THE STAR OF HOPE
There came the swift drumming of galloping hoofs, the check and pause of
a leap, and then close at hand the thud of those same hoofs landing on
the near side of the hedge. The rider slithered to the ground, patted the
animal's neck, and turned forthwith towards the hut. Avery heard nought
of his coming. She was crying like a weak, unnerved woman, draggled and
mud-spattered, unspeakably distressed. It was so seldom that she gave way
that perhaps the failure of her self-control was the more absolute when
it came. She had been tried beyond her strength. Body and mind were alike
exhausted.
But when strong arms suddenly encircled her and she found herself drawn
close to a man's breast, quick and instinctive came the impulse to
resist. She drew back from him with a sharp exclamation.
"It's only me," said Piers. "Surely you don't mind me!"
It was naively expressed, so naively that she assayed to laugh in the
midst of her woe. "Oh, how you startled me!" was all she found to say.
"But surely you knew I was coming back!" he said.
The dogged note was in his voice. It embarrassed her subtly. Seeing his
face through the deepening gloom, it seemed to her to be set in stern,
unyielding lines.
She collected her scattered forces, and gently put his arms away from
her. "It was very kind of you, Mr. Evesham," she said. "But please
remember that I'm not Jeanie!"
He made an impulsive movement of impatience. "I never pretended you
were," he said gruffly. "But you were crying, weren't you? Why were
you crying?"
His tone was almost aggressive. He seemed to be angry, but whether with
her, himself, or a third person, Avery could not determine.
She decided that the situation demanded firmness, and proceeded to treat
it accordingly.
"I was very foolish to cry," she said. "I have quite recovered now, so
please forget it! It was very kind of you to take my part a little while
ago--especially as you couldn't have been really in sympathy with me.
Thank you very much!"
Again he made that gesture of imperious impatience. "Oh, don't be so
beastly formal! I can't stand it. If it had been any other man
threatening you, I believe I should have killed him!"
He spoke with concentrated passion, but Avery was resolved not to be
tragic. She was striving to get back to wholesome commonplace.
"What a good thing it wasn't!" she said. "I shouldn't have cared to have
been responsible for that. I had quite enough to answer for as it was. I
hope you will make peace with your grandfather as soon as possible."
Piers laughed a savage laugh. "He broke his whip over me. Do you think
I'm going to make peace with him for that?"
"Oh, Piers!" she exclaimed in distress.
It was out before she could check it--that involuntary use of his
Christian name for which it seemed to her afterwards he had been
deliberately lying in wait.
He did not take immediate advantage of her slip, but she knew that he
noticed it, registered it as it were for future reference.
"No," he said moodily, after a pause. "I don't think the debt is on my
side this time. He had the satisfaction of flogging me with the whole
Hunt looking on." There was sullen resentment in his tone, and then very
suddenly to Avery's amazement he began to laugh. "It was worth it anyway,
so we won't cavil about the price. How much longer are you going to
bottle up that unfortunate brute? Don't you think it's time he went home
to his wife?"
Avery moved away from the shutter against which she had stood so long. "I
couldn't let him be killed," she said. "You won't understand, of course.
But I simply couldn't."
"Why shouldn't I understand?" said Piers. "You threw that in my teeth
before. I don't know why."
His tone baffled her. She could not tell whether he spoke in jest or
earnest. She refrained from answering him, and in the silence that
followed he lifted the shutter away from the hut entrance and looked
inside. Avery's basket of purchases lay at his feet. He picked it up.
"Come along! He's crouched up in the corner, and his eyes look as if he
thought all the devils in hell were after him. Odd as it may seem to you,
I can understand his feelings--and yours. Let's go, and leave him to
escape in peace!"
He took her arm as naturally as though he had a right, and led her
away. Her basket was in his other hand in which he carried his
riding-whip also. He whistled over his shoulder to his horse who
followed him like a dog.
