The Bars of Iron

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES

  The encounter was so amazing, so utterly unlooked for, that Avery had amoment of downright consternation. The child's whole air and expressionwere so exactly reminiscent of her father that she almost felt as if shestood before the Vicar himself--a culprit caught in a guilty act.

  She looked at Olive without words, and Olive looked straight back at herwith that withering look of the righteous condemning the ungodly which sooften regarded a dumb but rebellious congregation through the Vicar'sstern eyes.

  Piers, however, was not fashioned upon timid lines, and he stepped intothe hall without the faintest sign of embarrassment.

  "Hullo, little girl!" he said. "Why aren't you in bed?"

  The accusing eyes turned upon him. Olive seemed to swell withindignation. "I was in bed long ago," she made answer, still in thosefrozen tones. "May I ask what you are doing here, Mr. Evesham?"

  "I?" said Piers jauntily. "Now what do you suppose?"

  "I cannot imagine," the child said.

  "Not really?" said Piers. "Well, perhaps when you are a little olderyour imagination will develop. In the meantime, if you are a wiselittle girl, you will run back to bed and leave your elders to settletheir own affairs."

  Olive drew herself up with dignity. "It is not my intention to go solong as you are in the house," she said with great distinctness.

  "Indeed!" said Piers. "And why not?"

  He spoke with the utmost quietness, but Avery caught the faintest tremorin his voice that warned her that Olive was treading dangerous ground.

  She hastened to intervene. "But of course you are going now," she said tohim. "It is bedtime for us all. Good-night! And thank you for walkinghome with me!"

  Her own tone was perfectly normal. She turned to him with outstretchedhand, but he put it gently aside.

  "One minute!" he said. "I should like an answer to my question first. Whyare you so determined to see me out of the house?"

  He looked straight at Olive as he spoke, no longer careless of mien, butimplacable as granite.

  Olive, however, was wholly undismayed. She was the only one of theVicar's children who had never had cause to feel a twinge of fear. "Youhad better ask yourself that question," she said, in her cool youngtreble. "You probably know the answer better than I do."

  Piers' expression changed. For a single instant he looked furious, but hemastered himself almost immediately. "It's a lucky thing for you that youare not my little girl," he observed grimly. "If you were, you shouldhave the slapping of your life to-night. As it is,--well, you have askedme for an explanation of my presence here, and you shall have one. I amhere in the capacity of escort to Mrs. Denys. Have you any fault to findwith that?"

  Olive returned his look steadily with her cold grey eyes while sheconsidered his words. She seemed momentarily at a loss for an answer, butPiers' first remarks were scarcely of a character to secure goodwill orallay suspicion. She rapidly made up her mind.

  "I shall tell Miss Whalley in the morning," she said. "My father said Iwas to go to her if anything went wrong." She added, with a malevolentglance towards Avery, "I suppose you know that Mrs. Denys is under noticeto leave at the end of her month?"

  Piers glanced at Avery too--a glance of swift interrogation. She noddedvery slightly in answer.

  He looked again at Olive with eyes that gleamed in a fashion that fewcould have met without quailing.

  "Is she indeed?" he said. "I venture to predict that she will leavebefore then. If you are anxious to impart news to Miss Whalley, you maytell her also that Mrs. Denys is going to be my wife, and that themarriage will take place--" he looked at Avery again and all the hardnesswent out of his face--"just as soon as she will permit."

  Dead silence followed the announcement. Avery's face was pale, but therewas a faint smile at her lips. She met Piers' look without a tremor. Sheeven drew slightly nearer to him; and he, instantly responding, slipped aswift hand through her arm.

  Olive, sternly judicial, stood regarding them in silence, for perhaps ascore of seconds. And then, still undismayed, she withdrew her forces ingood order from the field.

  "In that case," she said, with the air of one closing a discussion,"there is nothing further to be said. I suppose Mrs. Denys wishes tobe Lady Evesham. My father told me she was an adventuress. I see hewas right."

  She went away with this parting shot, stepping high and holding herhead poised loftily--an absurd parody of the Vicar in his mostclerical moments.

  Avery gave a little hysterical gasp of laughter as she passed out ofsight.

  Piers' arm was about her in a moment. He held her against his heart."What a charming child, what?" he murmured.

  She hid her face on his shoulder. "I think myself she was in the right,"she said, still half laughing. "Piers, you must go."

  "In a moment. Let me hear from your own dear lips first that you arenot--not angry?" He spoke the words softly into her ear. There was onlytenderness in the holding of his arms.

  "I am not," she whispered back.

  "Nor sorry?" urged Piers.

  She turned her face a little towards him. "No, dear, not a bitsorry; glad!"

  He held her more closely but with reverence. "Avery, you don't--loveme, do you?"

  "Of course I do!" she said.

  "There can't be any 'of course' about it," he declared almost fiercely."I've been a positive brute to you. Avery--Avery, I'll never be a bruteto you again."

  And there he stopped, for her arms were suddenly about his neck, her lipsraised in utter surrender to his.

  "Oh, Piers," she said in a voice that thrilled him through and through,"do you think I would have less of your love--even if it hurts me? It isthe greatest thing that has ever come into my life."

