Two or three days slipped by without incident. What Cicely had predicted with such assurance came to pass. Lady Selina accepted the thwackings of Fate in silence. She remained consistently “nice” to her daughter. But she refused peremptorily the help that Arthur Wilverley offered within twenty-four hours of his dismissal. Before the week was out the usual announcement appeared in the columns of the Morning Post.

Upon the Monday following Cicely heard at breakfast that Mary Farleigh was sick abed and dying. Stimson told the tale.

“Dying?” repeated Lady Selina. “Did you say ‘dying,’ Stimson?”

“The word was used, my lady, by Annie, at ten o’clock last night. She had been in the village, her Sunday out, my lady.”

“I shall go down at once,” said Cicely.

“I will follow,” added Lady Selina. “Probably Annie is exaggerating. Mr. Grimshaw thought that Isaac Burble was dying. My people, I am glad to think, do not die easily.”

“What is the matter, Stimson?” asked Cicely.

Stimson, treading delicately, murmured:

“They say the fever, miss.”

“Heavens! What fever?”

“Typhoid, miss.”

“I don’t believe it,” declared Lady Selina.

Nevertheless, she filled a small basket with soup and wine, and dispatched Cicely with it immediately. Obviously the lady of the manor was distressed. Her fingers trembled as she tied on the lid of the basket, and she said nervously: “I send you first, Cicely, because I am aware of Timothy Farleigh’s hostility. I saw poor Mary a week ago. There was nothing about her appearance to suggest this.”

“I saw her too. I—I thought she looked ill, so ill that I begged her to see Mr. Grimshaw.”

“Quite right. And has she?”

“I don’t know.”

On arrival at Timothy’s pretty cottage, Cicely found Martha Giles and Timothy in the kitchen. Grimshaw, so she learned, was upstairs with his patient. Timothy received Cicely civilly but coldly. Martha chattered away as usual:

“Ramblin’ in her talk, pore Mary be. ’Tis the fever seemin’ly.”

“Does Mr. Grimshaw say so?”

“He bain’t sure yet.”

“I be sure,” growled Timothy. “I know by my bees that Mary be dying, yes, I do. She loved her bees, she did. They’ll up and leave the hives when she goes.”

“You be daffy,” said Martha cheerfully. “Mary bain’t dead yet. I mind me when my lil’ Willie lay cold an’ stiff in his bed, and old Doctor Pawley he says to me: ‘Martha Giles,’ he says, ‘Willie be gone.’ An’ the lil’ dear opens both his eyes and says: ‘No, I bain’t.’ And I speaks quite sharp to the lad: ‘Now, Willie,’ I says, ‘don’t ’ee conterdict Doctor, because he knows best.’ And Lard bless ’ee! Miss Cicely, Willum be cartin’ manure this instant minute. I’ve some nice cow-heel broth for Mary, if so be as her pore stummick can stand it.”

“I have some nourishing soup,” said Cicely.

Timothy never thanked her. In the same apathetic tone as before he informed Cicely that his niece Agatha was coming to nurse her aunt, and when Cicely expressed her approval of this, adding a few pleasant words about Agatha, Mrs. Giles burst out again:

“Full o’ beans she be, and quite the lady.”

“Ladies be damned!” grunted Farleigh.

“Timothy Farleigh! ... And before Miss Cicely too! You’ll excuse his ignerunce, miss, I know.”

“I’ve nothing agen she,” continued the old man, indicating Cicely with a gesture. “When I says ‘Ladies be damned!’ I speaks of fine ladies, who toil not neither do they spin, and Solomon in all his glory bain’t arrayed like unto ’un.”

Mrs. Giles was unaffectedly shocked.

“I never heard such blasphemious talk.”

“You’ll hear more of it, Marthy, afore you find yourself snug i’ churchyard. They do say as Aggie and Johnny Exton have fixed things up to get married soon as never.”

“I think I hear Mr. Grimshaw’s step,” said Cicely.

Grimshaw came in, carrying his small doctor’s bag. Timothy confronted him, a gaunt, eager man; all trace of apathy had vanished.

