THE SUMMONS
With the morning came a general feeling of relief. The Vicar was almost
jocose, and Mrs. Lorimer made timid attempts to be mirthful though the
parting with her children sorely tried her fortitude.
The boys' spirits were subdued, but they burst forth uproariously as soon
as the station-cab was well outside the gate. Ronald and Julian cheered
themselves hoarse, and Pat scuttled off to the back of the house to
release Mike from his chain to participate in the great rejoicing.
There was no disguising the fact that everyone was pleased--everyone
except Olive who went away to her father's study which had been left
in her especial charge, and locked herself in for a morning of
undisturbed reading.
Avery could not feel joyful. The thought of Piers was still with her
continually. She had heard so little of him--merely that he had followed
his grandfather to the grave supported by the old family solicitor from
Wardenhurst, Lennox Tudor, and a miscellaneous throng of neighbours; that
he had borne himself without faltering, and had gone back to his solitude
with no visible sign of suffering. Only indirectly had she heard this,
and she yearned to know more.
She knew that like herself he was practically devoid of relatives,--the
last of his race,--a figure of splendid isolation that would appeal to
many. She knew that as a wealthy and unmarried baronet, he would be
greatly sought after and courted; made much of by the whole county, and
half London as well. He was so handsome, so romantic, so altogether
eligible in every way. Was it for this that he had left that note of
hers unanswered? Did he think that now that his horizon had widened the
nearer haven was hardly worth attaining? Above all, if he decided to
take that which she had so spontaneously offered, would it satisfy him?
Would he be content therewith? Had she not done better to have waited
till he came again to ask of her that which she had till the day of his
bereavement withheld?
It was useless to torture herself with such questionings. Because of her
promise to the dead, she had acted, and she could now but await the
result of her action. If he never answered,--well, she would understand.
So passed yet another day of silence.
She was busy with the household accounts that night which Mrs. Lorimer in
her woe had left in some confusion, and they kept her occupied till long
after the children had gone to bed, so late indeed that the servants also
had retired and she was left alone in the dining-room to wrestle with her
difficulties.
She found it next to impossible to straighten out the muddle, and she
came at length reluctantly to the conclusion that it was beyond her
powers. Wondering what the Reverend Stephen would have said to such a
crime, she abstracted a few shillings from her own purse and fraudulently
made up the deficit that had vexed Mrs. Lorimer's soul.
"I can write and tell her now that it has come right," she murmured to
herself, as she rose from the table.
It was close upon eleven o'clock. The house was shuttered and silent. The
stillness was intense; when suddenly, as she was in the act of lighting a
candle, the electric bell pinged through the quiet of the night.
She started and listened. The thought of Piers sprang instinctively to
her mind. Could it be he? But surely even Piers would not come to her at
this hour! It must be some parishioner in need of help.
She turned to answer the summons, but ere she reached the hall it was
repeated twice, with nervous insistence. She hastened to withdraw the
bolts and open the door.
At once a voice accosted her, and a sharp pang of disappointment or
anxiety, she knew not which, went through her.
"Mrs. Denys, is she here?" it said. "May I speak with her?"
It was the unmistakable speech of a Frenchman. By the light of the
hall-lamp, Avery saw the plump, anxious face and little pointed moustache
of the speaker. He entered uninvited and stood before her.
"Ah! But you are Mrs. Denys!" he exclaimed with relief. "_Madame_, I beg
that you will pardon me! I am come to you in distress the most profound.
You will listen to me, yes?"
He regarded her with quick black eyes that both confided and besought.
Avery's heart was beating in great throbs, she felt strangely breathless
and uncertain of herself.
"Where do you come from?" she said. "Who are you?"
But she knew the answer before it came. "I am Victor, _madame_,--Victor
Lagarde. I am the valet of _Monsieur Pierre_ almost since he was born. He
calls me his _bonne_!" A brief smile touched his worried countenance and
was gone. "And now I am come to you, _madame_,--not by his desire. _Mais
non_, he does not know even that I am here. But because he is in great,
great misery, and I cannot console him. I have not the power. And he is
all alone--all alone. And I fear--I fear--" He broke off with eloquent
hands outspread. Avery saw the tears standing in his eyes.
She closed the door softly. "What is it?" she said. "Tell me what
you fear!"
He looked at her, mastering his emotion with difficulty.
"_Madame, Monsieur Pierre_ has sentiments the most profound. He
feel--_passionnément_. He try to hide his sentiments from me. But me--I
know. He sit alone in the great hall and look--and look. He sleep--never
at all. He will not even go to bed. And in the great hall is an
_escritoire_, and in it a drawer." Victor's voice sank mysteriously.
"To-night--when he think he is alone--he open that drawer, and I see
inside. It hold a revolver, _madame_. And he look at it, touch it, and
then shake his head. But I am so afraid--so afraid. So--_enfin_--in my
trouble I come to you. You have the influence with him, is it not so? You
have--the power to console. _Madame--chère madame_--will you not come
and speak with him for five little minutes? Just to encourage him,
_madame_, in his sadness; for he is all alone!"
The tears ran down Victor's troubled face as he made his earnest appeal.
He mopped them openly, making no secret of his distress which was too
pathetic to be ludicrous.