  He held her head between his hands and looked into her eyes of perfecttrust. "Avery! Avery!" he said.

  "I mean it!" she told him earnestly. "I have been drawing nearer to youall the while--in spite of myself--though I tried so hard to hold back.Piers, my past life is a dream, and this--this is the awaking. You askedme--a long while ago--if the past mattered. I couldn't answer you then. Iwas still half-asleep. But now--now you have worked the miracle--my heartis awake, dear, and I will answer you. The past is nothing to you or me.It matters--not--one--jot!"

  Her words throbbed into the silence of his kiss. He held her long andclosely. Once--twice--he tried to speak to her and failed. In the end hegave himself up mutely to the rapture of her arms. But his own wildpassion had sunk below the surface. He sought no more than she offered.

  "Say good-bye to me now!" she whispered at length; and he kissed heragain closely, lingeringly, and let her go.

  She stood in the doorway as he passed into the night, and his last sightof her was thus, silhouetted against the darkness, a tall, graciousfigure, bending forward to discern him in the dimness.

  He went back to his lonely home, back to the echoing emptiness, thelistening dark. He entered again the great hall where Sir Beverley hadbeen wont to sit and wait for him.

  Victor was on the watch. He glided apologetically forward with shining,observant eyes upon his young master's weary face.

  "_Monsieur Pierre_!" he said insinuatingly.

  Piers looked at him heavily. "Well?"

  "I have put some refreshment for you in the dining-room. It ismore--more comfortable," said Victor, gently indicating the opendoor. "Will you not--when you have eaten--go to bed, _mon cher, etpeut-etre dormir_?"

  Very wistfully the little man proffered his suggestion. His eyes followedPiers' movements with the dumb worship of an animal.

  "Oh yes, I'll go to bed," said Piers.

  He turned towards the dining-room and entered. There was no elation inhis step; rather he walked as a man who carries a heavy burden, andVictor marked the fact with eyes of keen anxiety.

  He followed him in and poured out a glass of wine, setting it before himwith a professional adroitness that did not conceal his solicitude.

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sp; Piers picked up the glass almost mechanically, and in doing so caughtsight of some letters lying on the table.

  "Oh, damn!" he said wearily. "How many more?"

  There were bundles of them on the study writing-table. They poured in byevery post.

  Victor groaned commiseratingly. "I will take them away, yes?" hesuggested. "You will read them in the morning--when you have slept."

  "Yes, take 'em away!" said Piers. "Stay a minute! What's that top one?I'll look at that."

  He took up the envelope. It was addressed in a man's square, firm writingto "Piers Evesham, Esq., Rodding Abbey."

  "Someone who doesn't know," murmured Piers, and slit it open with a senseof relief. Some of the letters of condolence that he had received hadbeen as salt rubbed into a wound.

  He took out the letter and glanced at the signature: "Edmund Crowther!"

  Suddenly a veil seemed to be drawn across his eyes. He looked up with asharp, startled movement, and through a floating mist he saw hisgrandmother's baffling smile from the canvas on the wall. The blood wassinging in his ears. He clenched his hands involuntarily. Crowther! Hehad forgotten Crowther! And Crowther knew--how much?

  But he had Crowther's promise of secrecy, so--after all--what had he tofear? Nothing--nothing! Yet he felt as if a devil were laughing somewherein the room. They had caught him, they had caught him, there at the verygates of deliverance. They were dragging him back to his place oftorment. He could hear the clanking of the chains which he had so nearlyburst asunder, could feel them coiling cold about his heart. For he alsowas bound by a promise, the keeping of which meant utter destruction toall he held good in life.

  And not that alone. It meant the rending in pieces of that which washoly, the trampling into the earth of that sacred gift which had onlynow been bestowed upon him. It meant the breaking of a woman'sheart--that of the only woman in the world, the woman he worshipped, bodyand soul, the woman who in spite of herself had come to love him also.

  He flung up his arms with a wild gesture. The torment was more than hecould bear.

  "No!" he cried. "No!" And it was as if he cried out of the midst of aburning, fiery furnace. "I'm damned--I'm damned if I will!"

  _"Monsieur Pierre! Monsieur Pierre!"_ It was Victor's voice beside him,full of anxious remonstrance.

  He looked round with dazed eyes. His arms fell to his sides. "All right,my good Victor; I'm not mad," he said. "Don't be scared! Did you everhear of a chap called Damocles? He's an ancestor of mine, and history hasa funny fashion of repeating itself. But there'll be a difference thistime all the same. He couldn't eat his dinner for fear of a naked swordfalling on his head. But I'm going to eat mine--whatever happens; andenjoy it too."

  He raised his glass aloft with a reckless laugh. His eyes sought those ofthe woman on the wall with a sparkle of bitter humour. He made her abrief, defiant bow.

  "And you, madam, may look on--and smile!" he said.

  He drank the wine without tasting it and swung round to depart. Andagain, as he went, it seemed to him that somewhere near at hand--possiblyin his own soul--a devil laughed and gibed.

  Yet when he lay down at length, he slept for many hours in dreamless,absolute repose--as a voyager who after long buffeting with wind and tidehas come at last into the quiet haven of his desire.

  PART II

  THE PLACE OF TORMENT