"LA GRANDE PASSION"
She spoke to him at last, half-frightened by his silence, yet by his
attitude wholly reassured. For he wanted her still, of that no doubt
remained. His hands were clasped behind her. He could have held her in
his arms; but he did not. He only knelt there at her feet in utter
silence, his black head pillowed on her hands.
"Piers!" she said. "Piers! Let me help you!"
He groaned in answer, and she felt a great shiver run through him. She
knew intuitively that he was battling for self-control and dared not for
the moment show his face.
"You--can't," he said at last.
"But I think I can," she urged gently. "It isn't so very long ago that
you wanted me."
"I was an infernal blackguard to tell you so!" he made answer.
And then suddenly his arms tightened about her, and he held her fast.
"That you--you, Avery,--should come to me--like this!" he said.
She freed one of her hands and laid it on his bent head. "Shall I tell
you what made me come, Piers?"
He shook his head in silence, but there was passion in the holding
of his arms.
For a space he continued to hold her so, speaking no word, and through
his silence there came to her the quick, fierce beat of his heart. Then
at length very suddenly, almost with violence, he flung his arms wide
and started to his feet.
"Avery," he said, "you were a saint to come to me like this. I shan't
forget it ever. But there's nothing--nothing you can do, except leave me
to my own devices. It's only just at first, you know, that the loneliness
seems so--awful." His voice shook unexpectedly; he swung round away from
her and walked to the end of the room.
He came back almost immediately and stood before her. "Victor was a
criminal fool to bring you here. He meant well though. He always does.
That note of yours--I ought to have answered it. I was just coming in
here to do so. I shouldn't have kept you waiting so long, but
somehow--somehow--" Again, in spite of him, his voice quivered. He turned
sharply and walked to the fireplace, leaned his arms upon it, and stood
so, his back to her, his head bent.
"It was so awfully good of you," he went on after a moment. "You always
have been--awfully good. My grandfather realized that, you know. I think
he told you so, didn't he? He wasn't really sorry that I wouldn't marry
Ina Rose. By the way, she is engaged to Dick Guyes already, so there was
not much damage done in that direction. I told you it was nothing but a
game, didn't I? You didn't quite believe me, what?"
It came to her that he was talking to gain time, that he was trying to
muster strength to give the lie to the passion that had throbbed in the
holding of his arms, that for some reason he deemed it incumbent upon him
to mask his feelings and hide from her the misery that had driven Victor
in search of her.
She rose quietly and moved across the room till she stood beside him.
"Piers," she said, "tell me what is wrong!"
He stiffened at her approach, straightened himself, faced her.
"Avery," he said, "do you know, dear, it would be better if you went
straight back again? I hate to say it. It was so dear of you,
so--so--great of you to come. But--no, there's nothing wrong,--nothing
that is, that hasn't been wrong for ages. Fact is, I'm not fit to
speak to you, never have been; far less make love to you. And I was a
cur and a brute to do it. I've had a bit of a shake-up lately. It's
made me feel my responsibilities, see things as they are. I've got an
awful lot to see to just now. I'm going to work mighty hard. I mustn't
think of--other things."
He stopped. He was looking at her, looking at her, with the red fire of
passion kindling in his eyes, a gleam so fierce and so insistent that she
was forced to lower her own. It was as if his soul cried out to her all
that he restrained his lips from uttering.
He saw her instinctive avoidance of his gaze, and turned away from her,
leaning again upon the mantelpiece as if spent.
"I can't help it, Avery. I'm so dog-tired, and I can't sleep. I'm
horribly sorry, but I'm nothing but a brute-beast to-night.
Really--really--you had better go."
There was desperation in his voice. He bowed his head upon his arms, and
she saw that his hands were clenched.
But she could not leave him so. That inner urging that had impelled her
thither warned her to remain, even against her own judgment, even against
her will. The memory of Victor's fears came back to her. She could not
turn and go.
"My dear boy," she said, speaking very gently, "do you think I don't know
that you are miserable, lonely, wretched? That is why I am here!"
"God knows how lonely!" he whispered.
Her heart stirred within her at the desolation of the words. "Nearly all
of us go through it some time," she said gently. "And if there isn't a
friend to stand by, it's very hard to bear. That is the part I want to
play--if you will let me. Won't you treat me as a friend?"
But Piers neither moved nor spoke. With his head still upon his arms he
stood silent.
She drew nearer to him. "Piers, I think I understand. I think you are a
little afraid of going too far, of--of--" her voice faltered a little in
spite of her--"of hurting my feelings. Is that it? Because,--my
dear,--you needn't be afraid any longer. If you really think I can make
you happy, I am willing--quite willing--to try."
