The Bars of Iron

by Ethel M. Dell

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE HAND OF THE SCULPTOR

  During the week that followed, no second summons came to Piers from hiswife's room. He hung about the house, aimless, sick at heart, with hopesinking ever lower within him like a fire dying for lack ofreplenishment.

  He could neither sleep nor eat, and Victor watched him with piteousthough unspoken solicitude. Victor knew the wild, undisciplinedtemperament of the boy he had cherished from his cradle, and he lived inhourly dread of some sudden passionate outburst of rebellion, somedesperate act that should lead to irremediable disaster. He had notforgotten that locked drawer in the old master's bureau or the quickrelease it contained, and he never left Piers long alone in its vicinity.

  But he need not have been afraid. Piers' thoughts never strayed in thatdirection. If his six months in Crowther's society had brought him noother comfort, they had at least infused in him a saner outlook andsteadier balance. Very little had ever passed between them on the subjectof the tragedy that had thrown them together. After the first bitteroutpouring of his soul, Piers had withdrawn himself with so obvious adesire for privacy that Crowther had never attempted to cross theboundary thus clearly defined. But his influence had made itself feltnotwithstanding. It would have been impossible to have lived with the manfor so long without imbibing some of that essential greatness of soulthat was his main characteristic, and Piers was ever swift to feel theeffect of atmosphere. He had come to look upon Crowther with a reverencethat in a fashion affected his daily life. That which Crowther regardedas unworthy, he tossed aside himself without consideration. Crowther hadnot despised him at his worst, and he was determined that he would showhimself to be not despicable. He was moreover under a solemn promise toreturn to Crowther when he found himself at liberty, and in verygratitude to the man he meant to keep that promise.

  But, albeit he was braced for endurance, the long hours of waiting werevery hard to bear. His sole comfort lay in the fact that Avery was makinggradual progress in the right direction. It was a slow and difficultrecovery, as Maxwell Wyndham had foretold, but it was continuous. Tudorassured him of this every day with a curt kindliness that had grown onhim of late. It was his own fashion of showing a wholly involuntarysympathy of which he was secretly half-ashamed, and which he well knewPiers would have brooked in no other form. It established an odd sort oftruce between them of which each was aware the while he sternly ignoredit. They could never be friends. It was fundamentally impossible, but atleast they had, if only temporarily, ceased to be enemies.

  Little Mrs. Lorimer's sympathy was also of a half-ashamed type. She didnot want to be sorry for Piers, but she could not wholly restrain herpity. The look in his eyes haunted her. Curiously it made her think ofsome splendid animal created for liberty, and fretting its heart out inutter, hopeless misery on a chain.

  She longed with all her motherly heart to comfort him, and by the ironyof circumstance it fell to her to deal the final blow to what was left ofhis hope. She wondered afterwards how she ever brought herself to thetask, but it was in reality so forced upon her that she could not evadeit. Avery, lying awake during the first hours of a still night, heard herhusband's feet pacing up and down the terrace, and the mischief was done.She was thrown into painful agitation and wholly lost her sleep inconsequence. When Mrs. Lorimer arrived about noon on the following day,she found her alarmingly weak, and the nurse in evident perplexity.

  "I am sure there is something worrying her," the latter said to Mrs.Lorimer. "I can't think what it is."

  But directly Mrs. Lorimer was alone with Avery, the trouble came out. Forshe reached out fevered hands to her, saying, "Why, oh, why did youpersuade me to come back here? I knew he would come if I did!"

  Again the emergency impelled Mrs. Lorimer to a display of common-sensewith which few would have credited her.

  "Oh, do you mean Piers, dear?" she said. "But surely you are not afraidof him! He has been here all the time--ever since you were so ill."

  "And I begged you not to send!" groaned Avery.

  "My dear," said Mrs. Lorimer very gently, "it was his right to be here."

  "Then that night--that night--" gasped Avery, "he really did come tome--that night after the baby was born."

  "My darling, you begged for him so piteously," said Mrs. Lorimerapologetically.

  Avery's lip quivered. "That was just what I feared--what I wanted to makeimpossible," she said. "When one is suffering, one forgets so."

  "But surely it was the cry of your heart, darling," urged Mrs. Lorimertremulously. "And do you know--poor lad--he looks so ill, so miserable."

  But Avery's face was turned away. "I can't help it," she said. "Ican't--possibly--see him again. I feel as if--as if there were a curseupon us both, and that is why the baby died. Oh yes, morbid, I know;perhaps wrong. But--I have been steeped in sin. I must be free for atime. I can't face him yet. I haven't the strength."

  "Dearest, he will never force himself upon you," said Mrs. Lorimer.

  Avery's eyes went instinctively to the door that led into the room thatPiers had occupied after his marriage. The broken bolt had been removed,but not replaced. A great shudder went through her. She covered her facewith her hands.

  "Oh, beg him--beg him to go away," she sobbed, "till I am strong enoughto go myself!"

  Argument was useless. Mrs. Lorimer abandoned it with the wisdom born ofclose friendship. Instead, she clasped Avery tenderly to her and gaveherself to the task of calming her distress.

