During the epoch-making weeks that followed he saw little of her, being engrossed by his work. After the battle of the Marne, Wilverley Court was turned into a Red Cross Hospital, and Cicely enrolled herself as a V.A.D. Brian, by this time, was in France, having survived the retreat from Mons. Pawley had come back, much the better for a long holiday. He congratulated his partner with almost paternal effusion:

“They all like you, my boy. Gentle and simple——!”

“The simple are not as simple as they appear,” said Grimshaw.

“Ah! You have been talking to them, eh? Any—complaints?”

“Nothing verbal. They say what they think I wish them to say. I get most of my information from the kiddies. They give the Chandos dynasty dead away.”

Pawley made a deprecating gesture.

“I know—I know. But what can one do?”

Grimshaw answered grimly:

“Waking, and sometimes in my dreams, that question worries me confoundedly. I’m at the cross-roads. For the moment, I suppose, I must mark time. Dash it!” he continued, with rare irritability, “how can I pester Lady Selina with my pet schemes when she is absorbed with anxiety about her son?” Had he been absolutely truthful, he would have added: “And how can I run the risk of hostilising the mother of the girl I love?”

“Yes, yes; God help all these poor mothers.”

For a season the nettle was dropped, to be grasped firmly later on.

To make matters more difficult for a perplexed and unhappy man in love with a young woman apparently predestined to be the bride of another, Lady Selina had followed her son’s advice, and was being consistently civil and kind, a much easier task than she had anticipated inasmuch as Cicely was absent from home. Grimshaw enjoyed some rough shooting, and found so many snipe in the bog behind the village that he reconsidered the propriety of draining it. Tired by his day’s work, snug in a big arm-chair, he was sorely tempted to let things drift. But every morning, after his cold tub, fighting instincts reasserted themselves. The gorgeous possibility of capturing mother and daughter rose with the sun and illumined his heaven. Two birds to one shot—a notable right and left! Meanwhile Mrs. Rockram had become his devoted slave. To talk to Mrs. Rockram about Cicely would be indiscreet; to listen to her chatter on the same fascinating subject was another matter. Indeed, what news he got of Cicely generally filtered through this loyal old retainer. From her he learned that Wilverley had left the Court and was living with his agent. The big house was handed over to my lord’s married sister, apparently a formidable person, bristling, like her brother, with restless activities. Cicely, it seemed, went to bed each night nearly foundered!

“I ain’t one to gossip,” remarked Mrs. Rockram as November drew to a close. “I’ve never done it, never!”

“Oh, Mrs. Rockram! What a difference between us! I love a bit of gossip. What is gossip? A kindly indication of interest in the affairs of others.”

“Well, sir, that’s as may be. And the housekeeper at the Court is a particular friend of mine, and not one to carry a foolish tale.”

“Out with it, Mrs. Rockram. What tale does she wag?”

Mrs. Rockram answered cautiously:

“It ends happily, sir, as tales should do—with the wedding bells.”

“I’m still in the dark,” said Grimshaw.

He felt, as he spoke, that he should remain so. Cimmerian blackness encompassed him, a Stygian fog. Wilverley had retreated, so to speak, before the final assault. He had trailed clouds of glory behind him. Thanks to his organising powers, the new hospital had been acclaimed as a model. And it was full of heroes and hero-worshippers. Grimshaw had hoped that his services might have been required, but red-tape vetoed this. The medical officer in charge was a “Major” in spurs. Wilverley, of course, had made the most of his opportunities. Mrs. Rockram went on:

“I ain’t. When I seen Miss Cicely in her uniform, I says to Mr. Rockram, ‘My lord’s a goner.’”

Grimshaw attempted to smile. The music was out of his voice as he asked:

“Is it settled?”

Mrs. Rockram was inclined to think so. Could there be a better match? One, surely, of Heaven’s own making. She concluded: “We have always known that my lord was sweet as sweet on her.”

Grimshaw could not envisage Wilverley as “sweet.” And Mrs. Rockram’s evidence was flimsy, mere hearsay from the housekeeper at the Court. Still, the very likelihood of the affair gnawed at him raveningly. A day or two later Pawley said to him:

“Thank God, Brian is now reasonably safe!”

“Why this fervour?”

“Lady Selina expects to lose Cicely.”

“Who told you so?”

An inflection in the young man’s voice made Pawley regard him more attentively. Grimshaw’s face, however, remained expressionless. Pawley replied as guardedly as Mrs. Rockram:

“She admitted to me that Wilverley had dropped the handkerchief; and it seems reasonably certain that it will be picked up. He’s a masterful man.”

“He is,” Grimshaw assented. “Would—would Lady Selina bring pressure to bear?”

Again Pawley’s eyes showed surprise.

“Um! Pressure? Why should there be pressure, except from him?”

Cornered, rather confused, with a tinge of colour in his pale cheeks, Grimshaw said hastily:

“I can’t see him as a lover. He would, as you put it, drop the handkerchief and make sure of its being picked up at once. A girl of spirit mightn’t quite like that.”