But when a week crept by without a sign from him she was piqued. He was still at the Priory, but he was making no effort whatsoever to become acquainted with his neighbours. The village gossips, much astonished, reported that he was actually interesting himself in the business of the estate; and Croyde, his long-suffering bailiff, permitted for the first time to lay before him all the crying needs that were never filled, was indulging a flicker of optimism: though his lordship had not yet authorized expenditure he was at least listening to advice, and seeing with his own eyes the slow decay of good land under bad husbandry. Edward, a sceptic, said that the only thing that might induce Damerel to spend a groat on repairs or improvements would be the hope that he might wring back from the estate a greater yield to squander on his amusements. Venetia would have suspected that his sudden interest in his inheritance was nothing more than an excuse for remaining at the Priory had he made some attempt to seek her out. She thought it would not have been difficult for him to have found a pretext for calling at Undershaw; and being far too innocent to realize that Damerel, an expert in the art of dalliance, was employing tactics which none knew better than he to be tantalizing, she was forced to conclude that he had not been as strongly attracted to her as she had supposed. There was nothing in store at Undershaw for his lordship but a set-down, but it was disappointing to be granted no opportunity to deliver this. She found herself imagining a second encounter; and, between disgust at herself and resentment at Damerel for holding her so cheap, became so nearly cross that Aubrey asked her if she felt quite the thing.

And in the end it was neither she who brought about a second meeting, nor Damerel, but Aubrey.

Damerel was riding home with Croyde after one of his tours of inspection when a faint cry for help made him break off what he was saying, and look round. The cry was repeated, and Croyde, standing in his stirrups, so that he could see over the hedge that straggled beside the lane, exclaimed: “Good God, it’s Mr. Aubrey! Ay, I thought as much!—that nappy young chestnut of his has come down with him, like I always said he would! If your lordship will excuse me,I’ll have to attend to him.”

“Yes, of course. Is there a gate, or do we push through the hedge?”

There was a gate a little farther along the lane, and in a very few moments both men had dismounted, and Croyde was kneeling beside Aubrey, who was lying just clear of the ditch which, with the hedge above it, separated the stubble-field from a stretch of pasturage. At a little distance his horse was standing; and when he moved nervously away from Damerel’s advance it was seen that he was dead lame.

Aubrey was sickly white, and in considerable pain. He said faintly: “I came down on my weak leg. I can’t get up. Think I must have stunned myself. Where’s Rufus? Jumped off his fore. I hope to God he didn’t break his knees!”

“Never you mind about that clumsy brute, sir!” Croyde said, in a scolding tone. “What have you broken, that’s what I want to know?”

“Nothing. For God’s sake, don’t maul me about, or I shall go off again! I’ve twisted my other ankle—that’s the devil of it!” He struggled on to his elbow, turning ashen as he did it, and biting his lip. Croyde supported him, and after a moment he managed to say: “I shall do—in a minute. My horse—?”

“Your horse has a badly sprained fetlock,” said Damerel. “You can’t ride him, but he hasn’t broken his leg. The question is, are you quite sure you’ve not broken your own?”

Aubrey looked rather hazily up at him. “It’s not broken. It is only my hip. I have—a weak hip. It will be better directly, I daresay. If a message could be sent to Undershaw they’ll bring the carriage.”

“It’s young Mr. Lanyon, my lord,” explained Croyde. “I was thinking it would be best if I was to fetch the chaise from the Priory, for it’s six miles and a way-bit to Undershaw.”

“And a devilish rough road to be jolted over,” said Damerel, looking thoughtfully down at Aubrey. “We’ll take him to the Priory. Tell ’em to make up a bed, and bring Nidd back with you to take charge of the horses. Here, put this under the boy’s head!” He stripped off his coat as he spoke, rolled it up, and handed it to Croyde, adding, after a glance at Aubrey’s face: “Bring some brandy as well— and bustle, will you?”

He took Croyde’s place beside Aubrey, and began to loosen the boy’s neckcloth. Aubrey opened his eyes. “What— Oh! Thank you. Are you Lord Damerel, sir?”

“Yes, I’m Damerel, but never mind talking to me!”

“Why not?”

“Well, I fancy you had a slight concussion, and would do better to lie quiet.”

“I don’t know. Or even how long I’ve been here. I did come round once, and then I suppose I went off again. I was trying to get up. You see, I can’t.”