“What be the trouble, Doctor?”

“I am not quite certain yet, Farleigh. I shall find out to-night.” He took Farleigh’s arm, pressing it. “We shall fight for her. Go to her. Be as cheerful as possible. For the moment she is rather dazed.”

Timothy went out, followed by Martha.

“Is it typhoid?” asked Cicely breathlessly.

“It may be,” he answered cautiously.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! And his children, who died here! How could he go on living in this cottage!”

Grimshaw, looking very tired and worn, answered curtly:

“Men like Farleigh can’t uproot themselves. He is part of your soil. And—forgive my saying so—Lady Selina doesn’t exactly encourage her labourers to labour elsewhere.”

“Of course she doesn’t. You ... you look very tired, Mr. Grimshaw.”

“I’ve had a bout of that malaria. It prevented my coming here, as you asked me, earlier. It’s not easy for a doctor to bear patiently his own physical infirmities. Please tell Timothy that I’ll look in again presently. For the moment nothing can be done.”

He bowed and moved towards the door. Cicely was infinitely distressed by his appearance and manner. Did he deliberately wish to impose barriers between herself and him? Sympathy for him welled up and overbrimmed.

“Stay one moment,” she faltered.

He turned quickly, standing still, with his eyes upon her troubled face. She continued hurriedly:

“I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends.”

“Are we? Surely friendship pulls down barriers; it doesn’t deliberately build them.”

She spoke so ingenuously that Grimshaw was disarmed. More than physical infirmity had been his portion during the week that had passed since he met Cicely at Mrs. Rockram’s. Before the malaria seized him, he had lain awake hour after hour, fighting furiously against his love for a girl whose happiness had become dearer to him than his own. The issues were crystal-clear. Something told him that her friendship for him, so artlessly revealed, might be fanned by him into the more ardent flame. The mere thought was intoxicating. Then in colder blood he began to calculate the consequences to her if he won her love. The mother would withhold her consent. It lay within her power to disinherit a disobedient daughter. And, unless all his knowledge of Lady Selina’s character were at fault, she would exercise that power in the firm conviction that she was doing so conscientiously. All these considerations tore to tatters the primal instinct of the male to pursue and capture. Another thought distracted him and kept sleep from his pillow. Sure as he was of himself, of his ability to provide the necessaries of life, with some of its superfluities, for his wife, he was not yet sure of Cicely’s adaptability to conditions widely differing from those to which she was accustomed. As a practitioner he had seen enough and to spare of the miseries brought about by comparative poverty. It became torment to reflect that Cicely, if she married him, might live to regret it. Add to this that he was proud and perhaps unduly sensitive. Finally, he had reached the sum-total of many computations. For the present at least, till his own position was more assured, he must mark time, an exercise he cordially detested.

He replied awkwardly: “If there are barriers between our friendship, Miss Chandos, they are not of my building.”

“What are they—these barriers?”

“Almost as big and as old as the Pyramids.”

He spoke harshly, angry with himself, conscious that he was dissembling badly. He went out quickly, leaving Cicely erect and defiant. But, as the door closed behind him, a faint exclamation of dismay escaped her. She sank back into a chair close to the big kitchen table, and covered her face with her hands. At the same moment Grimshaw, passing the open casement, glanced in and beheld her. His quick ears caught a muffled sob. This was more than flesh and blood could stand. Cicely looked up as he came back. In silence each read the heart of the other. No words were needed. She stood up, trembling. He took her in his arms, kissing her hair, her brow, her cheeks. She remained passive, almost swooning under this revelation of feeling and passion. She heard his voice, broken and insistent:

“I want you. I want you more than all the world. I have always wanted you, from the day I first saw you. Is it possible that you want me?”

He found on her lips the answer to that question.

When they returned to earth she whispered:

“You didn’t wear your heart upon your sleeve!”

“How could I, when you had stolen it?”

“Blind man!”

“Not altogether.”

“What! You saw?”

