Left alone, and reasonably certain that her mother had retired majestically to her own room, Cicely reflected that a flood of tears might wash away some of the more importunate thoughts that were attacking her. The conviction that Tiddy would not sit down and howl put to flight this reflection. Tiddy, probably, would attempt to fight reaction with action. Tiddy would work things off.

Le travail est consolateur.

No work lying ready to her hand, Cicely decided to go for a brisk walk.

She escaped from the house, and sped swiftly towards the beloved village. Instantly she became conscious of her freedom. A breeze was cooling the hot afternoon, rustling delightfully amongst the leaves of the beeches and elms. The world seemed incomparably fresher and younger. The sense of having done the real right thing quickened her pulses. As she walked she heard the stable clock strike five. It was tea-time, and actually she felt hungry and thirsty. She had trifled with her luncheon. To forego tea would be silly. Mrs. Rockram would provide it with pleasure. She stood still, hesitating. She might meet Grimshaw. But it was almost certain that Grimshaw would drink his tea with Dr. Pawley. The risk of meeting Grimshaw might be considered negligible. So she walked on nimbly as before, wondering whether Arthur had any appetite for his tea.

Mrs. Rockram received her effusively, but Cicely cleverly silenced an old servant’s eager questions concerning courtship and matrimony.

“I came here to escape from all that,” she affirmed positively.

“What a tale!”

“The truth and nothing but the truth. Let us have a good gossip about the village. I saw Mary Farleigh this morning. She looked very thin and worn.”

“Pore dear soul!”

“I told her to send for Mr. Grimshaw.”

“She won’t never do that, miss. She’s the sart that stands up till she tumbles down. I told her, I did: ‘You’ll carry on,’ I says, ‘till you’re carried out toes first,’ I says.”

“What a way to put it!”

“That’s as may be. She passes the remark to me: ‘My time’ll come,’ she says, ‘when I bain’t needed so badly herealong.’ And ’tis true. The dear Lord only knows what Timothy’d do wi’out her.”

“Mr. Grimshaw must see her.”

“She won’t send for him, miss. But, maybe, he’d go to her if you asked him, as a favour like.”

Cicely answered quickly: “I will.”

Before she had finished her tea she decided that she would write to Grimshaw about Mary Farleigh. Also, she might hint delicately that reform in the sanitary conditions of Upworthy might come about the more surely if not pressed too vigorously at first. If her mother refused, under present conditions, to accept Arthur’s help, somebody else must be found.

She was sipping a second cup of Mrs. Rockram’s tea when Grimshaw came into the kitchen. To make matters worse he had not had his tea. Mrs. Rockram bustled out, leaving man and maid together. Grimshaw was the more self-possessed. At once Cicely said hurriedly:

“I was going to write to you.”

“Yes?”

“Will you, as a personal favour, see Mary Farleigh? She won’t send for you. She looks wretchedly.”

Grimshaw consented, adding a few disconcerting words. “What you told me this morning was heartening. Lord Wilverley is a man of tremendous executive ability. With his cordial co-operation everything is possible.”

Cicely murmured, almost inaudibly:

“But ... if ... if he should be unable to help?”

“Unable?”

He looked so astonished that the unhappy Cicely found herself blushing. To save an intolerable situation she made another blunder.

“I mean if ... my mother was too proud to accept his help?”

Grimshaw replied with a sub-acid inflection. He detested the waste of labour in making mountains out of molehills.

“But, frankly, Miss Chandos, is she too proud to accept the help of her own son-in-law?”

Cicely’s eyes, beneath his sharp glance, showed a hunted expression. Why was Mrs. Rockram so long making a fresh brew of tea? Why had Fate ordained that she should meet this man twice in one day? What would Tiddy do in such an emergency? It is certain that Tiddy would not have looked piteous. Grimshaw’s voice became tender as he put another question.

“Am I distressing you?”

“N-no.”

“But, forgive me, you look distressed. It is possible, of course, that my zeal for the welfare of Upworthy has caused—how shall I put it without offence—some friction between Lady Selina and you?”

She assured him too eagerly that this was not the case.

“But something must have happened since this morning?”

“Yes; something has happened.”

Mrs. Rockram entered with the teapot just half a minute too late. Fortified by her presence, Cicely might have pigeon-holed further explanations. In a moment she would be alone again with Grimshaw, and some insistent quality about him would evoke the truth. And why not? Wasn’t evasion the meanest weapon used by women?

“I’ll make you a bit of toast, sir,” said Mrs. Rockram.

“Please,” replied Grimshaw. “Two bits,” he added as Mrs. Rockram turned to leave the parlour.

“You are hungry, Mr. Grimshaw.”

“Not particularly. It takes time to make two bits of toast.”

He smiled encouragingly at her, inviting confidence, dropping his slightly formal manner and address. She said abruptly:

“What has happened is this: I have broken my engagement to Lord Wilverley.”

“Good God!”

The sharp ejaculation indicated amazement—and what else? Cicely was too nervous to analyse her own emotions, much less those of another; but the light in Grimshaw’s eyes illuminated his deeps unmistakably. He was glad—glad. And in a second an amazing change took place in him. He became the friend, eager to help and console. The two met again upon equal terms. Ten years seemed to drop from him as he exclaimed fervently:

“I knew it.”

“What did you know?”

She asked the question calmly, although her heart was throbbing.

“I knew that he was not the man for you and that you were not the woman for him. I understand exactly how you drifted into the engagement. And how plucky to have broken it! He is such a good fellow that he made it less hard for you, didn’t he?”

She nodded, hardly able to speak. He continued in the same boyish tones:

“And your mother? ... I’m most awfully sorry for her.”

“Mother is miserable, too miserable to scold me. And she is not the scolding sort. At this moment she is lying down—brooding. She will go on brooding. At dinner, to-night, she will be ever so nice to me, but the distance between us will be immense. Tell me how I can lessen it. There must be a way.”

“You love her; she loves you. Pin your faith to that.”

“And then there is you. I am sure that she will not ask Lord Wilverley to help her, and you ... you ...”

“Yes?”

“You see, you have held a sort of pistol to her head.”

He weighed her words carefully, slightly frowning, as he wrestled with the issues involved. When he spoke no boyishness informed his tones.

“Do you ask me to lower that pistol?”

“I feel such a helpless fool.”

“Well, if you want the whole truth, so do I. We are both in the same boat. As an honest man I have to face the fact that conditions here are getting worse every day. Action, to be of real use, should be immediate and sustained.”

“I suppose you must do your duty.”

“What is my duty? To better conditions if I can. How? That’s the rub. That’s where my helplessness comes in. If I rush things, kick up a horrid rumpus, shall I achieve my ends? I doubt it.”

“Don’t rush things, Mr. Grimshaw, please.”

“So be it! And, perhaps, your mother is not quite so proud as you think. She may yet be guided by Lord Wilverley.”

To this Cicely replied with an emphatic “Never!” as Mrs. Rockram appeared with the toast.