The words were spoken, and with them she offered all she had, freely,
generously, with a quick love that was greater possibly than even she
realized.
She was standing close to him waiting for him to turn and clasp her in
his arms, as he had so nearly clasped her once against her will. But
seconds passed and he did not move, and a cold foreboding began to knock
at her heart lest after all--lest after all--his love for her had waned.
He stirred at last, just as she was on the point of turning from him,
stretched out a groping hand that found and drew her to his side. But
still he did not look at her or so much as raise his head.
He spoke after a moment in a choked voice that seemed to be wrung from
him by sheer physical torture. "Avery, don't--don't tempt me.
I--daren't!"
The anguish of the words went through her, banishing all thought of
anything else. Very suddenly she knew that he was fighting a desperate
battle for her sake, that he was striving with all the strength that was
in him to set her happiness before his own. And something that was
greater than pity entered into her with the knowledge, something so great
as to be all-possessing, compelling her to instant action.
She slipped her arm about his bent shoulders with a gesture of infinite
tenderness. "Piers--dear boy, what is it?" she said softly. "Is there
some trouble in your past--something you can't bear to speak of?
Remember, I am not a girl, I may understand--some things--better than
you think."
She felt his hold upon her tighten almost convulsively, but for a while
he made no answer.
Then at length slowly he raised his head and looked at her. "Do
you--really--think the past matters?" he said.
She met his eyes with their misery and their longing, and a tremor of
uncertainty went through her.
"Tell me, Avery!" he insisted. "If you felt yourself able to get away
from old burdens, and if--if there was no earthly reason why they should
hamper your future--" He broke off, and again his arm tightened. "It's
damnable that they should!" he muttered savagely.
"My dear, I don't know how to answer you," she said. "Are--you afraid to
be open with me? Do you think I shouldn't understand?"
His eyes fell abruptly. "I am quite sure," he said, "that it would be
easier for me to give you up." And with that he suddenly set her free and
stood up before her straight and stiff. "Let me see you home!" he said.
They faced one another in the dimness, and Avery marked afresh the
weariness of his face. He looked like a man who had come through many
days and nights of suffering.
He glanced up as she did not speak. "Shall we go?" he said.
But Avery stood hesitating, asking herself if this could indeed be the
end, if the impulse that had drawn her thither had been after all a
mistaken one, or if even yet it might not carry her further than she had
ever thought to go.
He turned towards the conservatory door by which she had entered, and
quietly opened it. A soft wind blew through to her, laden with the scent
of the wet earth and a thousand opening buds. It seemed to carry the
promise of eternal hope on unseen wings straight to her heart.
Slowly she followed him across the room, reached him, passed through into
the scented darkness. A few steps more and she would have been in the
open air, but she was uncertain of the way. The place was too dim for her
to see it. She paused for him to guide her.
The door closed behind her; she heard it softly swing on its hinges, and
then came his light footfall close to her.
"Straight on!" he said, and his voice sounded oddly cold and constrained.
"There are three steps at the end. Be careful how you go! Perhaps you
would rather wait while I fetch a light."
His tone hurt her subtly, wounding her more deeply than she had realized
that he had it in his power to wound.
She moved forward blindly with a strangled sensation at her throat and a
rush of hot tears in her eyes. She had never dreamed that Piers--the
warm-hearted, the eager--had it in him to treat her so.
The instinct to escape awoke within her. She quickened her steps and
reached the further door. Before her lay the open night, immense and
quiet and very dark. She pressed forward, hoping he would not follow,
longing only for solitude and silence.
But in her agitation she forgot his warning, forgot to tread warily, and
missed her footing on the steps. She slipped with a sharp exclamation and
went down, catching vainly at the door-post to save herself.
Piers exclaimed also, and sprang forward. His arms were about her before
she reached the ground. He lifted her bodily ere she could recover her
balance; and suddenly she knew that with the touch of her the fire of his
passion had burst into scorching flame--knew herself powerless--a woman
in the hold of her captor.
For he held her so fast that she gasped for breath, and with her head
pressed back against his shoulder, he kissed her on the lips, fiercely,
violently, hungrily--kissed her eyes, her hair, and again her lips,
sealing them closely with his own, making protest impossible. Neither
could she resist him, for he held her gathered up against his heart,
bearing her whole weight with a strength that mocked her weakness,
compelling her to lie at his mercy while the wild storm of his passion
swept on its way.
She was as one caught in the molten stream of a volcano, and
carried by the fiery current that seethed all about her, consuming
her with its heat.
Once when his lips left hers she tried to whisper his name, to call him
back from his madness; but her voice was gone. She could only gasp and
gasp till with an odd, half-savage laugh he silenced her again with those
burning kisses that made her feel that he had stormed his way to the last
and inner sanctuary of her soul, depriving her even of the right to
dispute his overwhelming possession.