  And when that was somewhat accomplished, she left her to go sadly insearch of Piers.

  She found him sitting on the terrace with the morning-paper beside himand Caesar pressed close to his legs, his great mottled head resting onhis master's knee.

  He was not reading. So much Mrs. Lorimer perceived before with a sharpturn of the head he discovered her. He was on his feet in a moment, andshe saw his boyish smile for an instant, only for an instant, as he cameto meet her. She noted with a pang how gaunt he looked and how deep werethe shadows about his eyes. Then he had reached her, and was holding bothher hands almost before she realized it.

  "I say, you're awfully good to come up every day like this," he said. "Ican't think how you make the time. Splendid sun to-day, what? It's like aday in summer, if you can get out of the wind. Come and bask with me!"

  He drew her along the terrace to his sheltered corner, and made her sitdown, spreading his newspaper on the stone seat for her accommodation.Her heart went out to him as he performed that small chivalrous act. Shecould not help it. And suddenly the task before her seemed so monstrousthat she felt she could not fulfil it. The tears rushed to her eyes.

  "What's the matter?" said Piers gently. He sat down beside her, andslipped an encouraging hand through her arm. "Was it something you cameout to say? Don't mind me! You don't, do you?"

  His voice was softly persuasive. He leaned towards her, his darkeyes searching her face. Mrs. Lorimer felt as if she were about tohurt a child.

  She blew her nose, dried her eyes, and took the brown hand very tightlybetween her own. "My dear, I'm so sorry for you--so sorry for youboth!" she said.

  A curious little glint came and went in the eyes that watched her. Piers'fingers closed slowly upon hers.

  "I've got to clear out, what?" he said.

  She nodded mutely; she could not say it.

  He was silent awhile; then: "All right," he said. "I'll go thisafternoon."

  His voice was dead level, wholly emotionless, but for a few seconds hisgrip taxed her endurance to the utmost. Then, abruptly, it relaxed.

  He bent his black head and kissed the nervous little hands that wereclasped upon his own.

  "Don't you fret now!" he said, with an odd kindness that was to her morepathetic than any appeal for sympathy. "You've got enough burdens of yourown to bear without shouldering ours. How is Jeanie?"

  Mrs. Lorimer choked down a sob. "She isn't a bit well. She has a cold andsuch a racking cough. I'm keeping her in bed."

  "I'm awfully
sorry," said Piers steadily. "Give her my love! And lookhere, when Avery is well enough, let them go away together, will you? Itwill do them both good."

  "It's dear of you to think of it," said Mrs. Lorimer wistfully. "Yes, itdid do Jeanie good in the autumn. But Avery--"

  "It will do Avery good too," he said. "She can take that cottage atStanbury Cliffs for the whole summer if she likes. Tell her to! And lookhere! Will you take her a message from me?"

  "A written message?" asked Mrs. Lorimer.

  He pulled out a pocket-book. "Six words," he said. He scrawled them, toreout the leaf and gave it to her, holding it up before her eyes that shemight read it.

  "Good-bye till you send for me. Piers."

  "That's all," he said. "Thanks awfully. She'll understand that. Andnow--I say, you're not going to cry any more, are you?" He shook his headat her with a laugh in his eyes. "You really mustn't. You're much tootender-hearted. I say, it was a pity about the baby, what? I thought thebaby might have made a difference. But it'll be all the same presently.She's wanting me really. I've known that ever since that night--youknow--ever since I held her in my arms."

  He spoke with absolute simplicity. She had never liked him better than atthat moment. His boyishness had utterly disarmed her, and not till laterdid she realize how completely he had masked his soul therewith.

  She parted with him with a full heart, and had a strictly private littlecry on his account ere she returned to Avery. Poor lad! Poor lad! Andwhen he wasn't smiling, he did look so ill!

  The same thought struck Crowther a few hours later as Piers sat with himin his room, and devoted himself with considerable adroitness to makinghis fire burn through as quickly as possible, the while he brieflyinformed him that his wife was considered practically out of danger andhad no further use for him for the present.

  Crowther's heart sank at the news though he gave no sign of dismay.

  "What do you think of doing, sonny?" he asked, after a moment.

  "I? Why, what is there for me to do?" Piers glanced round momentarily."I wonder what you'd do, Crowther," he said, with a smile that wasscarcely gay.

  Crowther came to his side, and stood there massively, while he filled hispipe. "Piers," he said, "I presume she knows all there is to know of thatbad business?"

  Piers rammed the poker a little deeper into the fire and said nothing.

  But Crowther had broken through the barricade of silence at last, andwould not be denied.

  "Does she know, Piers?" he insisted. "Did you ever tell her how thething came to pass? Does she know that the quarrel was forced uponyou--that you took heavy odds--that you did not of your own free willavoid the consequences? Does she know that you loved her before you knewwho she was?"

  He paused, but Piers remained stubbornly silent, still prodding at thered coals.

  He bent a little, taking him by the shoulder. "Piers, answer me!"

