The Bars of Iron, Ethel May Dell [my reading book .TXT] 📗

wavering resolution, she wondered? Was he trying to hasten her ere it should wholly evaporate--to close the way of escape ere she could avail herself of it? Or was he anxious solely on Piers' account--lest after all she might arrive too late?
She could not determine, but the urgency of his whisper moved her. She passed him and entered the room beyond.
It was dimly lighted by a single shaded electric lamp that illumined a writing-table. She saw that it was the ancient library of the Abbey, a wonderful apartment which she knew to contain an almost priceless collection of old parchments. It was lined with bookshelves and had the musty smell inseparable from aged bindings.
Victor motioned her silently to a door at the further end, but before either of them could reach it there came a sudden footfall on the other side, the handle turned sharply, and it opened.
"Ah!" exclaimed Victor, and fell back as one caught red-handed in a crime.
Avery stood quite motionless with her heart beating up against her throat, and a tragic sense of trespass overwhelming her. She could not find a single word to say, so sudden and so terrible was the ordeal. She could only wait in silence.
Piers stood still as one transfixed, with eyes that blazed sleepless out of a drawn, pale face; then at length with a single snap of the fingers imperiously he dismissed Victor by the still open door.
It closed discreetly upon the Frenchman's exit, and then only did Piers move forward; he came to Avery, drew her to a chair, knelt mutely down before her, and bowed his head upon her lap.


CHAPTER XXXVII
"LA GRANDE PASSION"