The rain was gradually ceasing, but the clouds had wholly closed upon the
sunset. Avery did not want to walk in silence, but somehow she could not
help it. His hold upon her arm was as light as a feather, but she could
not help that either for the moment. She walked as one beneath a spell.
And before them the clouds slowly parted, and again there shone that
single, magic star, dazzingly pure against the darkness.
"Do you see that?" said Piers suddenly.
She assented almost under her breath.
For a moment she was conscious of the tightening of his hand at her
elbow. "It's the Star of Hope, Avery," he whispered. "Yours--and mine."
He stopped with the words. "Don't say anything!" he said hurriedly.
"Pretend you didn't hear, if--if you wish you hadn't. Goodbye!"
He thrust her basket into her hand, and turned from her.
A moment he stood as if to give her the opportunity of detaining him
if she so desired, and then as she made no sign he went to his horse
who waited a couple of yards away, mounted, and without word or salute
rode away.
Avery drew a deep, deep breath and walked on. There was a curious
sensation at her heart--almost a trapped feeling--such as she had never
before experienced. Again deeply she drew her breath, as if to rid
herself of some oppression. Life was difficult--life was difficult!
But presently, as she walked, the sense of oppression lessened. She
even faintly smiled to herself. What an odd, passionate youth he was!
It was impossible to be angry with him; better far not to take him
seriously at all.
She recalled old Mrs. Marshall's dour remarks concerning him;--"brought
up by men from his cradle," brought up, moreover, by that terrible old
Sir Beverley on the one hand and an irresponsible French valet on the
other. She caught herself wishing that she had had the upbringing of him,
and smiled again. There was a great deal of sweetness in his nature; of
that she was sure, and because of it she found she could forgive his
waywardness, reflecting that he had probably been mismanaged from his
earliest infancy.
At this point she reached the high-road, and heard the wheels of a
dog-cart behind her. She recognized the quick, hard trot of the doctor's
cob, and paused at the side of the road to let him pass. But the doctor's
eyes behind their glasses were keen as a hawk's. He recognized her, the
deepening dusk notwithstanding, while he was still some yards from her,
and pulled in his horse to a walk.
"Jump up!" he said. "I'm going your way."
He reached down a hand to her, and Avery mounted beside him. "How lucky
for me!" she said.
"Tired, eh?" he questioned.
She laughed a little. "Oh no, not really. But it's nice to get a lift.
Were you coming to see Jeanie?"
"Yes," said Tudor briefly.
She glanced at him, caught by something in his tone. "Dr. Tudor," she
said, after a moment's hesitation, "are you--altogether--satisfied
about her?"
Tudor was looking at his horse's ears; for some reason he was holding the
animal in to a walk. "I am quite satisfied with regard to the fracture,"
he said. "She will soon be on her legs again."
His words were deliberately wary. Avery felt a little tremor of
apprehension go through her.
"I'm afraid you don't consider her very strong," she said uneasily.
He did not at once reply. She had a feeling that he was debating within
himself as to the advisability of replying at all. And then quite
suddenly he turned his head and spoke. "Mrs. Denys, you are accustomed to
hearing other people's burdens, so I may as well tell you the truth. I
can't say--because I don't know--if there is anything radically wrong
with that little girl; but she has no stamina whatever. If she had to
contend with anything serious, things would go very badly with her. In
any case--" he paused.
"Yes?" said Avery.
Tudor had become wary again. "Perhaps I have said enough," he said.
"I don't know why you should hesitate to speak quite openly," she
rejoined steadily. "As you say, I am a bearer of burdens. And I don't
think I am easily frightened."
"I am sure you are not," he said. "If I may be allowed to say so, I think
you are essentially a woman to be relied on. If I did not think so, I
certainly should not have spoken as I have done."
"Then will you tell me what it is that you fear for her?" Avery said.
He was looking straight at her through the gloom, but she could not see
his eyes behind their glasses. "Well," he said somewhat brusquely at
length, "to be quite honest, I fear--mind you, I only fear--some trouble,
possibly merely some delicacy, of the lungs. Without a careful
examination I cannot speak definitely. But I think there is little room
for doubt that the tendency is there."
