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

paroxysm of weeping she had thrown herself upon Avery with childish unrestraint.
"Who's been bullying you, Pixie?" he said.
"Nobody! Nobody!" sobbed Gracie. She transferred herself to his arms almost mechanically, so overwhelming was her woe. "Oh, it's dreadful! It's dreadful!" she cried.
He patted her soothingly, his cheek against her fair hair. "Well, what is it, kiddie? Let's hear! One of the youngsters in trouble, what? Not Jeanie, I say?"
"No, no, no! It's--Mike." The name came out with a great burst of tears.
"Mike!" Piers looked at Avery, mystified for the moment. "Ah, to be sure! The dog! Well, what's happened to him? He isn't dead, what?"
"He is! He is!" sobbed Gracie. "He--he has been killed--by--by his own chain!"
"What!" said Piers again.
Gaspingly she told him the tragic tale. "Father always will have him kept on the chain, and--and--"
"An infernally cruel thing to do!" broke indignantly from Piers.
"Yes, we--we all said so. And we tried to give him little outings sometimes to--to make up. But to-day--somehow--we forgot him, and--and he must have seen us go, and jumped the wall after us. Pat and I went back afterwards to fetch him, and found him--found him--oh, Piers!" She cried out in sudden agony and said no more.
"Choked?" said Piers. "Choked with his own chain, poor devil!" He looked up again at Avery with something unfathomable in his eyes. "Oh, don't cry so, child!" he said. "A chained creature is happier dead--a thousand times happier!"
He spoke passionately, so passionately that Gracie's wild grief was stayed. She lifted her face, all streaming with tears. "Do you think so really?"
"Of course I think so," he said. "Life on a chain is misery unspeakable. No one with any heart could condemn a dog to that! It's the refinement of cruelty. Don't wish the poor beast back again! Be thankful he's gone!"
The vehemence of his speech was such that it carried conviction even to Gracie's torn heart. She looked up at him with something of wonder and of awe. "If only--he hadn't suffered so!" she whispered.
He put his hand on her forehead and smoothed back the clustering hair. "You poor kid!" he said pityingly. "You've suffered much more than he did at the end. But it's over. Don't fret! Don't fret!"
Gracie lifted trembling lips to be kissed. He was drying her eyes with his own handkerchief as tenderly as any woman. He stooped and kissed her. "Look here! I'll walk home with you," he said. "Avery, you go back with Crowther! I shan't be late."
Avery turned at once. The sight of Piers soothing the little girl's distress had comforted her subtly. She felt that his mood had softened.
"Won't you go too?" said Crowther, as she joined him. "Please don't stay on my account! I am used to being alone, and I can find my own way back."
"Oh no!" she said. "I had better come with you. I shan't be wanted now."
They started to walk back among the shocks of corn; but they had not gone many yards when Gracie came running after them, reached them, flung her arms about Avery.
"Good-bye, darling Avery!" she said.
Avery held her close. She was sobbing still, but the first wild anguish of her grief was past.
"Good-bye, darling!" Avery whispered, after a moment.
Grade's arms tightened. "You think like Piers does?" she murmured. "You think poor Mikey is happier now?"
Avery paused an instant. The memory of Piers' look as he had uttered the words: "Choked with his own chain, poor devil!" seemed to grip her heart. Then: "Yes, dearie," she said softly. "I think as Piers does. I am glad--for poor Mikey's sake--that his troubles are over."
"Then I'll try and be glad too," sobbed poor Gracie. "But it's very, very difficult. Pat and I loved him so, and he--he loved us."
"My dear, that love won't die," Avery said gently.
"The gift immortal," said Crowther. "The only thing that counts."
She looked round at him quickly, but his eyes were gazing straight into the sunset--steadfast eyes that saw to the very heart of things.
"And Life in Death," he added quietly.


