The Bars of Iron Part 44

Tudor pushed forward a chair. "I believe you are chilled to the bone," he said.

She laughed at that. "Oh no, indeed I am not! But it is a cold wind, isn't it? Have you finished your work for to-day?"

Tudor foraged in a cupboard for an extra cup and saucer. "No. I've got to go out again later. I've just come back from Miss Whalley's. She's got a touch of jaundice."

"Oh, poor thing!" said Avery.

"Yes; poor thing!" echoed Tudor grimly. "She is very sorry for herself, I can a.s.sure you; but as full of gossip as ever." He paused.

Avery, with her face to the fire, laughed a little. "Anything new?"

"Miss Whalley," said Tudor deliberately, "always gets hold of something new. Never noticed that?"

"Wouldn't you like me to pour out?" suggested Avery.

"No. You keep your feet on the fender. Do you want to hear the latest t.i.ttle-tattle--or not?"

There was a wary gleam behind Tudor's gla.s.ses; but Avery did not turn her eyes from the fire. A curious little feeling of uneasiness possessed her, a sensation that scarcely amounted to dread yet which quickened the beating of her heart in a fas.h.i.+on that she found vaguely disconcerting.

"Don't tell me anything ugly!" she said gently, still not looking at him.

Tudor uttered a short laugh. "There's nothing especially venomous about it that I can see." He lifted the teapot and began to pour. "Have you heard from young Evesham lately?"

The question was casually uttered; but Avery's hands made a slight involuntary movement over the fire towards which she leaned.

"No," she said.

At the same moment the cup that Tudor was filling overflowed, and he whispered something under his breath and set down the tea-pot.

Avery turned towards him instinctively, to see him dabbing the table with his handkerchief.

"It's almost too dark to see what one is doing," he said.

"It is," she a.s.sented gravely, and turned back quietly to the fire, not offering to a.s.sist. A soft veil of reserve seemed to have descended upon her. She did not speak again until he had remedied the disaster and brought her some tea. Then, with absolute composure, she raised her eyes to his.

"You were going to tell me something about Piers Evesham," she said.

His eyes looked back into hers with a certain steeliness, as though they sought to penetrate her reserve.

"I was," he said, after a moment, "though I don't suppose it will interest you very greatly. I had it from Miss Whalley, but I was not told the source of her information. Rumour says that the young man is engaged to Miss Ina Rose of Wardenhurst."

"Oh, really?" said Avery. She took the cup he offered her with a hand that was perfectly steady, though she was conscious of the fact that her face was pale. "They are abroad, I think?"

"Yes, in the Riviera." Tudor's eyes fell away from hers abruptly. "At least they have been. Someone said they were coming home." He stooped to put wood on the fire, and there fell a silence.

Avery spoke after a moment. "No doubt he will be happier married."

"I wonder," said Tudor. "I should say myself that he has the sort of temperament that is never satisfied. He's too restless for that. I don't think Miss Ina Rose is greatly to be envied."

"Unless she loves him," said Avery. She spoke almost under her breath, her eyes upon the fire. Tudor, standing beside her with his elbow on the mantelpiece, was still conscious of that filmy veil of reserve floating between them. It chafed him, but it was too intangible a thing to tear aside.

He waited therefore in silence, watching her face, the tender lines of her mouth, the sweet curves that in childhood must have made a perfect picture of happiness.

She raised her eyes at length. "Dr. Tudor!"

And then she realized his scrutiny, and a soft flush rose and overspread her pale face. She lifted her straight brows questioningly.

And all in a moment Tudor found himself speaking,--not of his own volition, not the words he had meant to speak, but nervously, stammeringly, giving utterance to the thoughts that suddenly welled over from his soul. "I've been wanting to speak for ages. I couldn't get it out. But it's no good keeping it in, is it? I don't get any nearer that way. I don't want to vex you, make you feel uncomfortable. No one knows better than I that I haven't much to offer. But I can give you a home and--and all my love, if you will have it. It may seem a small thing to you, but it's bigger than the calf-love of an infant like young Evesham.

I know he dared to let his fancy stray your way, and you see now what it was worth. But mine--mine isn't fancy."

And there he stopped; for Avery had risen and was facing him in the firelight with eyes of troubled entreaty.

"Oh, please," she said, "please don't go on!"

He stood upright with a jerk. The distress on her face restored his normal self-command more quickly than any words. Half-mechanically he reached out and took her tea-cup, setting it down on the mantelpiece before her.

"Don't be upset!" he said. "I didn't mean to upset you. I shan't go on, if it is against your wish."

"It is," said Avery. She spoke tremulously, locking her hands fast together. "It must be my own fault," she said, "I'm dreadfully sorry. I hoped you weren't--really in earnest."

He smiled at that with a touch of cynicism. "Did you think I was amusing myself--or you? Sit down again, won't you? There is no occasion whatever for you to be distressed. I a.s.sure you that you are in no way to blame."

"I am dreadfully sorry," Avery repeated.

"That's nice of you. I had scarcely dared to flatter myself that you would be--glad. So you see, you have really nothing to reproach yourself with. I am no worse off than I was before."

She put out her hand to him with a quick, confiding gesture. "You are very kind to put it in that way. I value your friends.h.i.+p so much, so very much. Yes, and I value your love too. It's not a small thing to me. Only, you know--you know--" she faltered a little--"I've been married before, and--though I loved my husband--my married life was a tragedy. Oh yes, he loved me too. It wasn't that sort of misery. It was--it was drink."

"Poor girl!" said Tudor.

He spoke with unwonted gentleness, and he held her hand with the utmost kindness. There was nothing of the rejected lover in his att.i.tude. He was man enough to give her his first sympathy.

Avery's lips were quivering. She went on with a visible effort. "He died a violent death. He was killed in a quarrel with another man. I was told it was an accident, but it didn't seem like that to me. And--it had an effect on me. It made me hard--made me bitter."

"You, Avery!" Tudor's voice was gravely incredulous.

She turned her face to the fire, and he saw on her lashes the gleam of tears. "I've never told anyone that; but it's the truth. It seemed to me that life was cruel, mainly because of men's vices. And women were created only to go under. It was a horrid sort of feeling to have, but it has never wholly left me. I don't think I could ever face marriage a second time."

"Oh yes, you could," said Tudor, quietly, "if you loved the man."

She shook her head. "I am too old to fall in love. I have somehow missed the romance of life. I know what it is, but it will never come to me now."

"And you won't marry without?" he said.

"No."

There fell a pause; then, still with the utmost quietness, he relinquished her hand. "I think you are right," he said. "Marriage without love on both sides is a s.h.i.+p without ballast. Yet, I can't help thinking that you are mistaken in your idea that you have lost the capacity for that form of love. You may know what it is. Most women do.

But I wonder if you have ever really felt it."