The Bars of Iron

by Ethel M. Dell

  CHAPTER VII

  THE PLACE OF REPENTANCE

  Like a prince masquerading! How vivid was the picture those words calledup to Avery's mind! The regal pose of the body, the turn of the head, thefaultless beauty of the features, and over all, that nameless pride ofrace, arrogant yet wholly unconscious--the stamp of the old Romanpatrician, revived from the dust of ages!

  Aloof, yet never out of her ken, that picture hung before her all throughthe night, the centre-piece of every vision that floated through herweary brain. In the morning she awoke to a definite resolve.

  He had left her before she could stay him; but she would go to him now.Whether or not he wanted her,--yes, even with the possibility of seeinghim turn from her,--she would seek him out. Yet this once more she wouldoffer to him that love and faith which he had so cruelly sullied. If hetreated her with cold contempt, she would yet offer to him all that shehad--all that she had. Not because she had forgiven him or in any senseforgotten; but because she must; because neither forgiveness norforgetfulness came into the matter, but only those white hairs above histemples that urged her, that drove her, that compelled her.

  There were no white hairs in her own brown tresses. Could it be that hehad really suffered more than she? If so, God pity him! God help him!

  For the first time since their parting, the prayer for him that rosefrom her heart kindled within her a glow that burned as fire from thealtar. She had prayed. She had prayed. But her prayers had seemed tocome back to her from a void immeasurable that held nought but theechoes of her cry.

  But now--was it because she was ready to act as well as to pray?--itseemed to her that her appeal had reached the Infinite. And it was thenthat she began to learn that prayer is not only a passive asking, but theeager straining of every nerve towards fulfilment.

  It seemed useless to go to the Abbey for news. She would master herreluctance and go to Crowther. She was sure that he would be in aposition to tell her all there was to know.

  Mrs. Lorimer warmly applauded the idea. The continued estrangement of thetwo people whom she loved so dearly was one of her greatest secretsorrows now. She urged Avery to go, shedding tears over the thought ofPiers going unspeeded into the awful dangers of war.

  So by the middle of the morning Avery was on her way. It seemed to herthe longest journey she had ever travelled. She chafed at every pause.And through it all, Ina's fierce words ran in a perpetual refrain throughher brain: "Love never casts away--Love never casts away."

  She felt as if the girl had ruthlessly let a flood of light in upon hergloom, dazzling her, bewildering her, hurting her with its brilliance.She had forced aside those drawn blinds. She had pierced to the innermostcorners. And Avery herself was shocked by that which had been revealed.It had never before been given to her to see her own motives, her ownsoul, thus. She had not dreamed of the canker of selfishness that lay atthe root of all. With shame she remembered her assurance to her husbandthat her love should never fail him. What of that love now--Love theInvincible that should have shattered the gates of the prison-house andled him forth in triumph?

  Reaching town, she drove straight to Crowther's rooms. But she was metwith disappointment. Crowther was out. He would be back in the evening,she was told, but probably not before.

  Wearily she went down again and out into the seething life of the streetsto spend the longest day of her life waiting for his return. Looking backupon that day afterwards, she often wondered how she actually spent thetime. To and fro, to and fro, this way and that; now trying to ease hersoul by watching the soldiers at drill in the Park, the long, long khakilines and sunburnt faces; now pacing the edge of the water and seekingdistraction in the antics of some water-fowl; now back again in thestreets, moving with the crowd, seeing soldiers, soldiers on every hand,scanning each almost mechanically with the vagrant hope of meeting onewho moved with a haughty pride of carriage and looked like a prince indisguise. Sometimes she stood to see a whole troop pass by, splendid boysswinging along with laughter and careless singing. She listened to thetramping feet and merry voices with a heart that sank ever lower andlower. She had started the day with a quivering wonder if the end of itmight find her in his arms. But ever as the hours passed by the certaintygrew upon her that this would not be. She grew sick with the longing tosee his face. She ached for the sound of his voice. And deep in the heartof her she knew that this futile yearning was to be her portion for many,many days. For over a year he had waited, and he had waited in vain. Nowit was her turn.

  It was growing dusk when she went again in search of Crowther. He had notreturned, but she could not endure that aimless wandering any longer. Shewent in to wait for him, there in the room where Piers had foundsanctuary during some of the darkest hours of his life.