Avery looked at him in dismay. She knew not what to say or do; and even
as she stood irresolute the hall-clock struck eleven through the silence
of the house.
Victor watched her anxiously. "_Madame_ is married," he insinuated. "She
can please herself, no? And _Monsieur Pierre_--"
"Wait a minute, please!" she interrupted gently. "I want to think."
She went to the unlatched door and stood with her face to the night. She
felt as if a call had come to her, but somehow--for no selfish
reason--she hesitated to answer. Some unknown influence held her back.
Victor came softly up and stood close to her. "_Madame_," he said in a
whisper, "I tell you a secret--I, Victor, who have known _Monsieur
Pierre_ from his infancy. He loves you, _madame_. He loves you much.
_C'est la grande passion_ which comes only once in a life--only once."
The low words went through her, seeming to sink into her very heart. She
made a slight, involuntary gesture as of wincing. There was something in
them that was almost more than she could bear.
She stood motionless with the chill night air blowing in upon her, trying
to collect her thoughts, trying to bring herself to face and consider the
matter before she made her decision. But it was useless. Those last words
had awaked within her a greater force than she could control. From the
moment of their utterance she was driven irresistibly, the decision was
no longer her own.
Piers was alone. Piers loved her--wanted her. His soul cried to hers
through the darkness. She saw him again as in her dream wrestling with
those cruel iron bars, striving with vain agony to reach her. And all
doubt went from her like a cloud.
She turned to Victor with grey eyes shining and resolute. "Let us
go!" she said.
She took a cloak from a peg in the hall, lowered the light, took the key
from the lock, and passed out into the dark.
Victor followed her closely, softly latching the door behind him. He had
known from the outset that the English _madame_ would not be able to
resist his appeal. Was not _Monsieur Pierre_ as handsome and as desirable
as though he had been a prince of the blood? He walked a pace behind her,
saying no word, fully satisfied with the success of his mission.
Avery went with swift unerring feet; yet it seemed to her afterwards as
if she had moved in a dream, for only the vaguest impression of that
journey through the night remained with her. It was dark, but the
darkness did not hinder her. She went as if drawn irresistibly--even
against her will. At the back of her mind hovered the consciousness that
she was doing a rash thing, but the woman's heart in it was too deeply
stirred to care for minor considerations. The picture of Piers in his
lonely hall hung ever before her, drawing her on.
He had not sent for her. She knew now that he would not send. Yet she
went to him on winged feet. For she knew that his need of her was great.
There was no star in the sky and the night wind moaned in the trees as
they went up the long chestnut avenue to the Abbey. The loneliness was
great. It folded them in on every hand. It seemed to hang like a pall
about the great dim building massed against the sky, as though the whole
place lay beneath a spell of mourning.
Emerging from the deep shadow of the trees, she paused for the first time
in uncertainty. Victor pressed forward instantly to her side.
"We will enter by the library, _madame_. See, I will show you the way.
From there to the great hall, it is only a few steps. And you will find
him there. I leave you alone to find him."
He led her across a dew-drenched lawn and up a flight of steps to the
door of a conservatory which gave inwards at his touch.
Obedient to his gesture, Avery entered. Her heart was beating hard and
fast. She was conscious of a wild misgiving which had not assailed her
during all the journey thither. What if he did not want her after all?
What if her coming were unwelcome?
Silently Victor piloted her, and she could not choose but follow, though
she felt sick with the sudden apprehension that had sprung to life as she
left the sleeping world outside. She seemed to be leaving her freedom,
all she valued, behind her as she entered this shadowy prison. And all
for what? Her quivering heart could find no answer.
There was a heavy scent of hothouse flowers in the air. She almost
gasped for breath in the exotic fragrance of the unseen blossoms. A
strong impulse possessed her to turn and flee by the way she had come.
"_Madame!_" It was Victor's voice, low and entreating. He had opened an
inner door, and stood waiting for her.
Had he seen her wavering resolution, she wondered? Was he trying to
hasten her ere it should wholly evaporate--to close the way of escape
ere she could avail herself of it? Or was he anxious solely on Piers'
account--lest after all she might arrive too late?
She could not determine, but the urgency of his whisper moved her. She
passed him and entered the room beyond.
It was dimly lighted by a single shaded electric lamp that illumined a
writing-table. She saw that it was the ancient library of the Abbey, a
wonderful apartment which she knew to contain an almost priceless
collection of old parchments. It was lined with bookshelves and had the
musty smell inseparable from aged bindings.
Victor motioned her silently to a door at the further end, but before
either of them could reach it there came a sudden footfall on the other
side, the handle turned sharply, and it opened.
"Ah!" exclaimed Victor, and fell back as one caught red-handed in a
crime.
Avery stood quite motionless with her heart beating up against her
throat, and a tragic sense of trespass overwhelming her. She could not
find a single word to say, so sudden and so terrible was the ordeal. She
could only wait in silence.
Piers stood still as one transfixed, with eyes that blazed sleepless out
of a drawn, pale face; then at length with a single snap of the fingers
imperiously he dismissed Victor by the still open door.
It closed discreetly upon the Frenchman's exit, and then only did Piers
move forward; he came to Avery, drew her to a chair, knelt mutely down
before her, and bowed his head upon her lap.