“I saw the Pyramids. I see them still. I believed them to be unsurmountable after Brian’s death, but when you told me about Wilverley I knew somehow that it was not love that made you take him. But the Pyramids remain.”

She disengaged herself gently, raising rueful eyes to his.

“I had forgotten—Mother.”

“So had I, for one blessed minute.”

“What are we going to do?”

He answered decisively:

“I’ll see her at once and plead my case as best I may.”

His grim tone was not exactly encouraging. Cicely, however, nothing daunted, put both her hands upon his shoulders, smiling at him.

“I know,” he said, smiling back at her.

“What do you know?”

“You are about to ask me to leave your mother to you.”

“What a clever man! Frighteningly so. Yes; I have a little plan. How much do you love me, Harry?”

The name slipped from her so easily that he guessed how often it must have been in her thoughts.

“Ah! How much? I came back here, against my judgment, my pride, everything, because I loved you so desperately.”

She exclaimed joyfully:

“That is how a girl wants to be loved. I am ever so proud that you love me like that.”

She kissed him, so sweetly, with such self-surrender, that he asked himself, humbly and gratefully, “Am I worthy of her?” And behind the question rankled the fact that he had doubted her strength of character and ability to rise above conventions rigorously imposed since her childhood. He heard her soft voice, so beguiling:

“I suppose you know that Mother loves me very dearly?”

He laughed, pressing her to him.

“Well, I think I can guess what sort of strangle-hold you have on her.”

“Since Brian died she has been so tender to me, and more dependent. And I’m all she has.” She sighed a little.

“You would like to spare me,” he said. “Your mother is not very likely to love me.”

“If she knew you as I do, she would consent to our marriage.”

“Would she? Um! My time this morning is not my own, darling. Let’s hear your little plan.”

“I want you to make love to Mother. You never half wooed me. But I’ll forgive you, if you woo her. You must woo her.”

“But she doesn’t give me many opportunities. And, you see, I’m no courtier.”

She stepped back from him, eyeing him critically, but still smiling.

“You aren’t, if you won’t try to do the first thing I ask you. But you will, won’t you?”

“I antagonised her at the start.”

“I can assure you she’s getting over that. She admits you are tremendously clever. She says that you have resurrected old Isaac Burble from the dead. And you will save poor Mary Farleigh. Her illness will bring you together. When you meet, will it be so frightfully difficult to be nice to her?”

“And hold my tongue about you?”

“Her ways,” she pleaded, “are not your ways, but can’t you walk in them for a little while to—to please me?”

“What a witch! I prefer more direct methods.”

“Oh-h-h!”

Tears filled her eyes. Feeling a brute, he kissed them away, whispering: “I’ll do my best, dearest. Now, tell me, when shall I see you again?”

“I may be here when you come back presently. And to-morrow I shall be under the big tree on the green at six-thirty.”

Grimshaw laughed gaily.

“What a coincidence! I, too, shall be under the big tree at that very time.”

With that pleasant assurance he went his way. Cicely took from her basket a pint of port wine, some linen, and a small basin of clear soup in jelly. Whilst she was doing this, Nicky, the softy, came in and grinned at her knowingly. Cicely greeted him:

“Well, Nicky, how are you?”

“I seen you mumbudgettin’ wi’ doctor, I did.”

Cicely exhibited slight confusion.

“Oh! How did you see us?”

“Through crack i’ door, I did.”

What he saw, however, was not destined to be revealed, because a sharp tap at the cottage door interrupted the duologue.

“Come in,” said Cicely, much relieved.

Nick slipped out as Agatha Farleigh entered, followed by John Exton, carrying Agatha’s neat suit-case. John was wearing khaki and a sergeant’s stripes. Upon his chest was the D.C.M. After greeting Cicely Agatha said briskly:

“You remember John Exton, Miss Cicely?”

“Indeed I do. He hasn’t let us forget him. We were so dreadfully sorry to hear you had lost an arm, John.”

“I gave it, miss.”

“You look very well.”

Agatha glanced at the port wine and the basin.

