The Bars of Iron - Ethel May Dell (top novels .txt) 📗

could not say it.
He was silent awhile; then: "All right," he said. "I'll go this afternoon."
His voice was dead level, wholly emotionless, but for a few seconds his grip taxed her endurance to the utmost. Then, abruptly, it relaxed.
He bent his black head and kissed the nervous little hands that were clasped upon his own.
"Don't you fret now!" he said, with an odd kindness that was to her more pathetic than any appeal for sympathy. "You've got enough burdens of your own to bear without shouldering ours. How is Jeanie?"
Mrs. Lorimer choked down a sob. "She isn't a bit well. She has a cold and such a racking cough. I'm keeping her in bed."
"I'm awfully sorry," said Piers steadily. "Give her my love! And look here, when Avery is well enough, let them go away together, will you? It will do them both good."
"It's dear of you to think of it," said Mrs. Lorimer wistfully. "Yes, it did do Jeanie good in the autumn. But Avery--"
"It will do Avery good too," he said. "She can take that cottage at Stanbury Cliffs for the whole summer if she likes. Tell her to! And look here! Will you take her a message from me?"
"A written message?" asked Mrs. Lorimer.
He pulled out a pocket-book. "Six words," he said. He scrawled them, tore out the leaf and gave it to her, holding it up before her eyes that she might read it.
"Good-bye till you send for me. Piers."
"That's all," he said. "Thanks awfully. She'll understand that. And now--I say, you're not going to cry any more, are you?" He shook his head at her with a laugh in his eyes. "You really mustn't. You're much too tender-hearted. I say, it was a pity about the baby, what? I thought the baby might have made a difference. But it'll be all the same presently. She's wanting me really. I've known that ever since that night--you know--ever since I held her in my arms."
He spoke with absolute simplicity. She had never liked him better than at that moment. His boyishness had utterly disarmed her, and not till later did she realize how completely he had masked his soul therewith.
She parted with him with a full heart, and had a strictly private little cry on his account ere she returned to Avery. Poor lad! Poor lad! And when he wasn't smiling, he did look so ill!
The same thought struck Crowther a few hours later as Piers sat with him in his room, and devoted himself with considerable adroitness to making his fire burn through as quickly as possible, the while he briefly informed him that his wife was considered practically out of danger and had no further use for him for the present.
Crowther's heart sank at the news though he gave no sign of dismay.
"What do you think of doing, sonny?" he asked, after a moment.
"I? Why, what is there for me to do?" Piers glanced round momentarily. "I wonder what you'd do, Crowther," he said, with a smile that was scarcely gay.
Crowther came to his side, and stood there massively, while he filled his pipe. "Piers," he said, "I presume she knows all there is to know of that bad business?"
Piers rammed the poker a little deeper into the fire and said nothing.
But Crowther had broken through the barricade of silence at last, and would not be denied.
"Does she know, Piers?" he insisted. "Did you ever tell her how the thing came to pass? Does she know that the quarrel was forced upon you--that you took heavy odds--that you did not of your own free will avoid the consequences? Does she know that you loved her before you knew who she was?"
He paused, but Piers remained stubbornly silent, still prodding at the red coals.
He bent a little, taking him by the shoulder. "Piers, answer me!"
Again Piers' eyes glanced upwards. His face was hard. "Oh, get away, Crowther!" he growled. "What's the good?" And then in his winning way he gripped Crowther's hand hard. "No, I never told her anything," he said. "And I made it impossible for her to ask. I couldn't urge extenuating circumstances because there weren't any. Moreover, it wouldn't have made a ha'porth's difference if I had. So shunt the subject like a good fellow! She must take me at my worst--at my worst, do you hear?--or not at all."
"But, my dear lad, you owe it to her," began Crowther gravely.
Piers cut him short with a recklessness that scarcely veiled the pain in his soul. "No, I don't! I don't owe her anything. She doesn't think any worse of me than I am. She knows me jolly well,--better than you do, most worthy padre-elect. If she ever forgives me, it won't be because she thinks I've been punished enough, but just because she is my mate,--and she loves me." His voice sank upon the words.
"And you are going to wait for that?" said Crowther.
Piers nodded. He dropped the poker with a careless clatter and stretched his arms high above his head. "You once said something to me about the Hand of the Sculptor," he said. "Well, if He wants to do any shaping so far as I am concerned, now is His time. I am willing to be shaped."
"What do you mean?" asked Crowther.
Piers' eyes were half-closed, and there was a drawn look about the lids as of a man in pain. "I mean, my good Crowther," he said, "that the mire and clay have ceased to attract me. My house is empty--swept and garnished,--but it is not open to devils at present. You want to know my plans. I haven't any. I am waiting to be taken in hand."
He spoke with a faint smile that moved Crowther to deep compassion. "You will have to be patient a long while, maybe, sonny," he said.
"I can be patient," said Piers. He shifted his position slightly, clasping his hands behind his head, so that his face was in shadow. "You think that is not much like me, Crowther," he said. "But I can wait for a thing if I feel I shall get it in the end. I have felt that--ever since the night after I went down there. She was so desperately ill. She wanted me--just to hold her in my arms." His voice quivered suddenly. He stopped for a few seconds, then went on in a lower tone. "She wasn't--quite herself at the time--or she would never have asked for me. But it made a difference to me all the same. It made me see that possibly--just possibly--there is a reason for things,--that even misery and iron may have their uses--that there may be something behind it all--what?--Something Divine."
He stopped altogether, and pushed his chair further still into shadow.
Crowther was smoking. He did not speak for several seconds, but smoked on with eyes fixed straight before him as though they scanned a far-distant horizon. At length: "I rather think the shaping has begun, sonny," he said. "You don't believe in prayer now?"
"No, I don't," said Piers.
Crowther's eyes came down to him. "Can't you pray without believing?" he said slowly.
Piers made a restless movement. "What should I pray for?"
Crowther was smiling slightly--the smile of a man who has begun to see, albeit afar off, the fulfilment of a beloved project.
"Do you know, old chap," he said, "I expect I seem a fool to you; but it's the fools who confound the wise, isn't it? I believe a thundering lot in prayer. But I didn't always. I prayed without believing for a long time first."
"That seems to me like offering an insult to God," said Piers.
"I don't think He views it in that light," said Crowther, "any more than He blames a blind man for feeling his way. The great thing is to do it--to get started. You're wanting a big thing in life. Well,--ask for it! Don't be afraid of asking! It's what you're meant to do."
He drew a long whiff from his pipe and puffed it slowly forth.
There fell a deep silence between them. Piers sat in absolute stillness, gazing downwards into the fire with eyes still half-closed.
Suddenly he jerked back his head. "It's a bit of a farce, what?" he said. "But I'll do it on your recommendation, I'll give it a six months' trial, and see what comes of it. That's a fair test anyhow. Something ought to turn up in another six months."
He got to his feet with a laugh, and stood in front of Crowther with a species of challenge in his eyes. He looked as if he expected rebuke, and were prepared to meet it with arrogance.
But Crowther uttered neither reproach nor admonition. He met the look with the utmost kindliness--the most complete understanding.
"Something will turn up, lad," he said, with steady conviction. "But not--probably--in the way you expect."
Piers' face showed a momentary surprise. "How on earth do you know?" he said.
"I do know," Crowther made steadfast reply; but he offered no explanation for his confidence.
Piers thrust out an impulsive hand. "You may be right and you may not; but you've been a brick to me, old fellow," he said, a note of deep feeling in his voice,--"several kinds of a brick, and I'm not likely to forget it. If you ever get into the Church, you'll be known as the parson who doesn't preach, and it'll be a reputation to be proud of."
Crowther's answering grip was the grip of a giant. There was a great tenderness in the far-seeing grey eyes as he made reply. "It would be rank presumption on my part to preach to you, lad. You are made of infinitely finer stuff than I."
"Oh, rats!" exclaimed Piers in genuine astonishment.
But the elder man shook his head with a smile. "No; facts, Piers!" he said. "There are greater possibilities in you than I could ever attain to."
"Possibilities for evil then," said Piers, with a very bitter laugh.
Crowther looked him straight in the eyes. "And possibilities for good, my son," he said. "They grow together, thank God."