Damerel caught the bitter note, but all he said was: “No, and with a weak hip and a sprained ankle you were a damned young fool to try, weren’t you?”

Aubrey grinned feebly, and shut his eyes again. He did not open them until Croyde came back with the chaise, but Damerel knew from the frown between his brows and a certain rigidity about his mouth that he was neither asleep nor unconscious. He muttered something about being able to walk with a little help when he was lifted, but upon being commanded to put his arm round Damerel’s neck he obeyed, and thereafter devoted his energies to the really rather formidable task of maintaining a decent fortitude. Carrying so slight and thin a boy across the field presented no difficulties, but it was impossible to lift him into the chaise without subjecting him to a good deal of pain, and although little more than a mile had to be covered before the Priory was reached the road was so rough that the journey became a severe trial. No complaint was uttered, but when he was lifted down from the chaise Aubrey fainted again.

“Just as well!” said Damerel cheerfully, carrying him into the house. “No, no, take those smelling-salts away, Mrs. Imber! We’ll have his boots off before we try to bring him round again, poor lad! Get a razor, Marston!”

The removal of his boots brought Aubrey to his senses again, but it was not until he had been stripped of his clothing and put into one of his host’s nightshirts that he was able to collect his dazed wits. The relief to his swollen right ankle afforded by a cold compress seemed to mitigate the grinding ache that radiated from his left hip-joint, and the sal volatile which was tilted down his throat enabled him, after a fit of choking, to take stock of his surroundings. He frowned unrecognizingly upon Damerel and his valet, but when his eyes wandered to Mrs. Imber’s concerned face his memory returned, and he exclaimed thickly: “Oh, I remember now! I took a toss. Hell and the devil confound it! Riding like a damned roadster!”

“Oh, the best of us take tosses!” said Damerel. “Don’t fret yourself into a fever over that!”

Aubrey turned his head on the pillow to look up at him. A surge of colour came into his cheeks; he said stiffly: “I’m very much obliged to you, sir. I beg your pardon! Making such a bother of myself for nothing worse than a tumble! You must think me a poor creature.”

“On the contrary, I think you’ve excellent bottom. More bottom than sense! You silly gudgeon! you know you ride a feather! What made you suppose you could hold such a heady young ’un as that chestnut of yours?”

“He didn’t get away with me!” Aubrey said, firing up. “I let him rush it—I was riding carelessly—but there isn’t a horse in the stables I can’t back!”

“Much more bottom than sense!” said Damerel, quizzing him, but with such an understanding smile in his eyes that Aubrey forbore to take offence. “And I suppose a few worse gudgeons, like that bailiff of mine, told you the horse was too strong for you, which was all that was needed to set you careering over the countryside! I own I should have done the same, so I won’t comb your hair for it. Where am I to find the sawbones who doctors you when you’ve knocked yourself up?”

“Nowhere! I mean, I don’t want him: he will only pull me about, and make it ten times worse! It’s nothing—it will go off if I lie still for a while!”

“Now, Mr. Aubrey, you know Miss Lanyon would have the doctor to you, and no argle-bargle about it!” interposed Mrs. Imber. “And as for making you worse, why, what a way to talk when everyone knows he’s as good as any grand London doctor, and very likely better! It’s Dr. Bentworth, my lord, and if it hadn’t been for Croyde taking Nidd off with him like he did I would have sent him to York straight!”

“Well, if he has brought the horses in by now he can set off as soon as I’ve written a note for the doctor. Meanwhile—”

“I wish you will not!” Aubrey said fretfully. “I’m persuaded I shall be well enough to go home long before he can come all this way. If you would but leave me alone—I—I won’t have a grand fuss made over me! I hate it beyond anything!”

This ungracious speech made Mrs. Imber look very much shocked, but Damerel replied coolly: “Yes, abominable! No one shall make a fuss over you any longer. You shall try instead if you can go to sleep.”

To Aubrey, who was feeling as if his every limb had been racked, this suggestion seemed so insensate that it was with difficulty that he refrained from snapping back an acid retort. He was left to solitude, and to his own reflections, but these, do what he would, could not be diverted for long from his body’s aches and ails, and soon resolved themselves into a nagging dread that the fall had injured his hip badly enough to turn him into an out-and-out cripple, or at the very least to keep him tied to a sofa for months. However, before he had had time to make himself sick with worry Damerel came back into the room with a glass in his hand. After one keen look at Aubrey, he said: “Pretty uncomfortable, eh? Drink this!”