  Again Piers' eyes glanced upwards. His face was hard. "Oh, get away,Crowther!" he growled. "What's the good?" And then in his winning wayhe gripped Crowther's hand hard. "No, I never told her anything," hesaid. "And I made it impossible for her to ask. I couldn't urgeextenuating circumstances because there weren't any. Moreover, itwouldn't have made a ha'porth's difference if I had. So shunt thesubject like a good fellow! She must take me at my worst--at my worst,do you hear?--or not at all."

  "But, my dear lad, you owe it to her," began Crowther gravely.

  Piers cut him short with a recklessness that scarcely veiled the pain inhis soul. "No, I don't! I don't owe her anything. She doesn't think anyworse of me than I am. She knows me jolly well,--better than you do, mostworthy padre-elect. If she ever forgives me, it won't be because shethinks I've been punished enough, but just because she is my mate,--andshe loves me." His voice sank upon the words.

  "And you are going to wait for that?" said Crowther.

  Piers nodded. He dropped the poker with a careless clatter and stretchedhis arms high above his head. "You once said something to me about theHand of the Sculptor," he said. "Well, if He wants to do any shaping sofar as I am concerned, now is His time. I am willing to be shaped."

  "What do you mean?" asked Crowther.

  Piers' eyes were half-closed, and there was a drawn look about the lidsas of a man in pain. "I mean, my good Crowther," he said, "that the mireand clay have ceased to attract me. My house is empty--swept andgarnished,--but it is not open to devils at present. You want to know myplans. I haven't any. I am waiting to be taken in hand."

  He spoke with a faint smile that moved Crowther to deep compassion. "Youwill have to be patient a long while, maybe, sonny," he said.

  "I can be patient," said Piers. He shifted his position slightly,clasping his hands behind his head, so that his face was in shadow. "Youthink that is not much like me, Crowther," he said. "But I can wait for athing if I feel I shall get it in the end. I have felt that--ever sincethe night after I went down there. She was so desperately ill. She wantedme--just to hold her in my arms." His voice quivered suddenly. He stoppedfor a few seconds, then went on in a lower tone. "She wasn't--quiteherself at the time--or she would never have asked for me. But it made adifference to me all the same. It made me see that possibly--justpossibly--there is a reason for things,--that even misery and ironmay have their uses--that there may be something behind itall--what?--Something Divine."

  He stopped altogether, and pushed his chair further still into shadow.

  Crowther was smoking. He did not speak for several seconds, but smoked onwith eyes fixed straight before him as though they scanned a far-distanthorizon. At length: "I rather think the shaping has begun, sonny," hesaid. "You don't believe in prayer now?"

  "No, I don't," said Piers.

  Crowther's eyes came down to him. "Can't you pray without believing?" hesaid slowly.

  Piers made a restless movement. "What should I pray for?"

  Crowther was smiling slightly--the smile of a man who has begun to see,albeit afar off, the fulfilment of a beloved project.

  "Do you know, old chap," he said, "I expect I seem a fool to you; butit's the fools who confound the wise, isn't it? I believe a thunderinglot in prayer. But I didn't always. I prayed without believing for a longtime first."

  "That seems to me like offering an insult to God," said Piers.

  "I don't think He views it in that light," said Crowther, "any more thanHe blames a blind man for feeling his way. The great thing is to doit--to get started. You're wanting a big thing in life. Well,--ask forit! Don't be afraid of asking! It's what you're meant to do."

  He drew a long whiff from his pipe and puffed it slowly forth.

  There fell a deep silence between them. Piers sat in absolute stillness,gazing downwards into the fire with eyes still half-closed.

  Suddenly he jerked back his head. "It's a bit of a farce, what?" he said."But I'll do it on your recommendation, I'll give it a six months' trial,and see what comes of it. That's a fair test anyhow. Something ought toturn up in another six months."

  He got to his feet with a laugh, and stood in front of Crowther with aspecies of challenge in his eyes. He looked as if he expected rebuke, andwere prepared to meet it with arrogance.

  But Crowther uttered neither reproach nor admonition. He met the lookwith the utmost kindliness--the most complete understanding.

  "Something will turn up, lad," he said, with steady conviction. "Butnot--probably--in the way you expect."

  Piers' face showed a momentary surprise. "How on earth do youknow?" he said.

  "I do know," Crowther made steadfast reply; but he offered no explanationfor his confidence.

  Piers thrust out an impulsive hand. "You may be right and you may not;but you've been a brick to me, old fellow," he said, a note of deepfeeling in his voice,--"several kinds of a brick, and I'm not likely toforget it. If you ever get into the Church, you'll be known as the parsonwho doesn't preach, and it'll be a reputation to be proud of."

  Crowther's answering grip was the grip of a giant. There was a gre
attenderness in the far-seeing grey eyes as he made reply. "It would berank presumption on my part to preach to you, lad. You are made ofinfinitely finer stuff than I."

  "Oh, rats!" exclaimed Piers in genuine astonishment.

  But the elder man shook his head with a smile. "No; facts, Piers!" hesaid. "There are greater possibilities in you than I could everattain to."

  "Possibilities for evil then," said Piers, with a very bitter laugh.

  Crowther looked him straight in the eyes. "And possibilities for good, myson," he said. "They grow together, thank God."

  PART III

  THE OPEN HEAVEN