“Is my aunt seriously ill?” she asked. “Uncle wired for me this morning. I got leave at once. I suppose Mr. Grimshaw is attending her?”

“Yes; he has just left. I am afraid it is serious, Agatha. It may be typhoid.”

Agatha, without a word, crossed the room and hurried out. Cicely said to John:

“This is a cruel shock for her. You are still in the army?”

“With a month’s leave. I was so sorry, miss, to hear about Mr. Brian.”

“Thank you, John. It hardly bears speaking about. How is your father?”

“He’s well, and doing well, thank God!”

A slight emphasis on the last half of the sentence had significance. An awkward pause was broken by the return of Agatha, somewhat excited.

“Uncle Timothy wouldn’t let me in. Why did he send for me, if he doesn’t want me?”

“Of course he wants you,” replied Cicely. “Naturally, he is very upset. I will call again this afternoon to see if you want anything.”

She moved to the door, which John politely opened for her. Agatha began to take off her hat. As soon as she was alone with the young man she exclaimed bitterly:

“Typhoid! ... I expected it.”

“Expected it, Aggie?”

“Regular poison trap, this cottage. Ought to have been pulled down years ago. I’ll bet Mr. Grimshaw agrees with that.”

Agatha’s obvious exasperation was excusable. Her uncle’s telegram summoning her to nurse Mary Farleigh happened to arrive at a moment when she was expecting to spend a well-earned leave with the Extons. Also, it seemed to her that John accepted her disappointment too coolly. Surely he must know that she was “fed up” with work. The equanimity of the trained soldier, his acquiescence in misfortune, his good-temper under it, would have provoked admiration from Aggie at any other time. Let us make due allowance for her. John attempted to soothe her, not very successfully. And then Martha Giles poked in her comical old head explaining:

“Well, I never! ... Johnny Exton—a gentleman officer!”

John took her hand heartily.

“Only a sergeant, Mrs. Giles.”

“With three wound-stripes,” added Agatha proudly. Her tone became aggrieved again, as she added: “Uncle Timothy wouldn’t let me in, Martha.”

“Let ’un bide wi’ the pore sick soul. She be tarr’ble low, dazed an’ mazed as never was; but Mary be tough, and the dear Lard well knows that she bain’t to be spared, no more than I be.”

“Is there proper food in the house?” asked Agatha.

“Yes; my cow-heel broth. Hark! Timothy be comin’ down.”

A heavy step was heard on a creaking stair. Martha whispered hurriedly:

“Now, don’t ’ee be miffed, if he acts flustratious, pore dear man!”

Timothy entered, carefully closing the door behind him. For an instant he stared questioningly at John Exton and Agatha, a mute, tragic figure bowed by years of toil. Agatha went up to him and kissed him.

“How is she?”

“She don’t know me. Aggie; she don’t know me. I ain’t no use to her. Who’s that?”

“John Exton, whom I’m going to marry.”

“Aye, aye. You two do as I bids ye. Bring no childer into this world. Where’s doctor?”

“He’ll be herealong soon,” said Martha.

“Doctor can’t do nothink. I might as well get coffin-stools out.”

“Shall I go?” said John to Agatha.

“Not yet.” She addressed her uncle: “You’ll be wanting your dinner, dear?”

“No; I wants my old Mary. I be fair lost wi’out she.”

He sat down in the big worn arm-chair near the hearth. Mrs. Giles said in a piping voice:

“I’ll bide wi’ Mary till Aggie be ready to take my place.”

“I’m ready now, Martha.”

Timothy growled out: “You bide wi me a bit, my girl. I’ve summat to say to ’ee.” As Martha slipped away he addressed John Exton: “Your father was allers my good friend.”

“Yes, yes; indeed he was—and is.”

Timothy thumped the stout oak arm of his chair.

“Ah-h-h! My lady turned ’un out. And she killed my lil’ maids! ... An’ now ’tis Mary’s turn.”

John said quietly:

“Steady on. I thought I was dead in the trenches, but I wasn’t.”

Timothy rose up, lifting a heavy, misshapen hand.

