A FRIEND'S COUNSEL
When Piers went to dress that night he found two letters laid discreetly
upon his table, awaiting perusal.
Victor, busily engaged in laying out his clothes, cast a wicked eye back
over his shoulder as his young master pounced upon them, then with a
shrug resumed his task, smiling to himself the while.
Both letters were addressed in womanly handwriting, but Piers went
unerringly to the one he most desired to read. His hands shook a little
as he opened it, but he caught sight of his Christian name at the head of
it and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Dear Piers,"--so in clear, decided writing the message ran,--"I have
wondered many times if I ought to be angry as well as sorry over that
letter of yours. It was audacious, wasn't it? Only I know so well that
you did not mean to hurt me when you wrote it. But, Piers, what I said
before, you compel me to say again. This thing must stop. You say you are
not a boy, so I shall not treat you as such. But indeed you must take my
word for it when I tell you that I shall never marry again.
"I want to be quite honest with you, so you mustn't think that my two
years of married life were by any means idyllic. They were not. The man I
married was a failure, but I loved him, and because I loved him I
followed him to the world's end. We were engaged two years before we
married. My father disapproved; but when he died I was left lonely, so I
followed Eric, whom I had not seen for eighteen months, to Australia. We
were married in Sydney. He had work at that time in a shipping-office,
but he did not manage to keep it. I did not know why at first. I was
young, and I had always led a sheltered life. Then one night I found that
he had been drinking, and after that I understood--many things. I think I
know what you will say of him when you read this. It looks so crude
written. But, Piers, he was not a bad man. He had this one fatal
weakness, but he loved me, and he was good to me nearly always."
Piers' teeth closed suddenly and fiercely on his lower lip at this point;
but he read on grimly with no other sign of indignation.
"Do you remember how I took upon myself once to warn you against losing
your self-control?" The handwriting was not quite so steady here; the
letters looked hurried, as if some agitation had possessed the writer. "I
felt I had to do it, for I had seen a man's life completely wrecked
through it. I know he was one of the many that go under every day, but
the tragedy was so near me. I have never quite been able to shake off the
dreadful memories of it. He was to all outward appearance a strong-willed
man, but that habit was stronger, though he fought and fought against it.
When he failed, he seemed to lose everything,--self-respect,
self-control, strength of purpose,--everything. But when the demon left
him, he always repented so bitterly, so bitterly. I had a little money,
enough to live on. He used to urge me to leave him, to go back to
England, and live in peace. As if I could have done such a thing! And so
we struggled on, making a desperately hard fight for it, till one awful
night when he came home in raving delirium. I can't describe that to
you. I don't want you to know what it was like. I nursed him through it,
but it was terrible. He did not always know what he was doing. At times
he was violent."
A drop of blood suddenly ran down Piers' chin; he pulled out his
handkerchief sharply and wiped it away, still reading on.
"He got over it, but it broke him. He knew--we both knew--that things
were hopeless. We tried for a time to shut our eyes to the fact, but it
remained. And then one day very suddenly he roused himself and told me
that he had heard of a job up-country and was going to it. I could not
stop him. I could not even go with him. And so--for the first time since
our marriage--we parted. He promised to come back to me for the birth of
our child. But before that happened he was dead, killed in a drunken
brawl. It was just what I had always feared--the tragedy that overhung us
from the beginning. Piers, that's all. I've told it very badly. But I
felt you must know how my romance died; and how impossible it is that I
should ever have another. It didn't break my heart. It wasn't sudden
enough for that. And now that he is gone, I can see it is best. But the
manner of his going--that was the dreadful part. I told you about my baby
girl, how she was born blind, and how five years ago she died.
"So now you know my little tragic history from beginning to end. There is
no accounting for love. We follow our instincts, I suppose. But it leads
us sometimes along paths that we could never bear to travel twice. Is
there any pain, I wonder, like the pain of disillusionment, of seeing the
beloved idol lying in the dust? This is a selfish point of view, I know;
but I want you to realize that you have made a mistake. Dear Piers, I am
very, very sorry it has happened. No, not angry at all; somehow I can't
be angry. It's such a difficult world to live in, and there are so many
influences at work. But you must forget this wish of yours
indeed--indeed. I am too old, too experienced, too worldly-wise, too
prosaic for you in every way. You must marry a girl who has never loved
before. You must have the first and best of a woman's heart. You must
have 'The True Romance.'
