The Bars of Iron Part 85

Piers began to make impulsive resistance, but Crowther's hold only tightened.

"I'm not parting with you to-night," he reiterated firmly. "And look here, boy! You've come to me for help, and, to the best of my ability, I'll help you. But first,--are you sure you are justified in leaving home? Are you sure you are not wanted?"

"Wanted! I!" Piers looked at him from under eye-lids that quivered a little. "Yes," he said, after a moment, with a deliberation that sounded tragically final. "I am quite sure of that, Crowther."

Crowther asked no more. He patted Piers' shoulder gently and rose.

"Very well," he said. "I'll take that six months' trip round the world with you."

"But you can't!" protested Piers. "I never seriously thought you could! I only came to you because--" he halted, and a slow, deep flush mounted to his forehead--"because you've saved me before," he said. "And I was so--so horribly near--the edge of the pit this time."

He spoke with an odd boyishness, and Crowther's lips relaxed in a smile that had in it something of a maternal quality. "So long as I can help you, you can count on me," he said.

"You're the only man in the world who can help me," Piers said impulsively. "At least--" he smiled himself--"I couldn't take it from anyone else. But I'm not taking this from you, Crowther. You've got your own pet job on hand, and I'm not going to hinder it."

Crowther was setting his writing-table in order. He did not speak for a few seconds. Then: "I am a man under authority, sonny," he said. "My own pet job, as you call it, doesn't count if it isn't what's wanted of me. It has waited twenty-five years; it'll keep--easy--for another six months."

Piers got up. "I'm a selfish brute if I let you," he said, irresolutely.

"You can't help yourself, my son." Crowther turned calm eyes upon him.

"And now just sit down here and write a line home to say what you are going to do!"

He had cleared a s.p.a.ce upon the table; he pulled forward a chair.

"Oh, I can't! I can't!" said Piers quickly.

But Crowther's hand was on his shoulder. He pressed him down. "Do it, lad! It's got to be done," he said.

And with a docility that sat curiously upon him, Piers submitted. He leaned his head on his hand, and wrote.

CHAPTER XI

THE FALLING NIGHT

"You ought to rest, you know," said Tudor. "This sort of thing is downright madness for you."

They were walking together in the February twilight along the long, dark avenue of chestnuts that led to Rodding Abbey. Avery moved with lagging feet that she strove vainly to force to briskness.

"I don't think I do too much," she said. "It isn't good for me to be idle. It makes me--it makes me mope."

The involuntary falter in the words spoke more eloquently than the words themselves, but she went on after a moment with that same forced briskness to which she was trying to compel her dragging limbs. "I only ran down to the Vicarage after lunch because it is Jeanie's birthday. It is no distance across the Park. It seemed absurd to go in state."

"You are not wise," said Tudor in a tone that silenced all argument.

Avery gave a little sigh and turned from the subject. "I thought Jeanie looking very fragile. Mrs. Lorimer has promised that she may come to me again just as soon as I am able to have her."

"Ah! Jeanie is a comfort to you?" said Tudor.

To which she answered with a catch in her breath, "The greatest comfort."

They reached the great grey house and entered. A letter lay on the table by the door. Avery took it up with a sharp s.h.i.+ver.

"Prom Piers?" asked Tudor abruptly.

She bent her head. "He writes--every week."

"When is he coming home?" He uttered the question with a directness that sounded almost brutal, but Avery caught the note of anxiety behind it and understood.

She opened the letter in silence, and read it by the waning light of the open door. The crackling of the fire behind her was the only sound within. Without, the wind moaned desolately through the bare trees. It was going to rain.

Slowly Avery raised her head at last and gazed out into the gathering dark.

"Come inside!" said Tudor peremptorily.

His hand closed upon her arm, he almost compelled her. "How painfully thin you are!" he said, as she yielded. "Are you starving yourself of food as well as rest?"

Again she did not answer him. Her eyes were fixed, unseeing. They focused their gaze upon the fire as he led her to it. She sat down in the chair he placed for her and then very suddenly she began to s.h.i.+ver as if with an ague.

"Don't!" said Tudor sharply.

He bent over her, his hands upon her shoulders, holding her.

She controlled herself, and leaned back. "Do sit down, doctor! I'm afraid I'm very rude--very forgetful. Will you ring for tea? Piers is in town.

He writes very kindly, very--very considerately. He is only just back from Egypt--he and Mr. Crowther. The last letter was from Cairo. Would you--do you care to see what he says?"

She offered him the letter with the words, and after the faintest hesitation Tudor took it.

"I have come back to be near you." So without preliminary the letter ran.

"You will not want me, I know, but still--I am here. For Heaven's sake, take care of yourself, and have anything under the sun that you need.

Your husband, Piers."

It only covered the first page. Tudor turned the sheet frowningly and replaced it in its envelope.

"He always writes like that," said Avery. "Every week--all through the winter--just a sentence or two. I haven't written at all to him though I've tried--till I couldn't try any more."

She spoke with a weariness so utter that it seemed to swamp all feeling.

Tudor turned his frowning regard upon her. His eyes behind their gla.s.ses intently searched her face.

"How does he get news of you?" he asked abruptly.

"Through Mrs. Lorimer. She writes to him regularly, I believe,--either she or Jeanie. I suppose--presently--"

Avery stopped, her eyes upon the fire, her hands tightly clasped before her.

"Presently?" said Tudor.