She spoke to him at last, half-frightened by his silence, yet by his attitude wholly reassured. For he wanted her still, of that no doubt remained. His hands were clasped behind her. He could have held her in his arms; but he did not. He only knelt there at her feet in utter silence, his black head pillowed on her hands.
"Piers!" she said. "Piers! Let me help you!"
He groaned in answer, and she felt a great shiver run through him. She knew intuitively that he was battling for self-control and dared not for the moment show his face.
"You--can't," he said at last.
"But I think I can," she urged gently. "It isn't so very long ago that you wanted me."
"I was an infernal blackguard to tell you so!" he made answer.
And then suddenly his arms tightened about her, and he held her fast. "That you--you, Avery,--should come to me--like this!" he said.
She freed one of her hands and laid it on his bent head. "Shall I tell you what made me come, Piers?"
He shook his head in silence, but there was passion in the holding of his arms.
For a space he continued to hold her so, speaking no word, and through his silence there came to her the quick, fierce beat of his heart. Then at length very suddenly, almost with violence, he flung his arms wide and started to his feet.
"Avery," he said, "you were a saint to come to me like this. I shan't forget it ever. But there's nothing--nothing you can do, except leave me to my own devices. It's only just at first, you know, that the loneliness seems so--awful." His voice shook unexpectedly; he swung round away from her and walked to the end of the room.
He came back almost immediately and stood before her. "Victor was a criminal fool to bring you here. He meant well though. He always does. That note of yours--I ought to have answered it. I was just coming in here to do so. I shouldn't have kept you waiting so long, but somehow--somehow--" Again, in spite of him, his voice quivered. He turned sharply and walked to the fireplace, leaned his arms upon it, and stood so, his back to her, his head bent.
"It was so awfully good of you," he went on after a moment. "You always have been--awfully good. My grandfather realized that, you know. I think he told you so, didn't he? He wasn't really sorry that I wouldn't marry Ina Rose. By the way, she is engaged to Dick Guyes already, so there was not much damage done in that direction. I told you it was nothing but a game, didn't I? You didn't quite believe me, what?"
It came to her that he was talking to gain time, that he was trying to muster strength to give the lie to the passion that had throbbed in the holding of his arms, that for some reason he deemed it incumbent upon him to mask his feelings and hide from her the misery that had driven Victor in search of her.
She rose quietly and moved across the room till she stood beside him. "Piers," she said, "tell me what is wrong!"
He stiffened at her approach, straightened himself, faced her. "Avery," he said, "do you know, dear, it would be better if you went straight back again? I hate to say it. It was so dear of you, so--so--great of you to come. But--no, there's nothing wrong,--nothing that is, that hasn't been wrong for ages. Fact is, I'm not fit to speak to you, never have been; far less make love to you. And I was a cur and a brute to do it. I've had a bit of a shake-up lately. It's made me feel my responsibilities, see things as they are. I've got an awful lot to see to just now. I'm going to work mighty hard. I mustn't think of--other things."
He stopped. He was looking at her, looking at her, with the red fire of passion kindling in his eyes, a gleam so fierce and so insistent that she was forced to lower her own. It was as if his soul cried out to her all that he restrained his lips from uttering.
He saw her instinctive avoidance of his gaze, and turned away from her, leaning again upon the mantelpiece as if spent.
"I can't help it, Avery. I'm so dog-tired, and I can't sleep. I'm horribly sorry, but I'm nothing but a brute-beast to-night. Really--really--you had better go."
There was desperation in his voice. He bowed his head upon his arms, and she saw that his hands were clenched.
But she could not leave him so. That inner urging that had impelled her thither warned her to remain, even against her own judgment, even against her will. The memory of Victor's fears came back to her. She could not turn and go.
"My dear boy," she said, speaking very gently, "do you think I don't know that you are miserable, lonely, wretched? That is why I am here!"
"God knows how lonely!" he whispered.
Her heart stirred within her at the desolation of the words. "Nearly all of us go through it some time," she said gently. "And if there isn't a friend to stand by, it's very hard to bear. That is the part I want to play--if you will let me. Won't you treat me as a friend?"
But Piers neither moved nor spoke. With his head still upon his arms he stood silent.
She drew nearer to him. "Piers, I think I understand. I think you are a little afraid of going too far, of--of--" her voice faltered a little in spite of her--"of hurting my feelings. Is that it? Because,--my dear,--you needn't be afraid any longer. If you really think I can make you happy, I am willing--quite willing--to try."
The words were spoken, and with them she offered all she had, freely, generously, with a quick love that was greater possibly than even she realized.
She was standing close to him waiting for him to turn and clasp her in his arms, as he had so nearly clasped her once against her will. But seconds passed and he did not move, and a cold foreboding began to knock at her heart lest after all--lest after all--his love for her had waned.
He stirred at last, just as she was on the point of turning from him, stretched out a groping hand that found and drew her to his side. But still he did not look at her or so much as raise his head.
He spoke after a moment in a choked voice that seemed to be wrung from him by sheer physical torture. "Avery, don't--don't tempt me. I--daren't!"
The anguish of the words went through her, banishing all thought of anything else. Very suddenly she knew that he was fighting a desperate battle for her sake, that he was striving with all the strength that was in him to set her happiness before his own. And something that was greater than pity entered into her with the knowledge, something so great as to be all-possessing, compelling her to instant action.
She slipped her arm about his bent shoulders with a gesture of infinite tenderness. "Piers--dear boy, what is it?" she said softly. "Is there some trouble in your past--something you can't bear to speak of? Remember, I am not a girl, I may understand--some things--better than you think."
She felt his hold upon her tighten almost convulsively, but for a while he made no answer.
Then at length slowly he raised his head and looked at her. "Do you--really--think the past matters?" he said.
She met his eyes with their misery and their longing, and a tremor of uncertainty went through her.
"Tell me, Avery!" he insisted. "If you felt yourself able to get away from old burdens, and if--if there was no earthly reason why they should hamper your future--" He broke off, and again his arm tightened. "It's damnable that they should!" he muttered savagely.
"My dear, I don't know how to answer you," she said. "Are--you afraid to be open with me? Do you think I shouldn't understand?"
His eyes fell abruptly. "I am quite sure," he said, "that it would be easier for me to give you up." And with that he suddenly set her free and stood up before her straight and stiff. "Let me see you home!" he said.
They faced one another in the dimness, and Avery marked afresh the weariness of his face. He looked like a man who had come through many days and nights of suffering.
He glanced up as she did not speak. "Shall we go?" he said.
But Avery stood hesitating, asking herself if this could indeed be the end, if the impulse that had drawn her thither had been after all a mistaken one, or if even yet it might not carry her further than she had ever thought to go.
He turned towards the conservatory door by which she had entered, and quietly opened it. A soft wind blew through to her, laden with the scent of the wet earth and a thousand opening buds. It seemed to carry the promise of eternal hope on unseen wings straight to her heart.
Slowly she followed him across the room, reached him, passed through into the scented darkness. A few steps more and she would have been in the open air, but she was uncertain of the way. The place was too dim for her to see it. She paused for him to guide her.
The door closed behind her; she heard it softly swing on its hinges, and then came his light footfall close to her.
"Straight on!" he said, and his voice sounded oddly cold and constrained. "There are three steps at the end. Be careful how you go! Perhaps you would rather wait while I fetch a light."
His tone hurt her subtly, wounding her more deeply than she had realized that he had it in his power to wound.
She moved forward blindly with a strangled sensation at her throat