CHAPTER I
A JUG OF WATER
It was certainly not Caesar's fault. Caesar was as well-meaning aDalmatian as ever scampered in the wake of a cantering horse. And if Mikein his headlong Irish fashion chose to regard the scamper as a grosspersonal insult, that was surely not a matter for which he couldreasonably be held responsible. And yet it was upon the luckless Caesarthat the wrath of the gods descended as a consequence of Mike'swrong-headed deductions.
It began with a rush and a snarl from the Vicarage gate and it haddeveloped into a set and deadly battle almost before either of thecombatants had fully realized the other.
The rider drew rein, yelling furiously; but his yells were about aseffectual as the wail of an infant. Neither animal was so much as awareof his existence in those moments of delirious warfare. They were lockedalready in that silent, swaying grip which every fighting dog with anyknowledge of the great game seeks to establish, to break which merehumans may put forth their utmost strength in vain.
The struggle was a desperate and a bloody one, and it speedily becameapparent to the rider that he would have to dismount if he intended toput an end to it.
Fiercely he flung himself off his horse and threw the reins over theVicarage gate-post. Then, riding-crop in hand, he approached the swayingfighting animals. It was like a ghastly wrestling-match. Both were ontheir feet, struggling to and fro, each with jaws hard gripped upon theother's neck, each silent save for his spasmodic efforts to breathe.
"Stop it, damn you!" shouted the rider, slashing at them with the zeal ofunrestrained fury. "Caesar, you infernal brute, stop it, will you? I'llkill you if you don't!"
But Caesar was deaf to all threats and quite unconscious of the fact thathis master and not his enemy was responsible for the flail-like strokesof the whirling lash. They shifted from beneath it instinctively, butthey fought deliriously on.
And at that the man with the whip completely lost his self-control. Heset to work to thrash and thrash the fighting animals till one or otherof them--or himself--should become exhausted.
It developed into a horrible competition organized and conducted by theman's blind fury, and in what fashion it would have ended it would behard to say. But, luckily for all three, there came at length aninterruption. Someone--a woman--came swiftly out of the Vicarage gardencarrying a bedroom jug. She advanced without a pause upon the seething,infuriated group.
"It's no good beating them," she said, in a voice which, though somewhathurried, was one of clear command. "Get out of the way, and be ready tocatch your dog when they come apart!"
The man glanced round for an instant, his face white with passion. "I'llkill the brutes!" he declared.
"Indeed you won't," she returned promptly. "Stand away now or you will bedrenched!"
As she spoke she raised her jug above the struggling animals. Her facealso shone white in the wintry dusk, but her actions denoted unwaveringresolution.
"Now!" she said; and, since he would not move, she flung the icy waterwithout compunction over the dogs and him also.
"Damnation!" he cried violently. But she broke in upon him. "Quick!Quick! Now's the time! Grab your dog! I'll catch Mike!"
The urgency of the order compelled compliance. Almost in spite of himselfhe stooped to obey. And so it came to pass that five seconds later,Caesar was being mercilessly thrashed by his enraged master, while thereal culprit was being dragged, cursing breathlessly, from the scene.
It was a brutal thrashing and wholly undeserved. Caesar, awaking to thehorror of it, howled his anguish; but no amount of protest on his partmade the smallest impression upon the wielder of the whip. It continuedto descend upon his writhing body with crashing force till he rolled uponthe ground in agony.
Even then the punishment would not have ceased, but for a secondinterruption. It was the woman from the Vicarage garden again; but sheburst upon the scene this time with something of the effect of anavalanche. She literally whirled between the man and his victim. Shecaught his upraised arm.
"Oh, you brute!" she cried. "You brute!"
He stiffened in her hold. They stood face to face. Caesar crept whiningand shivering to the side of the road.
Slowly the man's arm fell to his side, still caught in that quiveringgrasp. He spoke in a voice that struggled boyishly between resentment andshame. "The dog's my own."
Her hold relaxed. "Even a dog has his rights," she said. "Give me thatwhip, please!"
He looked at her oddly in the growing darkness. She was trembling as shestood, but she held her ground.
"Please!" she repeated with resolution.
With an abrupt movement he put the weapon into her hand. "Are you goingto give me a taste?" he asked.
She uttered a queer little gasping laugh. "No. I--I'm not that sort.But--it's horrible to see a man lose control of himself. And to thrash adog--like that!"
She turned sharply from him and went to the Dalmatian who crouchedquaking on the path. He wagged an ingratiating tail at her approach. Itwas evident that in her hand the whip had no terrors for him. He creptfawning to her feet.
