‘… so I lost him,’ the Colonel ended, opening his eyes very wide and at the same time grinning for sympathy at Mark. ‘What a thing! By jove, if I’d got him I really believe old Phinn would have murdered me.’

‘Are you still at war, sir?’

‘Afraid so. The chap’s impossible, you know Good God, he’s accused me in so many words of poaching. Mad! How’s your grandfather?’

Mark said: ‘He’s failing pretty rapidly, I’m afraid. There’s nothing we can do. It’s on his account I’m here, sir.’ And he delivered his message.

‘I’ll come at once,’ the Colonel said. ‘Better drive round. Just give me a minute or two to clean up. Come with me, won’t you?’

But Mark felt suddenly that he could not face another encounter with Rose and said he would go home at once by the river path and would prepare his grandfather for the Colonel’s arrival.

He stood for a moment looking back through the dusk towards the house. He saw Rose gather up the full skirt of her housecoat and run across the lawn, and he saw her father set down his creel and rod, take off his hat and wait for her, his bald head gleaming. She joined her hands behind his neck and kissed him. They went on towards the house arm-in-arm. Mrs Cartarette’s hammock had begun to swing to and fro.

Mark turned away and walked quickly down into the valley and across Bottom Bridge.

The Old ’Un, with Colonel Cartarette’s cast in his jaw, lurked tranquilly under the bridge.

2. Nunspardon

CHAPTER 2

Nunspardon

Sir Harold Lacklander watched Nurse Kettle as she moved about his room. Mark had given him something that had reduced his nightmare of discomfort and for the moment he seemed to enjoy the tragic self-importance that is the prerogative of the very ill. He preferred Nurse Kettle to the day-nurse. She was after all a native of the neighbouring village of Chyning and this gave him the same satisfaction as the knowledge that the flowers on his table came out of the Nunspardon conservatories.

He knew now that he was dying. His grandson had not told him in so many words but he had read the fact of death in the boy’s face and in the behaviour of his own wife and son. Seven years ago he had been furious when Mark wished to become a doctor; a Lacklander and the only grandson. He had made it as difficult as he could for Mark. But he was glad now to have the Lacklander nose bending over him and the Lacklander hands doing the things doctors seemed to think necessary. He would have taken a sort of pleasure in the eminence to which approaching death had raised him if he had not been tormented by the most grievous of all ills. He had a sense of guilt upon him.