  She was too utterly wearied to move about, but sat sunk in the chairby the window, almost too numbed with misery and fatigue for coherentthought. The dusk deepened about her. The roar of London's life camevaguely from afar. Through it and above it she still seemed to hear thetread of the marching feet as the gallant lines swung by. And stillwith aching concentration she seemed to be searching for that onebeloved face.

  What did it matter what he had done? He was hers. He was hers. And, OGod, how she wanted him! How gladly in that hour would she have yieldedhim all--all that she had to offer!

  There came a quiet step without, a steady hand on the door. She startedup with a wild hope clamouring at her heart. Might he not be there also?It was possible! Surely it was possible!

  She took a quick step forward. No conventional word would rise to herlips. They only stiffly uttered the one name, "Piers!"

  And Crowther answered her, just as though no interval of more than ayear lay between them and the old warm friendship. "He left for theFront today."

  With the words he reached her, and she remembered later thesustaining strength with which his hands upheld her when she reeledbeneath the blow.

  He put her down again in the chair, and knelt beside her, for she clungto him convulsively, scarcely knowing what she did.

  "He ought to have let you know," he said. "But he wouldn't be persuaded.I believe--right up to the last--he hoped he would hear something of you.But you know him, his damnable pride,--or was it chivalry this time? Onmy soul, I scarcely know which. He behaved almost as if he were under anoath not to make the first advance. I am very sorry, Avery. But my handswere tied."

  He paused, and she knew that he was waiting for a word from her--ofkindness or reproach--some intimation of her feelings towards himself.But she could only utter voicelessly, "I shall never see him again."

  He pressed her icy hands close in his own, but he said no word of hope.He seemed to know instinctively that it was not the moment.

  "You can write to him," he said. "You can write now--tonight. The letterwill reach him in a few days at most. He calls himself Beverley--PrivateBeverley. Let me give you some tea, and you can sit down and writestraight away."

  Kindly and practical, he offered her the consolation of immediate action;and the crushing sense of loss began gradually to lose its hold upon her.

  "I am going to tell you everything--all I know," he said. "I told him Ishould do so if you came to me. I only wish you had come a little sooner,but that is beside the point."

  Again he paused. Her eyes were upon him, but she said nothing.

  Finding her hold had slackened, he got up, lighted a lamp, and sat downwith its light streaming across his rugged face.

  "I don't know what you have been thinking of me all this time," he said,"if you have stooped to think of me at all."

  "I have often thought of you," Avery answered. "But I had a feeling thatyou--that you--" she hesitated--"that you could scarcely be in sympathywith us both," she ended.

  "I see." Crowther's eyes met hers with absolute directness. "But yourealize that that was a mistake," he said.

  She answered him in the affirmative. Before those straight eyes of hisshe could not do otherwise.

  "I could not
express my sympathy with you," he said. "I did not evenknow that it would be welcome, and I could not interfere without yourhusband's consent. I was bound by a promise. But--" he smiled faintly--"Itold him clearly that if you came to me I should not keep that promise. Ishould regard it as my release."

  "What have you to tell me?" Avery asked.

  "Just this," he said. "It isn't a very long story, but I don't think youhave heard it before. It's just the story of one of the worst bits of badluck that ever befell a man. He was only a lad of nineteen, and he wentout into the world with all his life before him. He was rich andsuccessful in every way, full of promise, brilliant. There was somethingso splendid about him that he seemed somehow to belong to a higherplanet. He had never known failure or disgrace. But one night an evilfate befell him. He was forced to fight--against his will; and--he killedhis man. It was an absolutely unforeseen result. He took heavy odds, andnaturally he matched them with all the skill at his command. But it was afair fight. I testify to that. He took no mean advantage."

  Crowther's eyes were gazing beyond Avery. He spoke with a curiousdeliberation as if he were describing a vision that hung before him.

  "He himself was more shocked by the man's death than anyone I have everseen. He accepted the responsibility at once. There is a lot of nobilityat the back of that man's soul. He wanted to give himself up. But Istepped in. I took the law into my own hands. I couldn't stand by and seehim ruined. I made him bolt. He went, and I saw no more of him for sixyears. That ends the first chapter of the story."

