"It certainly seems unfair," Jan said thoughtfully, "but I think you'd better not."

"It _is_ unfair," Tony grumbled.

Jan loosed his hands. "Now," she said, "you can do what you like."

Little Fay leaned towards her brother, smiling her irresistible, dimpled, twinkling smile, and held out a spoonful of her porridge.

"Deah littoo Tony," she cooed, "taste it."

And Tony meekly accepted the peace-offering.

"You haven't smacked her," Jan remarked.

Tony sighed. "It's too late now--I don't feel like it any more."

All the same he felt aggrieved as he set out to seek Earley in the kitchen garden.

Earley was not to be found. He saw Mrs. Mumford already hanging kitchen cloths on a line in the orchard, but he felt no desire for Mrs.

Mumford's society.

Tony's tormented soul sought for something soothing.

The garden was pleasant, but it wasn't enough.

Ah! he'd got it!

He'd go to the river; all by himself he'd go, and not tell anybody. He'd look over the bridge into that cool deep pool and perhaps that big fat trout would be swimming about. What was it he had heard Captain Middleton say last time he was down at Amber Guiting? "The Mayfly was up."

He had seemed quite delighted about it, therefore it must mean something pleasant.

After all, on a soft, not too sunny morning in early June, with a west wind rustling the leaves in the hedges, the world was not such a bad place; for even if there were rather too many women in it, there were dogs and rivers and country roads where adventurous boys could see life for themselves.

William agreed with Tony in his dislike of Monday mornings. He went and lay on the front door mat so that he was more than ready to accompany anyone who happened to be going out.

By the time they reached the bridge all sense of injury had vanished, and buoyant expectation had taken its place.

Three men were fishing. One was far in the distance, one about three hundred yards up stream, and one Tony recognised as Mr. Dauncey, landlord of "The Full Basket," the square white house standing in its neat garden just on the other side of the bridge. The fourth gentleman, who had forgotten his hat, and was clad in a holland smock, sandals, and no stockings, leaned over luxuriously, with his elbows on the low wall and his bare legs thrust out. He was very still, even trying not to twitch when William licked his bare legs, as he did at intervals just to show he was there on guard.

There had been heavy rain in the night and the water was discoloured.

n.o.body noticed Tony, and for about an hour nothing happened. Then Mr.

Dauncey got a rise. The rigid little figure on the bridge leaned further over as Mr. Dauncey's reel screamed and he followed his cast down stream.

Presently, with a sense of irritation, Tony was aware of footsteps coming over the bridge. He felt that he simply could not bear it just then if anyone leaned over beside him and talked. The footsteps came up behind him and pa.s.sed; and William, who was lying between Tony's legs and the wall, squeezed as close to him as possible, gave a low growl.

"Hush, William, naughty dog!" Tony whispered crossly.

William hushed, and drooped as he always did when rebuked.

It occurred to Tony to look after this amazing person who could cross a bridge without stopping to look over when a reel was joyfully proclaiming that some fisherman was having luck.

It was a man, and he walked as though he were footsore and tired. There was something dejected and shabby in his appearance, and his clothes looked odd somehow in Amber Guiting. Tony stared after the stranger, and gradually he realised that there was something familiar in the back of the tall figure that walked so slowly and yet seemed trying to walk fast.

The man had a stick and evidently leant upon it as he went. He wore an overcoat and carried nothing in his hand.

Mr. Dauncey's reel chuckled and one of the other anglers ran towards him with a landing-net.

But Tony still stared after the man. Presently, with a deep sigh, he started to follow him.

Just once he turned, in time to see that Mr. Dauncey had landed his trout.

The sun came out from behind the clouds. "The Full Basket," the river, brown and rippled, the bridge, the two men talking eagerly on the bank below, the muddy road growing cream-coloured in patches as it dried, were all photographed upon Tony's mind. When he started to follow the stranger he was out of sight, but now Tony trotted steadily forward and did not look round again.

William was glad. He had been lying in a puddle, and, like little Fay, he preferred "a dly place."

Meanwhile, at Wren's End the washing had taken a long time to count and to divide. There seemed a positively endless number of little smocks and frocks and petticoats and pinafores, and Meg wanted to keep them all for Mrs. Mumford to wash, declaring that she (Meg) could starch and iron them beautifully. This was quite true. She could iron very well, as she did everything she undertook to do. But Jan knew that it tired her dreadfully, that the heat and the wielding of the heavy iron were very bad for her, and after much argument and many insulting remarks from Meg as to Jan's obstinacy and extravagance generally, the things were divided. Meg put on little Fay's hat and swept her out into the garden; whereupon Jan plunged into Mrs. Mumford's heap, removed all the things to be ironed that could not be tackled by Anne Chitt, stuffed them into Mrs. Chitt's basket, fastened it firmly and rang for Anne and Hannah to carry the things away.

She washed her hands and put on her gardening gloves preparatory to going out, humming a gay little s.n.a.t.c.h of song; and as she ran down the wide staircase she heard the bell ring, and saw the figure of a man standing in the open doorway.

The maids were carrying the linen down the back stairs, and she went across the hall to see what he wanted.

"Well, Jan," he said, and his voice sounded weak and tired. "Here I am at last."

He held out his hand, and as she took it she felt how hot and dry it was.

"Come in, Hugo," she said quietly. "Why didn't you let me know you were coming, and I'd have met you."

The man followed her as she led the way into the cool, fragrant drawing-room. He paused in the doorway and pa.s.sed his hand across his eyes. "It does bring it all back," he said.

He sat down in a deep chair and leaned his head against the back, closing his eyes. Jan saw that he was thin to emaciation, and that he looked very ill; shabby, too, and broken.

The instinct of the nurse that exists in any woman worth her salt was roused in Jan. All the pa.s.sionate indignation she had felt against her brother-in-law was merged at the moment in pity and anxiety.

"Hugo," she said gently, "I fear you are ill. Have you had any breakfast?"

"I came by the early train to avoid ordering breakfast; I couldn't have paid for it. I'd only enough for my fare. Jan, I haven't a single rupee left."

He sat forward in the chair with his hands on the arms and closed his eyes again.

Jan looked keenly at the handsome, haggard face. There was no pretence here. The man was gravely ill. His lips (Jan had always mistrusted his well-shaped mouth because it would never really shut) were dry and cracked and discoloured, the cheekbones sharp, and there was that deep hollow at the back of the neck that always betrays the man in ill-health.

She went to him and pressed him back in the chair.

"What do you generally do when you have fever?" she asked.

"Go to bed--if there is a bed; and take quinine and drink hot tea."

"That's what you'd better do now. Where are your things?"

"There's a small bag at the station. They promised to send it up. I couldn't carry it and I had no money to pay a boy. I came the long way round, Jan, not through the village. No one recognised me."