“Gi’ me the Book,” he commanded, pointing dramatically at the big Bible lying upon the window-ledge between two pots of scented geranium. John fetched it, laying it upon the kitchen table.

“Where be my specs?”

Agatha saw them on the chimney-piece, and handed them to him in silence. With trembling fingers he put them on. Then he opened the Bible, turning a page or two, till he found the fly-leaf.

“I be going blind,” he muttered feebly.

“No, no; let me wipe your glasses.”

Agatha wiped his glasses.

“That be better, my girl. Aye.” He ran his finger along an entry in faded ink. “Here we be.... ‘Mary Jane, barn October 2nd, 1897, died June 7th, 1904.’ My first-barn, a dinky lil’ maid as never was.”

Agatha, much moved, and relapsing unconsciously into the Doric, said excitedly:

“I mind her curly lil’ head, I do.”

“Ah-h-h! Here we be agen. ‘Ellen Adeliza, barn November 9th, 1898, died June 9th, 1904,’ just two days arter her sister.”

He glared at Agatha. Suddenly his voice became harsh and fierce.

“Gi’ me pen and ink, Aggie.”

“Whatever for, Uncle?”

“To make proper entry, my girl.”

John said softly:

“But the proper entry is there, Mr. Farleigh.”

“No, it bain’t. I be going to scratch out ‘died’ an’ write—‘murdered.’”

John approached him, saying firmly:

“Don’t do that, Mr. Farleigh.”

Timothy snarled at him:

“Be I master in my own house, or be you, young man?”

At that Agatha took his arm.

“Dear Uncle, John is right. ’Twould make Aunt Mary so unhappy if she knew.”

“Gi’ me pen an’ ink,” he replied with all the obstinacy of the peasant.

The ink-pot stood on the window-ledge, near the open casement. Timothy was staring at Agatha. John, standing close to the window, deftly emptied the ink-pot without being perceived.

“No,” said Agatha.

“I says—yes.”

John held up the ink-pot.

“There’s no ink in the pot, Mr. Farleigh, not a drop.” He held the ink-pot upside down, as proof positive.

“No ink—no ink,” he mumbled, dazed again and irresolute. Agatha pushed him gently toward his chair. He sank into it, still mumbling. John’s face softened; Agatha’s assumed a hard expression. The silence was broken by voices outside. Timothy took no notice.

“Who is it?” asked Agatha impatiently.

John looked through the casement before he answered:

“The Ancient, Nicodemus Burble, and Nick.”

“We don’t want that old gaffer. Tell him he can’t come in.”

But Timothy objected.

“Let ’un in; let ’un in. All friends be heartily welcome.”

Agatha shrugged her shoulders. John opened the door to Nicodemus, who entered gallantly, carrying his many years as if they were feathers.

“Marning, all.”

Nick followed, and espying a newspaper which John had stuck into the strap of Agatha’s suit-case, furtively purloined it, sidling into the ingle-nook, where he remained more or less invisible.

“Glad to see you looking so hearty, Mr. Burble,” said John.

“John Exton, I do declare, and Aggie Farleigh! Well, well!”

“How are you, granfer?” asked Agatha.

Nicodemus squared his shoulders.

“I be the most notable man in village. How be Auntie, Aggie?”

“Very sick. I’ve not seen her yet.”

Nicodemus greeted Timothy, and then smacked his lips as he envisaged the small bottle of port wine.

“Ah-h-h! Her ladyship ha’ been herealong. Part wine, as I live!”

At once Timothy jumped up, fierce and menacing.

“Her wine? In my house? Gi’ me that bottle!”

“We may need it,” protested Agatha. Timothy pushed her roughly aside and seized the bottle, exclaiming with biblical fervour:

“Death be in her loving-kindness, and sorrow in her cups o’ wine. I be goin’ to throw ’un away.”

The Ancient tottered at such a threat.

“Throw away good liquor! What an onchristian act! A rare churchgoer, such as you be, Tim Farleigh, ought to behave hisself more genteel. Throw away my lady’s part wine! I never heard such hellish talk.”