"That, Piers, will always be the wish and prayer of
"Your loving friend,
"AVERY."
Piers' hands were steady enough now. There was something slow and
fatalistic in the way they folded the letter. He looked up from it at
length with dark eyes that gazed unwaveringly before him, as though they
saw a vision.
"You will be late, _Monsieur Pierre_," suggested Victor softly at
his elbow.
"What?" Piers turned those dreaming eyes upon him, and suddenly he
laughed and stretched his arms wide as one awaking. The steadfast look
went out of his eyes; they danced with gaiety. "Hullo, you old joker!
Well, let's dress then and be quick about it!"
During the process it flashed upon Piers that all mention of Tudor had
been avoided in the letter he had just read. He frowned momentarily at
the thought. Had she deliberately avoided the subject? And if so--but on
the instant his brow cleared again. No, she had written too frankly for
that. She had not mentioned the matter simply because she regarded it as
unimportant. The great question lay between herself and him alone. Of
that he was wholly certain. He smiled again at the thought. No, he was
not afraid of Tudor.
"_Monsieur_ is well pleased," murmured Victor, with a flash of his round
black eyes.
"Quite well pleased, _mon vieux!_" laughed back Piers
"_C'est bien_!" said Victor, regarding him with the indulgent smile that
he had bestowed upon him in babyhood. "And _Monsieur_ does not want his
other letter? But no--no!"
His voice was openly quizzical; he dodged a laughing backhander from
Piers with a neat gesture of apology. It had not escaped his notice
that the letter Piers had read had disappeared unobtrusively into an
inner pocket.
"Who's the other letter from?" said Piers, glancing at it perfunctorily.
"Oh, I know. No one of importance. She'll keep till after dinner."
Ina Rose would not have felt flattered had she heard the statement. The
fan Piers had promised to send her had duly arrived from Paris with a
brief--very brief--note from him, requesting her acceptance of it. She
had written in reply a letter which she had been at some pains to
compose, graciously accepting the gift and suggesting that an account of
any adventures that befell him would be received by her with interest.
She added that, a spell of frost having put an end to the hunting, life
at Wardenhurst had become extremely flat, and she had begun to envy Piers
in his exile. Her father was talking of going to Mentone for a few weeks,
and wanted her to accompany him. But she was not sure that she would care
for it. What did Piers think?
When Piers did eventually read the letter, he smiled at this point,--a
smile that was not altogether good to see. He was just going out to the
Casino with Crowther. The latter had gone to fetch a coat, and he had
occupied the few moments of waiting with Ina's letter.
He was still smiling over the open page when Crowther joined him; but he
folded the letter at once, and they went out together.
"Have you had any luck at the tables?" Crowther asked.
"None," said Piers. "At least I won, eventually, but Fate, in the form of
a powdered and bedizened female snatched the proceeds before I got the
chance. A bad omen, what?"
"I hope not," said Crowther.
There was a touch of savagery in Piers' laugh. "It won't happen again,
anyhow," he said.
They entered the Casino with its brilliant rooms and pushing crowds. The
place was thronged. As they entered, a woman with a face of evil beauty,
pressed close to Piers and spoke a word or two in French. But he looked
at her and through her with royal disdain, and so passed her by.
They made their way to the table at which Piers had tried his luck the
previous night, waited for and finally secured a place.
"You take it!" said Crowther. "I believe in your luck."
Piers laughed. He staked five francs on the figure five and lost, doubled
his stakes and lost again, trebled them and lost again.
"This is getting serious," said Crowther.
But still Piers laughed. "Damn it!" he said. "I will win to-night!"
"Try another figure!" said Crowther.
But Piers refused. He laid down twenty-five francs, and with that he won.
It was the turning-point. From that moment it seemed he could not do
wrong. Stake after stake he won, either with his own money, or
Crowther's; and finally left the table in triumph with full pockets.
A good many watched him enviously as he went. He refused to try his luck
elsewhere, but went arrogantly away with his hand through Crowther's arm.
"He'll come back to-morrow," observed a shrewd American. "And the next
day, and the next. He's just the sort that helps to keep this
establishment going. They'll pick him clean."