She stooped over him, fondling his head. "Oh, poor boy! Poor boy!" shesaid.
The dog's master came and stood beside her. "He'll be all right," hesaid, in a tone of half-surly apology.
"I'm afraid Mike has bitten him," she said. "See!" displaying a long,dark streak on Caesar's neck.
"He'll be all right," repeated Caesar's master. "I hope your dog is nonethe worse."
"No, I don't think so," she said. "But don't you think we ought tobathe this?"
"I'll take him home," he said. "They'll see to him at the stables."
She stood up, a slim, erect figure, the whip still firmly grasped in herhand. "You won't thrash him any more, will you?" she said.
He gave a short laugh. "No, you have cooled me down quite effectually.I'm much obliged to you for interfering. And I'm sorry I used language,but as the circumstances were exceptional, I hope you will makeallowances."
His tone was boyish still, but all the resentment had gone out of it.There was a touch of arrogance in his bearing which was obviously naturalto him, but his apology was none the less sincere.
The slim figure on the path made a slight movement of dismay. "But youmust be drenched to the skin!" she said. "I was forgetting. Won't youcome in and get dry?"
He hunched his shoulders expressively. "No, thanks. It was my own fault,as you kindly omit to mention. I must be getting back to the Abbey. Mygrandfather is expecting me. He fidgets if I'm late."
He raised a hand to his cap, and would have turned away, but she made aswift gesture of surprise, which arrested him. "Oh, you are young Mr.Evesham!--I beg your pardon--you are Mr. Evesham! I thought I must haveseen you before!"
He stopped with a laugh. "I am commonly called 'Master Piers' in thisneighbourhood. They won't let me grow up. Rather a shame, what? I'mnearly twenty-five, and the head-keeper still refers to me in private as'that dratted boy.'"
She laughed for the first time. Possibly he had angled for that laugh."Yes, it is a shame!" she agreed. "But then Sir Beverley is rather old,isn't he? No doubt it's the comparison that does it."
"He isn't old," said Piers Evesham in sharp contradiction. "He's onlyseventy-four. That's not old for an Evesham. He'll go for another twentyyears. There's a saying in our family that if we don't die violently, wenever die at all." He pulled himself up abruptly. "I've given you my nameand history. Won't you tell me yours?"
She hesitated momentarily. "I am only the mother's help at the Vicarage,"she said then.
"By Jove! I don't envy you." He looked at her with frank interestnotwithstanding. "I suppose you do it for a living," he remarked."Personally, I'd sooner sweep a crossing than live in the same house withthat mouthing parson."
"Hush!" she said, but her lips smiled as she said it, a small smile thatwould not be denied. "I must go in now. Here you are!" She gave him backhis whip. "Good-bye! Get home quick--and change!"
He turned half-relucta
ntly; then paused. "You might tell me your nameanyway," he said.
She had begun to move away, light-footed, swift as a bird. Shealso paused.
"My name is Denys," she said.
He put his hand to his cap again. "Miss Denys?"
"No. Mrs. Denys. Good-bye!"
She was gone. He heard the light feet running up the wet gravel drive andthen the quick opening of a door. It closed again immediately, withdecision, and he stood alone in the wintry dusk.
Caesar crept to him and grovelled abjectly in the mud. The young manstood motionless, staring at the Vicarage gates, a slight frown betweenhis brows. He was not tall, but he had the free pose of an athlete andthe bearing of a prince.
Suddenly he glanced down at his cringing companion and broke into alaugh. "Get up, Caesar, you fool! And think yourself lucky that you'vegot any sound bones left! You'd have been reduced to a jelly by this timeif I'd had my way."
He bent with careless good-nature, and patted the miscreant; then turnedtowards his horse.
"Poor old Pompey! A shame to keep you standing! All that brute's fault."He swung himself into the saddle. "By Jove, though, she's got somepluck!" he said. "I like a woman with pluck!"
He touched his animal with the spur, and in a moment they were speedingthrough the gathering dark at a brisk canter. Pompey was as anxious toget home as was his master, and he needed no second urging. He scarcelywaited to get within the gates of the Park before he gathered himselftogether and went like the wind. His rider lay forward in the saddleand yelled encouragement like a wild Indian. Caesar raced behind themlike a hare.
The mad trio went like a flash past old Marshall the head-keeper whostood gun on shoulder at the gate of his lodge and looked after them withstern disapproval.
