In the hall at Downing the logs were stirred to a blaze, and food and drink brought in a hospitable stir.
“I have a letter to write before I sleep,” Mr. Lovel told his daughter. “I will pray from Colonel Flowerdue the use of his cabinet.”
Cecily looked at him inquiringly, and he laughed.
“The posts at Chastlecote are infrequent, Cis, and I may well take the chance when it offers. I assure you I look forward happily to a month of idleness stalking Tony's mallards and following Tony's hounds.”
In the cabinet he wrote half a dozen lines setting out simply the change in his views. “If I know Oliver,” he told himself, “I have given him the sign he seeks. I am clear it is God's will, but Heaven help the land—Heaven help us all.” Having written, he lay back in his chair and mused.
When Colonel Flowerdue entered he found a brisk and smiling gentleman, sealing a letter.
“Can you spare a man to ride express with this missive to town? It is for General Cromwell's private hand.”
“Assuredly. He will start at once lest the storm worsens. It is business of State?”
“High business of State, and I think the last I am likely to meddle with.”
Mr. Lovel had taken from his finger a thick gold ring carved with a much-worn cognisance. He held it up in the light of the candle.