CHAPTER IV
THE PRISONER IN THE DUNGEON

Avery was already dressed when she heard Piers enter his room and say a word to Victor. She stood by her window waiting. It was growing late, but she felt sure he would come to her.
She heard Victor bustling about in his resilient fashion, and again Piers' voice, somewhat curt and peremptory, reached her through the closed door. He was evidently dressing at full speed. She was conscious of a sense of disappointment, though she kept it at bay, reminding herself that they must not keep their guest waiting.
But presently, close upon the dinner-hour, she went herself to the door of her husband's room and knocked.
His voice answered her immediately, but it still held that unwonted quality of irritation in it. "Oh, Avery, I can't let you in. I'm sorry. Victor's here."
Something--a small, indignant spirit--sprang up within her in response. "Send Victor away!" she said. "I want to come in."
"I shall be late if I do," he made answer. "I'm horribly late as it is."
But for once Avery's habitual docility was in abeyance. "Send Victor away!" she reiterated.
She heard Piers utter an impatient word, and then in a moment or two he raised his voice again. "Come in then! What is it?"
She opened the door with an odd unaccustomed feeling of trepidation.
He was standing in his shirt-sleeves brushing his hair vigorously at the table. His back was towards her, but the glass reflected his face, and she saw that his brows were drawn into a single hard black line. His lips were tightly compressed. He looked undeniably formidable.
"Don't you want me, Piers?" she asked, pausing in the doorway.
His eyes flashed up to hers in the glass, glowing with the smouldering fire, oddly fitful, oddly persistent. "Come in!" he said, without turning. "What is it?"
She went forward to him. "Did you go to the Vicarage?" she asked. "Are they in great trouble?"
She thought she saw relief in his face at her words. "Oh yes," he said. "Mrs. Lorimer crying as usual, Jeanie trying to comfort her. I did my best to hearten them up but you know what they are. I say, sit down!"
"No, I am going," she answered gently. "Did you get on all right this afternoon?"
"Oh yes," he said again. "By the way, we must get a wedding-present for Ina Rose and another for Guyes. You'll come to the wedding, Avery?"
"If you wish it, dear," she said quietly.
He threw down his brushes and turned fully to her. "Avery darling, I'm sorry I was bearish this afternoon. You won't punish me for it?"
"Punish you, my own Piers!" she said.
"Because I can't stand it," he said recklessly. "There are certain forms of torture that drive a man crazy. Bear with me--all you can!"
His quick pleading touched her, went straight to her heart. She put her hands on his shoulders, lifting her face for his kiss. "It's all right, dear," she said.
"Is it?" he said. "Is it?" He took her face between his hands, gazing down at her with eyes of passionate craving. "Say you love me!" he urged her suddenly. "Say it!"
Her heart sank within her. She made a movement as if to withdraw herself; but he caught her fiercely to him, his hot lips sought and held her own. She felt as if a flame encompassed her, scorching her, consuming her.
"Say you love me!" he whispered again between those fiery kisses. "Avery, I must have your soul as well. Do more than bear with me! Want me--want me!"
There was more than passion in the words. They came to her like a cry of torment. She braced herself to meet his need, realizing it to be greater than she knew.
"Piers! Piers!" she said. "I am altogether yours. I love you. Don't you know it?"
He drew a deep, quivering breath. "Yes--yes, I do know it," he said. "But--but--Avery, I would go through hell for you. You are my religion, my life, my all. I am not that to you. If--if I were dragged down, you wouldn't follow me in."
His intensity shocked her, but she would not have him know it. She sought to calm his agitation though she possessed no key thereto. "My dear," she said, "you are talking wildly. You don't know what you are to me, and I can't even begin to tell you. But surely--by now--you can take me on trust."
He made a curious sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. "You don't know yourself, Avery," he said.
"But you don't doubt my love, Piers," she protested very earnestly. "You know that it would never fail you."
"Your love is like the moonlight, Avery," he answered. "It is all whiteness and purity. But mine--mine is red like the fire that is under the earth. And though sometimes it scorches you, it never quite reaches you. You stoop to me, but you can't lift me. You are too far above. And the moonlight doesn't always reach to the prisoner in the dungeon either."
"All the same dear, don't be afraid that it will ever fail you!" she said.
He kissed her again, hotly, lingeringly, and let her go. "Perhaps I shall remind you of that one day," he said.
All through dinner his spirits were recklessly high. He talked incessantly, playing the host with a brilliant ease that betrayed no sign of strain. He did not seem to have a care in the world, and Avery marvelled at his versatility.
She herself felt weary and strangely sick at heart. Those few words of his had been a bitter revelation to her. She knew now what was wanting between them. He desired passion from her rather than love. He had no use for spiritual things. And she,--she knew that she shrank inwardly whenever she encountered that fierce, untamed desire of his. It fettered her spirit, it hung upon her like an overpowering weight. She could not satisfy his wild Southern nature. He crushed her love with the very fierceness of his possession and ever cried to her for more. He seemed insatiable. Even though she gave him all she had, he still hungered, still strove feverishly to possess himself of something further.
She felt worn out, body and soul, and she could not hide it. She was unspeakably glad when at length the meal was over and she was able to leave the table.
Crowther opened the door for her, looking at her with eyes of kindly criticism.
"You look tired," he said. "I hope you don't sit up late."
She smiled at him. "Oh no! We will make Piers play to us presently, and then I will say good-night."
"Then we mustn't keep you waiting long," he said. "So Piers is a musician, is he? I didn't know."
"You had better go to bed, Avery; it's late," said Piers abruptly. "I can't play to-night. The spirit doesn't move me." He rose from the table with a careless laugh. "Say good-night to her, Crowther, and let her go! We will smoke in the garden."
There was finality in his tone, its lightness notwithstanding. Again there came to Avery the impulse to rebel, and again instinctively she caught it back. She held out her hand to Crowther.
"I am dismissed then," she said. "Good-night!"
His smile answered hers. He looked regretful, but very kindly. "I am glad to see Piers takes care of you," he said.
She laughed a little drearily as she went away, making no other response.
Crowther turned back to the table with its shaded candles and gleaming wine. He saw that Piers' glass was practically untouched.
Piers himself was searching a cabinet for