"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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed, 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, pa.s.sionate-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 pa.s.sed 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 ma.s.s 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 s.e.xton'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 a.s.sistant" 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.