguised; and swiftly, impulsively, almost before she knew what she
was doing, Avery responded to it.
"Oh, I will try!" she said very earnestly. "I will indeed!"
He looked at her fixedly for a moment with eyes of deep searching that
she never forgot, and then his head dropped forward heavily.
"You--have--said it!" he said, and sank unconscious upon the ground.