PART III
THE OPEN HEAVEN


CHAPTER I
THE VERDICT

"It's much better than learning by heart," said Jeanie, with her tired little smile. "Somehow, you know, I can't learn by heart--at least not long things. Father says it is because my brain is deficient. But Mother says hers is just the same, so I don't mind so much."
"My dear, it will take you hours to read through all this," said Avery, surveying with dismay the task which the Vicar had set his small daughter.
"Yes," said Jeanie. "I am to devote three hours of every day to it. I had to promise I would." She gave a short sigh. "It's very good for me, you know," she said.
"Is it?" said Avery. She smoothed back the brown hair lovingly. "You mustn't overwork, Jeanie darling," she said.
"I can't help it," said Jeanie quietly. "You see, I promised."
That she would keep her promise, whatever the cost, was evidently a foregone conclusion; and Avery could say nothing against it.
She left the child to work therefore, and wandered down herself to the shore.
It was June. A soft breeze came over the sea, salt and pure, with the life-giving quality of the great spaces. She breathed it deeply, thankfully, conscious of returning strength.
She and Jeanie had arrived only the week before, and she was sure their visit was going to do wonders for them both. Her own convalescence had been a protracted one, but she told herself as she walked along the beach towards the smiling, evening sea that she was already stronger than her companion. The