But he was wrong. Though elated by victory, Piers was not drawn by the
gambling vice. The thing amused him, but it did not greatly attract. He
was by no means dazzled by the spoils he carried away.
They went out to the gardens, and called for liqueurs. The woman who had
spoken to Piers yet hovered about the doors. She cursed him through her
painted lips as he passed, but he went by her like a prince, haughtily
aloof, contemptuously regardless.
They sat down in a comparatively quiet corner, whence they could watch
the ever-shifting picture without being disturbed. A very peculiar mood
possessed Piers. He was restless and uneasy in spite of his high spirits.
For no definite reason he wanted to keep on the move. In deference to
Crowther's wish, he controlled the desire, but it was an obvious effort.
He seemed to find difficulty also in attending to Crowther's quiet
remarks, and after a while Crowther ceased to make them. He finished his
liqueur and sat smoking with his eyes on the dark, sensitive face that
watched the passing crowd so indifferently, yet so persistently.
Piers noticed his silence at last, and looked at him enquiringly.
"Shall we go?"
Crowther leaned slowly towards him. The place was public, but their
privacy was complete.
"Piers," he said, "may I take the privilege of an old friend?"
"You may take anything you like so far as I am concerned," said Piers
impetuously.
Crowther smiled a little. "Thank you. Then I will go ahead. Are you
engaged to be married?"
"What?" said Piers. He looked momentarily startled; then laughed across
the table with a freedom that was wholly unaffected. "Am I engaged, did
you say? No, I'm not. But I'm going to be married for all that."
"Ah!" said Crowther. "I thought I knew the signs."
He rose with the words, and instantly Piers sprang up also. "Yes, let's
go! I can't breathe here. Come down to the shore for a breath of air, and
I'll tell you all about it!"
He linked his arm again in Crowther's, obviously glad to be gone; but
when they had left the glittering place behind them, he still talked
inconsequently about a thousand things till in his calm fashion Crowther
turned him back.
"I don't want you to tell me anything personal," he said, "save one
thing. This girl whom you hope to marry--I gather you are pretty
sure of her?"
Piers threw back his head with a gesture that defied the world. "I am
quite sure of her," he said; and a moment later, with impulsive
confidence: "She has just taken the trouble to write at length and tell
me why she can't have me."
"Ah?" Crowther's tone held curiosity as well as kindly sympathy. "A
sound reason?"
"No reason at all," flung back Piers, still with his face to the stars.
"She knows that as well as I do. I tell you, Crowther, I know the way to
that woman's heart, and I could find it blindfold. She is mine already."
"And doesn't know it?" suggested Crowther.
"Yes, she does in her heart of hearts,--or soon will. I shall send her a
post-card to-morrow and sum up the situation."
"On a post-card?"
Crowther sounded puzzled, and Piers broke into a laugh and descended to
earth.
"Yes, in one expressive word--'Rats!' No one else will understand it, but
she will."
"A little abrupt!" commented Crowther.
"Yes, I'm going to be abrupt now," said Piers with imperial confidence.
"I'm going to storm the position."
"And you are sure you will carry it?"
"Quite sure." Piers' voice held not the faintest shade of doubt.
"I hope you will, lad," said Crowther kindly. "And--that being the
case--may I say what I set out to say?"
"Oh, go ahead!" said Piers.
"It's only this," said Crowther, in his slow, quiet way. "Only a word of
advice, sonny, which I shouldn't give if I didn't know that your life's
happiness hangs on your taking it. You're young, but there's a locked
door in your past. Open that door just once before you marry the woman
you love, and show her what is behind it! It'll give her a shock maybe.
But it'll be better for you both in the end. Don't let there be any
locked doors between you and your wife! You're too young for that. And if
she's the right sort, it won't make a pin's difference to her love. Women
are like that, thank God!"
He spoke with the utmost earnestness. He was evidently keenly anxious to
gain his point. But his words went into utter silence. Ere they were
fully spoken Piers' hand was withdrawn from his arm. His careless,
swinging stride became a heavy, slackening tramp, and at last he halted
altogether. They stood side by side in silence with their faces to the
moon-silvered water. And there fell a long, long pause, as though the
whole world stopped and listened.