THE DARK HOUR
Avery was very early at the church on the following morning, and had
begun the work of decorating even before Miss Whalley appeared on the
scene. It was a day of showers and fleeting gleams of sunshine, and the
interior of the little building flashed from gloom to brilliance, and
from brilliance back to gloom with fitful frequency.
Daffodils and primroses were littered all around Avery, and a certain
subdued pleasure was hers as she decked the place with the spring
flowers. She was quite alone, for by the Vicar's inflexible decree all
the elder children, with the exception of Olive, were confined to the
schoolroom for the morning with their respective tasks.
The magnitude of these tasks had struck dismay to Avery's heart. She did
not privately believe that any one of them could ever be accomplished in
the prescribed time. But the day of reckoning was not yet, and she put it
resolutely from her mind. It was useless to forestall trouble, and her
own burden of toil that day demanded all her energies.
The advent of Miss Whalley, thin and acid, put an end to all enjoyment
thereof. She bestowed a cool greeting upon Avery, and came at once to her
side to criticize her decoration of the font. Miss Whalley always assumed
the direction of affairs on these occasions, and she regarded Avery's
assistance in the place of Mrs. Lorimer's weak efforts in something of
the light of an intrusion.
Avery stood and listened to her suggestions with grave forbearance. She
never disputed anything with Miss Whalley, which may have been in part
the reason for the latter's somewhat suspicious attitude towards her.
They were still standing before the font while Miss Whalley unfolded her
scheme when there came the sound of feet in the porch, and Lennox Tudor
put his head in.
His eyes fell at once upon Avery. He hesitated a moment then entered.
She turned eagerly to meet him. "Oh, how is the Squire this morning? Have
you been up to the Abbey yet?"
"The Squire!" echoed Miss Whalley. "Is he ill? I was not aware of it."
Avery's eyes were fixed on Tudor's face, and all in a moment she realized
that he had been up all night.
He did not seem to notice Miss Whalley, but spoke to Avery, and to her
alone. "I have just come back from the Abbey. The Squire died about an
hour ago."
"The Squire!" said Miss Whalley again, in staccato tones.
Avery said nothing, but she turned suddenly white, so white that Tudor
was moved to compunction.
"I shouldn't have blurted it out like that. Sit down! The poor old chap
never rallied really. He had a little talk with Piers half-an-hour or so
before he went. But it was only the last flicker of the candle. We
couldn't save him."
He bent down over her. "Don't look like that! It wasn't your fault. It
was bound to come. I've foreseen it for some little time. I told him it
was madness to go out riding as he did; but he wouldn't listen to me.
Avery, I say! Avery!" His voice sank to an undertone.
She forced her stiff lips to smile faintly in answer to the concern it
held. With an effort she commanded herself.
"What of Piers?" she said.
He stood up again with a sharp gesture, and turned from her to answer
Miss Whalley's eager questions.
"Surely it is very sudden!" the latter was saying. "How did it happen?
Will there be an inquest?"
"There will not," said Tudor curtly. "I have been attending the Squire,
for some time, and I knew that sooner or later this would happen. The
Vicar is not here?" He turned to Avery. "I promised to look in on him on
my way back. Shall I find him at the Vicarage?"
He was gone almost before she could answer, and Avery was left on the
seat by the door, staring before her with a wildly throbbing heart, still
asking herself with a curious insistence, "What of Piers? What of Piers?"
Miss Whalley surveyed her with marked disapproval. She considered it
great presumption on Avery's part to be upset by such a matter, and her
attitude said as much as she walked with a stately air down the church
and commenced her own self-appointed task of decorating the pulpit.
Avery did not stir for several seconds; and when she did it was to go to
the open door and stand there looking out into the spring sunshine. She
felt strangely incapable of grasping what had happened. She could not
realize that that dominant personality that had striven with her only
yesterday--only yesterday--had passed utterly away in a few hours. It
seemed incredible, beyond the bounds of possibility. Again and again Sir
Beverley's speech and look returned to her. How emphatic he had been,
how resolutely determined to attain his end! He had discharged his
obligation, as he had said. He had paid his last debt. And in the
payment of it he had laid upon her a burden which she had felt compelled
to accept.
Would it prove too much for her, she wondered? Had she yet again taken a
false step that could never be retraced? Again the thought of Piers went
through her, piercing her like a sword. Piers alone! Piers in trouble!