Timothy turned upon him aggressively, but the Ancient stood his ground.

“There be no heaven and hell, save on this earth. The quality gets the heaven, and we pore folks walks in hell. I be done wi’ church-goin’—done wi’ it for ever—done!”

He went out. A crash of breaking glass was heard. Nicodemus looked up to Heaven.

“Lard help ’un!”

To his immense amazement, Agatha snapped out:

“My lady’s wine is poison to him, and no wonder.”

“Part wine bain’t pison, neighbours. Why not drink the wine, and then smash bottle?”

“Because his wife may be dying, Mr. Burble.”

“Fevers and such comes from Providence, Aggie. I holds tight to Providence, I do. And I don’t hold wi’ talk agen the quality. That was never my way.”

Timothy came back.

“What be saying?” he asked.

Nicodemus wagged his head solemnly.

“I don’t hold wi’ talk agen the quality, Tim. Her ladyship spends money on we wi’ both hands.”

“You tell me how much she spends,” sneered Timothy.

“I dunno.”

“I can tell you,” said Agatha. “I was her secretary. I know all about her doles.”

“Doles? What be doles, Aggie?”

“Soup, blankets, cloaks, a dozen or two of port from the wood.”

Nicodemus looked incredulous.

“Part from the wood? What a queer place to get ’un. There be allers beef at Yuletide, milk for widders and little ’uns, a mort o’ comfort for them as keers for cows’ gifts. A gert charitable ’ooman, my lady be. Rich folk should be treated wi’ respect.”

“And what does it all come to in cash?” asked Agatha. “I’ll tell you. About five hundred pounds—counting everything.”

Nicodemus chuckled, rubbing together his gnarled hands, which indicated more than his face great age.

“A gert noble sum, neighbours. My lady has done her dooty.”

“What hasn’t she done?” asked John sharply.

“Dang my old boans, I dun’no.”

“She hasn’t pulled down a score of cottages like this.”

“Pulled down cottages?” Nicodemus wiped his shining brow.

“They ought to be burnt—burnt,” repeated Agatha excitedly.

“Aye,” said Timothy, “and the Hall wi’ ’un.”

Nick’s voice was heard from the ingle-nook, shrill and ear-piercing:

“’Twould be a rare lark!”

Nobody noticed the boy. The Ancient thumped the tiled floor with his oak stick, exclaiming angrily: “What blarsted talk! ’Tis a fool’s cap you be wanting, Aggie Farleigh.”

Nick interposed again:

“I’ll make ’ee one, Aggie.”

The tension was increasing. Timothy’s deep-set eyes glowered; John Exton, thinking of his father, and recalling old calculations, said emphatically:

“I’ve been into this. Upworthy ought to have fifty new cottages. At the old prices, three hundred apiece, that would make fifteen thousand. Two thousand more would lay down decent drains.”

Nicodemus thumped the floor more vigorously:

“I says in my common way: ‘Drains be damned!’”

John continued, warming to his work:

“Eight thousand more would be little enough to spend on the farms. That foots up twenty-five thousand pound.”

“Ah-h-h!” The Ancient shook a trembling forefinger at him. “’Tis easy to make free wi’ other folk’s cash. Johnny’d have my lady so pore as we.”

Agatha turned upon him.

“That’s nonsense, granfer. Her income is six thousand a year. She could borrow twenty-five thousand by giving up one thousand a year. Instead of putting this big property in order, she bribes you all with doles. And she saves herself five hundred a year. Have you got it?”

Nicodemus retorted smartly:

“I holds wi’ King Solomon, a wiser man even than I be, there bain’t no fool so irksome as a female fool.”

“Meaning, you rude old man?”

“That you be a lovesick maid, Aggie, and so soft as Nicky there.”

John, still at the window, electrified the company by his next remark:

“My lady is here.”

As he spoke, Lady Selina’s stately figure was seen passing the casement. Timothy hurried from the kitchen; a firm tap was heard upon the door.

“Come in,” said Agatha.