"I am in earnest. I know exactly what I am saying. I don't talk at random. She loved you. She wants you. You've lived for yourself all your life. Now--you've got to live for her."

Tudor's voice was low and vehement. A faint sparkle came into Piers' eyes as he heard it.

"By George!" he said softly. "You're rather a brick, what? But haven't you thought--what might happen--if--if I went out after all? You used to be rather great--at getting me out of the way."

"I didn't realize how all-important you were," rejoined Tudor, with a bitter smile. "You needn't go any further in that direction. It leads to a blank wall. You've got to live whether you like it or not. I'm going to do all I can to make you live, and you'll be a hound if you don't back me up."

His eyes looked down upon Piers, dominant and piercingly intent.

And--perhaps it was mere physical weakness, or possibly the voluntary yielding of a strong will that was in its own way as great as the strength to which it yielded--Piers surrendered with a meekness such as Tudor had never before witnessed in him.

"All right," he said. "I'll do--my best."

And so oddly they entered into a partnership that had for its sole end and aim the happiness of the woman they loved; and in that partnership their rivalry was forever extinguished.

CHAPTER IX

HOLY GROUND

"They say he will never fight again," said Crowther gravely. "He may live. They think he will live. But he will never be strong."

"If only I might see him!" Avery said.

"Yes, I know. That is the hardest part. But be patient a little longer!

So much depends on it. I was told only this morning that any agitation might be fatal. No one seems to understand how it is that he has managed to live at all. He is just hanging on, poor lad,--just hanging on."

"I want to help him," Avery said.

"I know you do. And so you can--if you will. But not by going to him.

That would do more harm than good."

"How else can I do anything?" she said. "Surely--surely he wants to see me!"

She was standing in Crowther's room, facing him with that in her eyes that moved him to a great compa.s.sion.

He put his hand on her shoulder. "My dear, of course he wants to see you; but there will be no keeping him quiet when he does. He isn't equal to it. He is putting up the biggest fight of his life, and he wants all his strength for it. But you can do your part now if you will. You can go down to Rodding Abbey and make ready to receive him there. And you can send Victor to help me with him as soon as he is able to leave the hospital. He and I will bring him down to you. And if you will be there just in the ordinary way, I think there will be less risk of excitement.

Will you do this, Avery? Is it asking too much of you?"

His grey eyes looked straight down into hers with the wide friendliness that was as the open gateway to his soul, and some of the bitter strain of the past few weeks pa.s.sed from her own as she looked back.

"Nothing would be too much," she said. "I would do anything--anything.

But if he should want me--and I were not at hand? If--if--he should--die--" Her voice sank.

Crowther's hand pressed upon her. "He is not going to die," he said stoutly. "He doesn't mean to die. But he will probably have to go slow for the rest of his life. That is where you will be able to help him. His only chance lies in patience. You must teach him to be patient."

Her lips quivered in a smile. "Piers!" she said. "Can you picture it?"

"Yes, I can. Because I know that only patience can have brought him to where he is at present. They say it is nothing short of a miracle, and I believe it. G.o.d often works His miracles that way. And I always knew that Piers was great."

Crowther's slow smile appeared, transforming his whole face. He held Avery's hand for a little, and let it go.

"So you will do this, will you?" he said. "I think the boy would be just about pleased to find you there. And you can depend on me to bring him down to you as soon as he is able to bear it."

"You are very good," Avery said. "Yes, I will go."

But, as Crowther knew, in going she accepted the hardest part; and the weeks that she then spent at Rodding Abbey waiting, waiting with a sick anxiety, left upon her a mark which no time could ever erase.

When Crowther's message came to her at last, she was almost too crushed to believe. Everything was in readiness, had been in readiness for weeks.

She had prepared in fevered haste, telling herself that any day might bring him. But day had followed day, and the news had always been depressing, first of weakness, fits of pain, terrible collapses, and again difficult recoveries. Not once had she been told that any ground had been gained.

And so when one day a telegram reached her earlier than usual, she hardly dared to open it, so little did she antic.i.p.ate that the news could be good.

And even when the words stared her in the face: "Bringing Piers this afternoon, Crowther," she could not for awhile believe them, and sought instinctively to read into them some sinister meaning.

How she got through that day, she never afterwards knew. The hours dragged leaden-footed. There was nothing to be done. She would not leave the house lest by some impossible chance he might arrive before the afternoon, but she felt that to stay within its walls was unendurable. So for the most part she paced the terrace, breathing the dank, autumnal air, picturing every phase of his journey, but never daring to picture his arrival, praying piteous, disjointed prayers that only her own soul seemed to hear.

The afternoon began to wane, and dusk came down. A small drifting rain set in with the darkness, but she was not even aware of it till David, very deferential and subdued, came to her and suggested that if she would wait in the hall Sir Piers would see her at once, as he had taken the liberty to turn on all the lights.

She knew that the old man made the suggestion out of the goodness of his heart, and she fell in with it, realizing the wisdom of going within. But when she found herself in the full glare of the great hall, alone with those shining suits of armour that mounted guard on each side of the fireplace, the awful suspense came upon her with a force that nothing could alleviate. She turned with sick loathing from the tea-tray that David had placed for her so comfortingly close to the fire. Every moment that pa.s.sed was an added torture. It was dark, it was late. The conviction was growing in her heart that when they came at last, they would bring with them only her husband's dead body.

She rose and went to the open door. Where was his spirit now, she wondered? Had he leapt ahead of that empty, travelling sh.e.l.l? Was he already close--close--his arm entwined in hers? She covered her face with her hands. "Oh, Piers, I can't go on alone," she sobbed. "If you are dead--I must die too!"

And then, as though in obedience to a voice that had spoken within her, she raised her head again and gazed forth. The rain had drifted away.

Through scudding clouds of darkness there shone, serene and splendid, a single star. Her heart gave a great throb, and was still.

"The Star of Hope!" she murmured wonderingly. "The Star of Hope!"

And in that moment inexplicably yet convincingly she knew that her prayers that had seemed so fruitless had been heard, and that an answer was very near at hand....

There came the sound of a horn from the direction of the lodge. They were coming.

She turned her head and looked down the dark avenue. But she was no longer agitated or distressed by fear. She knew not what might be in store for her, but somehow, mystically, she had been endued with strength to meet it unafraid.

She heard the soft buzz of a high-powered car, and presently two lights appeared at the further end. They came towards her swiftly, almost silently. It was like the swoop of an immense bird. And then in the strong glare shed forth by the hall-lamps she saw the huge body of an ambulance-car, and a Red Cross flared symbolic in the light.

The car came to a stand immediately before her, and for a few moments nothing happened. And still she was not afraid. Still she was as it were guided and sustained and lifted above all turmoil. She seemed to stand on a mountain-top, above the seething misery that had for so long possessed her. She was braced to look upon even Death unshaken, undismayed.

Steadily she moved. She went down to the car. Old David was behind her.

He came forward and opened the door with fumbling, quivering hands. She had time to notice his agitation and to be sorry for him.

Then a voice came to her from within, and a great throb went through her of thankfulness, of relief, of joy unspeakable.

"Victor, you old a.s.s, what are you blubbing for? Anyone would think--" A sudden pause, then in a low, eager tone, "Hullo,--Avery?"

The incredulous interrogation of the words cut her to the heart. She went up the step and into the car as if drawn by an irresistible magnetism, seeing neither Crowther nor Victor, aware only of a p.r.o.ne, gaunt figure on a stretcher, white-haired, skeleton-featured, that reached a trembling hand to her and said again, "Hullo!"