"Drat the boy! What's he want to ride hell-for-leather like that for?" hegrumbled. "He'll go and kill himself one of these days as his father didbefore him."
It was just twenty-five years since Piers' father had been carried deadinto Marshall's cottage, and Marshall had stumped up the long avenue tobear the news to Sir Beverley. Piers was about the same age now as thatother Piers had been, and Marshall had no mind to take part in a similartragedy. It had been a bitter task, that of telling Sir Beverley that hisonly son was dead; but to have borne him ill tidings of his grandsonwould have been infinitely harder. For Sir Beverley had never loved hisson through the whole of his brief, tempestuous life; but his grandsonwas the very core of his existence, as everyone knew, despite hisstrenuous efforts to disguise the fact.
No, emphatically Marshall had not the faintest desire to have to informthe old man that harm had befallen Master Piers, and his frown deepenedas he trudged up his little garden and heard the yelling voice andgalloping hoofs grow faint in the distance.
"The boy is madder even than his father was," he muttered darkly. "Badstock! Bad stock!"
He shook his head over the words, and went within. He was the only manleft on the estate who could remember the beautiful young Italian bridewhom Sir Beverley had once upon a time brought to reign there. It hadbeen a short, short reign, and no one spoke of it now,--least of all theold, bent man who ruled like a feudal lord at Rodding Abbey, and of whomeven the redoubtable Marshall himself stood in awe.
But Marshall remembered her well, and it was upon that dazzling memorythat his thoughts dwelt when he gave utterance to his mysterious verdict.For was not Master Piers the living image of her? Had he not the sameimperial bearing and regal turn of the head? Did not the Evesham bloodrun the hotter in his veins for that passionate Southern strain thatmingled with it?
Marshall sometimes wondered how Sir Beverley with his harsh intolerancebrooked the living likeness of the boy to the woman in whose bittermemory he hated all women. It was scarcely possible that he blindedhimself to it. It was too vividly apparent for that. "A perpetualeyesore," Marshall termed it in private. But then there was no accountingfor the ways of folk in high places. Marshall did not pretend tounderstand them. He was, in his own grumpy fashion, sincerely attached tohis master, and he never presumed to criticize his doings. He onlywondered at them.
As for Master Piers, he had been an unmitigated nuisance to himpersonally ever since he had learned to walk alone. Marshall had alwaysdisapproved of him, and he hated Victor, the French valet, who hadbrought him up from his cradle. Yet deep in his surly old heart therelurked a certain grudging affection for him notwithstanding. The boyhad a winning way with him, and but for his hatred of Victor, who wassoft and womanish, but extremely tenacious, Marshall would have likedto have had a hand in his upbringing. As it was, he could only look onfrom afar and condemn the vagaries of "that dratted boy," prophesyingdisaster whenever he saw him and hoping that Sir Beverley might notlive to see it. Certainly it seemed as if Piers bore a charmed life,for, like his father before him, he risked it practically every day.With sublime self-confidence, he laughed at caution, ever choosing theshortest cut, whatever it might entail; and it was remarkably seldomthat he came to grief.
As he clattered into the stable-yard on that dark November evening,his face was sparkling with excitement as though he had drunk strongwine. The animal he rode was covered with foam, and danced a springywar-dance on the stones. Caesar trotted in behind them with tail erectand a large smile of satisfaction on his spotty face despite the gorystreak upon his neck.
"Confound it! I'm late!" said Piers, throwing his leg over his horse'sneck. "It's all that brute's fault. Look at him grinning! Better wash himone of you! He can't come in in that state." He slipped to the ground andstamped his sodden feet. "I'm not much better off myself. What a beastlynight, to be sure!"
"Yes, you're wet, sir!" remarked the groom at Pompey's head. "Had atumble, sir?"
"No. Had a jug of water thrown over me," laughed Piers. "Caesar will tellyou all about it. He's been sniggering all the way home." He snapped hisfingers in the dog's complacent face. "By Jove!" he said to him, "Icouldn't grin like that if I'd had the thrashing you've had. And Icouldn't kiss the hand that did it either. You're a gentleman, Caesar,and I humbly apologize. Look after him, Phipps! He's been a bit mauled.Good-night! Good-night, Pompey lad! You've carried me well." He pattedthe horse's foam-flecked neck, and turned away.
As he left the stable-yard, he was whistling light-heartedly, and Phippsglanced at a colleague with a slight flicker of one eyelid.
"Wonder who chucked that jug of water!" he said.
The Bars of Iron Page 2