Later it seemed to her that she must have been near to fainting, for
though she knew that he bore her inwards from the open door she could not
so much as raise a hand in protest. She was utterly spent and almost
beyond caring, so complete had been his conquest. When he set her on her
feet she tottered, clinging to him nervelessly for support.
He kept his arm about her, but his hold was no longer insistent. She was
aware of his passion still; it seemed to play around her like a lambent
flame; but the first fierce flare was past. He spoke to her at last in a
voice that was low but not without the arrogance of the conqueror.
"Are you very angry with me, I wonder?"
She did not answer him, for still she could not.
He went on, a vein of recklessness running through his speech. "It won't
make any difference if you are. Do you understand? I've tried to let you
go, but I can't. I must have you or die."
He paused a moment, and it seemed as if the tornado of his passion were
sweeping back again; but, curiously, he checked it.
"That's how it is with me, Avery," he said. "The fates have played a
ghastly joke on me, but you are mine in spite of it. You came to tell me
so; didn't you?"
Was there a note of pleading in his voice? She fancied so; but still she
could not speak in answer. She leaned against him with every pulse
throbbing. She dared not turn her face to his.
"Are you afraid of me, Avery?" he said, and this time surely she heard a
faint echo of that boyish humour that had first won her. "Because it's
all right, dear," he told her softly. "I've got myself in hand now. You
know, I couldn't hold you in my arms just then and not--not kiss you. You
don't hate me for it, do you? You--understand?"
Yes, she understood. Yet she felt as if he had raised a barrier between
them which nothing could ever take away. She tried to ignore it, but
could not. The glaring fact that he had not cared how much or how little
she had desired those savage kisses of his had begun already to torment
her, and she knew that she would carry the scorching memory of those
moments with her for the rest of her life.
She drew herself slowly from him. "I am going now," she said.
He put out a hand that trembled and laid it on her shoulder. "If I will
let you go, Avery!" he said, and she was again aware of the leaping of
the flame that had scarcely died down but a moment before.
She straightened herself and resolutely faced him. "I am going,
Piers," she said.
His hand tightened sharply. He caught his breath for a few tense seconds.
Then very slowly his hold relaxed; his hand fell. "You will let me see
you back," he said, and she knew by his voice that he was putting strong
force upon himself.
She turned. "No. I will go alone."
He did not move. "Please, Avery!" he said.
Her heart gave a quick throb at the low-spoken words. She paused almost
involuntarily, realizing with a great rush of thankfulness that he would
not stir a step to follow unless she gave him leave.
For an instant she stood irresolute. Then: "Come if you wish!" she said.
She heard him move, and herself passed on, descending the steps into the
dewy garden with again that odd feeling of unreality, almost as if she
walked in a dream.
He came behind her, silent as a shadow, and not till she deliberately
waited for him did he overtake and walk beside her.
No words passed between them as they went. They seemed to move through a
world of shadows,--a spell-bound, waiting world. And gradually, as if a
soothing hand had been laid upon her, Avery felt the wild tumult at her
heart subside. She remembered that he had refrained himself almost at her
first word, and slowly her confidence came back. He had appealed to her
to understand, and she could not let his appeal go wholly unanswered.
As they passed at length through the gate that led into the Vicarage
lane, she spoke. "Piers, I am not angry."
"Aren't you?" he said, and by the eager relief of his voice she knew that
her silence had been hard to bear.
She put out a hand to him as they walked. "But, Piers, that--is not the
way to make me love you."
"I know--I know," he said quickly; and then haltingly: "I've been--so
beastly lonely, Avery. Make allowances for me--forgive me!"
He had not taken her hand; she slipped it into his. "I do," she said
simply. She felt his fingers close tensely, but in a moment they opened
again and set her free.
He did not utter another word, merely walked on beside her till they
reached the Vicarage gate. She thought he would have left her there, but
he did not. They went up the drive together to the porch.
From his kennel at the side of the house Mike barked a sharp challenge
that turned into an unmistakable note of welcome as they drew near. Avery
silenced him with a reassuring word.
She found the key, and in the darkness of the porch she began to fumble
for the lock.
Piers stooped. "Let me!"
She gave him the key, and as she stood up again she noted the brightness
of the fanlight over the floor. She thought that she had lowered the
light at leaving; she had certainly intended to do so.
Very softly Piers opened the door. It swung noiselessly back upon its
hinges, and the full light smote upon them.
In the same instant a slim, white figure came calmly forward through the
hall and stopped beneath the lamp.
Olive Lorimer, pale, severe, with fixed, accusing eyes, stood
confronting them.
"Mrs. Denys!" she said, in accents of frozen surprise.