She wished that Dr. Tudor had answered her question even though she
regretted having asked it. How would he bear his solitude, she wondered
with an aching heart; and a sudden great longing arose within her to go
and comfort him, as she alone possessed the power to comfort. All
selfish considerations departed with the thought. She realized
poignantly all that Sir Beverley had visualized when he had told her
that very soon his boy would be all alone. She knew fully why he had
pressed upon her the task of helping Piers through his dark hour. He had
known--as she also knew--how sore would be his need of help. And as
this came home to her, her strength--that strength which was the patient
building of all the years of her womanhood--came back to her, and she
felt renewed and unafraid.
She returned to her work with a steadfastness of purpose that even
Miss Whalley viewed with distant admiration; working throughout the
morning while the minute bell tolled overhead, rendering honour to the
departed Squire.
When she left at length to return to the Vicarage for the midday meal,
her portion was done.
But it was not till night came again that she found time to write the few
brief words that she had been revolving in her mind all day long.
"DEAR PIERS,
"I am thinking of you constantly, and longing to help you in your
trouble. Let me know if there is anything whatever that I can do, and I
shall be ready at any time.
"With love from Avery."
Her face glowed softly over the writing of the note. She slipped out and
posted it before she went to bed.
He would get it in the morning, and he would be comforted. For he would
understand. She was sure that he would understand.
Of herself all through that second wakeful night she did not think at
all, and so no doubts rose to torment her. She lay in a species of tired
wonder. She was keeping her promise to the dead man, and in the keeping
of it there was peace.
The great square Abbey pew at the top of the church was empty
throughout Easter Sunday. A heavy gloom reigned at the Vicarage. Avery
and the children were in dire disgrace, and Mrs. Lorimer spent most of
the day in tears. She could not agree with the Vicar that they were
directly responsible for the Squire's death. Dr. Tudor had been very
emphatic in assuring them that what had happened had been the
inevitable outcome of a disease of long standing. But this assurance
did not in any way modify the Vicar's attitude, and he decided that the
five children should spend their time in solitary confinement until
after the day fixed for the funeral.
This was to be Easter Tuesday, and he himself had arranged to depart the
day after--an event to which the entire household, with the single
exception of Olive, looked forward with the greatest eagerness.
No message came from Piers that night, and Avery wondered a little, but
without uneasiness. He must have so very much to think of and do at such
a time, she reflected. He would scarcely even have begun to feel the
dreadful loneliness.
But when the next day passed, and still no answer came, a vague anxiety
awoke within her. Surely her message had reached him! Surely he must have
read it! The Piers she knew would have dashed off some species of reply
at once. How was it he delayed?
The day of the funeral came, and the Easter flowers were all taken away.
The Vicarage blinds were drawn, the bell tolled again, and Jeanie,
weighed down with a dreadful sense of wickedness, lay face downwards on
the schoolroom sofa and wept and wept.
Avery was very anxious about her. The disgrace and punishment of the
past few days had told upon her. She was sick with trouble and
depression, and Avery could find no means of comforting her. She had
meant herself to slip out and to go to the funeral for Piers' sake, but
she felt she could not leave the child. So she sat with her in the
darkened room, listening to her broken sobbing, aware that in the
solitude of her room Gracie was crying too, and longing passionately to
gather together all five of the luckless offenders and deliver them from
their land of bondage.
But there was to be no deliverance that day, nor any lightening of the
burden. The funeral over, the Vicar returned and sent for each child
separately to the study for prayer and admonition. Jeanie was the last to
face this ordeal and before it was half over Avery was sent for also to
find her lying on the study sofa in a dead faint.
Avery's indignation was intense, but she could not give it vent. Even the
Vicar was a little anxious, and when Avery's efforts succeeded at length
in restoring her, he reprimanded Jeanie severely and reduced her once
more to tears of uncontrollable distress.
The long, dreary day came to an end at last, and the thought of a happier
morrow comforted them all. But Avery, though she slept that night, was
troubled by a dream that came to her over and over again throughout the
long hours. She seemed to see Piers, as he had once described himself, a
prisoner behind bars; and ever as she looked upon him he strove with
gigantic efforts that were wholly vain, to force the bars asunder and
come to her. She could not help him, could not even hear his voice. But
the agony of his eyes haunted her--haunted her. She awoke at last in
anguish of spirit, and slept no more.