"I see," Avery said. She was silent a moment; then, "You have not
considered it advisable to say this to her father?" she said.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Would it make any difference?"
Avery was silent.
He went on with gathering force. "I went to him once, Mrs. Denys,--once
only--about his wife's health. I told him in plain language that she
needed every care, every consideration, that without these she would
probably lose all her grip on life and become a confirmed invalid with
shattered nerves. I was very explicit. I told him the straight,
unvarnished truth. I didn't like my job, but I felt it must be done. And
he--good man--laughed in my face, begged me to croak no more, and assured
me that he was fully capable of managing all his affairs, including his
wife and family, in his own way. He was touring in Switzerland when the
last child was born."
"Hound!" said Avery, in a low voice.
Tudor uttered a brief laugh, and abruptly quitted the subject. "That
little girl needs very careful watching, Mrs. Denys. She should never be
allowed to overtire herself, mentally or physically. And if she should
develop any untoward symptom, for Heaven's sake don't hesitate to send
for me! I shan't blame you for being too careful."
"I understand," Avery said.
He flicked his horse's ears, and the animal broke into a trot.
When Tudor spoke again, it was upon a totally different matter. His voice
was slightly aggressive as he said: "That Evesham boy seems to be for
ever turning up at the Vicarage now. He's an ill-mannered cub. I wonder
you encourage him."
"Do I encourage him?" Avery asked.
He made a movement of irritation. "He would scarcely be such a constant
visitor if you didn't."
Avery smiled faintly and not very humorously in the darkness. "It is
Jeanie he comes to see," she observed.
"Oh, obviously." Tudor's retort was so ironical as to be almost rude.
She received it in silence, and after a moment he made a half-grudging
amendment.
"He never showed any interest in Jeanie before, you know. I don't think
she is the sole attraction."
"No?" said Avery.
Her response was perfectly courteous, but so vague that it sounded to
Lennox Tudor as if she were thinking of something else. He clenched his
hand hard upon the handle of his whip.
"People tolerate him for the sake of his position," he said bitterly.
"But to my mind he is insufferable. His father was a scapegrace, as
everyone knows. His mother was a circus girl. And his grandmother--an
Italian--was divorced by Sir Beverley before they had been married
two years."
"Oh!" Avery emerged from her vagueness and turned towards him. "Lady
Evesham was Italian, was she? That accounts for his appearance, doesn't
it? That air of the old Roman patrician about him; you must have
noticed it?"
"He's handsome enough," admitted Tudor.
"Oh, very handsome," said Avery. "I should say that for that type his
face was almost faultless. I wondered where he got it from. Sir Beverley
is patrician too, but in a different way." She stopped to bow to a tall,
gaunt lady at the side of the road. "That is Miss Whalley. Didn't you see
her? I expect she has just come from the Vicarage. She was going to
discuss the scheme for the Christmas decorations with the Vicar."
"She's good at scheming," growled Tudor.
Avery became silent again. At the Vicarage gates however very suddenly
and sweetly she spoke. "Dr. Tudor, forgive me,--but isn't it rather a
pity to let oneself get intolerant? It does spoil life so."
He looked at her. "There's not much in my life that could spoil," he
said gloomily.
She laughed a little, but not derisively. "But there's always something,
isn't there? Have you no sense of humour?"
He pulled up at the Vicarage gates. "I have a sense of the ridiculous,"
he said bluntly. "And I detest it in the person of Miss Whalley."
"I believe you detest a good many people," Avery said, as she descended.
He laughed himself at that. "But I am capable of appreciating the few,"
he said. "Mind the step! And don't trouble to wait for me! I've got to
tie this animal up."
He stopped to do so, and Avery opened the gate and walked slowly
up the path.
At the porch she paused to await him, and turned her face for a moment to
the darkening sky. But the Star of Hope was veiled.