  He paused, as if for question or comment; but Avery sat in unbrokensilence. Her eyes also were fixed as it were upon something very faraway.

  After a moment, he resumed. "Six years after, I stopped at Monte Carloon my way home, and I chanced upon him there. He was with his oldgrandfather, living a life that would have driven most young men crazywith boredom. But--I told you there was something fine about him--hetreated the whole thing as a joke, and I saw that he was the apple of theold man's eye. He hailed me as an old friend. He welcomed me back intohis life as if I were only associated with pleasant things. But I soonsaw that he was not happy. The memory of that tragedy was hanging on himlike a millstone. He was trying to drag himself free. But he was like adog on a chain. He could see his liberty, but he could not reach it. Andthe fact that he loved a woman, and believed that he had won her lovemade the burden even heavier. So I gathered, though he had his intervalsof reckless happiness when nothing seemed to matter. I didn't know whothe woman was at first, but I urged him strongly to tell her the truthbefore he married her. And then somehow, while we were walking togetherone night, it came out--that trick of Fate; and in his horror and despairthe boy very nearly went under altogether. It was just the fineness ofhis nature that kept him up."

  "And your help," said Avery quietly.

  His eyes comprehended her for a moment. "Yes, I did my best," he said."But it was his own nobility in the main that gave him strength. Have younever noticed that about him? He has the greatness that only comes tomost men after years of struggle."

  "I have noticed," Avery said, her voice very low.

  Crowther went on in his slow, steady way. "Well, after that, I left. Andthe next thing I knew was that the old man had died, and he was marriedto you. You didn't let me into the secret very soon, you know." He smileda little. "Of course I realized that you had gone to him rather suddenlyto comfort his loneliness. It was just the sort of thing I should haveexpected of you. And I thought--too--that he had told you all, and youhad loved him well enough to forgive him. It wasn't till I came to seeyou that I realized that this was not so, and I had been in the housesome hours even then before it dawned on me."

  Again he spoke as one describing something seen afar.

  "Of course I was sorry," he said. "I knew that sooner or later you werebound to come up against it. I couldn't help. I just waited. And as itchanced, I didn't have to wait very long. Piers came to me one night inAugust, and told me that the whole thing had come out, and that you hadrefused to live with him any longer. I understood your feelings. It wasinevitable that at first you should feel like that. But I knew you lovedhim. I knew that sooner or later that would make a difference. And Itried to hearten him up. For he--poor lad!--was nearly mad with trouble."

  Avery's hands closed tightly upon each other in her lap. She sat instrained silence, still gazing straight before her.

  Gently Crowther finished his tale. "That's about all there is to tell,except that from the day he left you to this, he has borne his burdenlike a man, and he has never once done anything unworthy of you. He is aman, Avery, not a boy any longer. He is a man you can trust, for he willnever deceive you again. If he hasn't yet found his place of repentance,it hasn't been for lack of the seeking. If you can send him a line offorgiveness, he will go into this war with a high heart, and you willhave reason to be proud of him when you meet again."

  He got up and moved in his slow, massive way across the room.

  "Now you will let me give you some tea," he said. "I am sure you mustbe tired."

  Had he seen the tears rolling down her face as she sat there? If so hegave no sign. Quietly he busied himself with his preparations, and beforehe came back to her, she had wiped them away.

  He waited upon her with womanly gentleness, and later he went with her tothe hotel at which Piers usually stayed, and saw her established therefor the night.

  It was not till the moment of parting that she found any words in whichto express herself.

  Then, with her hand in his, she whispered chokingly, "I feel as if--asif--I had failed him--just when he needed me most. He was in prison,and--I left him there."

  Crowther's steady eyes looked into hers with kindness that was full ofsustaining comfort. "He has broken out of his prison," he said. "Don'tfret--don't fret!"

  Her lips were quivering painfully. She turned her face aside. "He willscarcely need me now," she said.

  "Write and ask him!" said Crowther gently.

  She made a piteous gesture of hopelessness. "I have got to find my ownplace of repentance first," she said.

  "It shouldn't wait," said Crowther. "Write tonight!"

  And so for half the night Avery sat writing a letter to her husband whichhe was destined never to receive.