For one wild second she felt as if she were in the presence of old Sir Beverley, so striking was the likeness that the drawn, upturned face bore to him. Then Piers' eyes, black as the night, smiled up at her, half-imperious, half-pleading, and the illusion was gone.

She stooped over him, that trembling hand fast clasped in hers; but she could not speak. No words would come.

"Been waiting, what?" he said. "I hope not for long?"

But still she could not speak. She felt choked. It was all so unnatural, so cruelly hard to bear.

"I shan't be like this always," he said. "Afraid I look an awful guy just at present."

That was all then, for Crowther came gently between them; and then he and Victor, with infinite care, lifted the stretcher and bore the master of the house into his own home.

Half an hour later Avery turned from waving a farewell to Crowther, who had insisted upon going back to town with the car that had brought them, and softly shut out the night.

She had had the library turned into a bedroom for Piers, and she crossed the hall to the door with an eagerness that carried her no further.

There, gripping the handle, she was stayed.

Within, she could hear Victor moving to and fro, but she listened in vain for her husband's voice, and a great shyness came upon her. She could not ask permission to enter.

Minutes pa.s.sed while she stood there, minutes of tense listening, during which she scarcely seemed to breathe. Then very suddenly she heard a sound that set every nerve a-quiver--a groan that was more of weariness than pain, but such weariness as made her own heart throb in pa.s.sionate sympathy.

Almost without knowing it, she turned the handle of the door, and opened it. A moment more, and she was in the room.

He was lying flat in the bed, his dark eyes staring upwards out of deep hollows that had become cruelly distinct. There was dumb endurance in every line of him. His mouth was hard set, the chin firm as granite. And even then in his utter helplessness there was about him a greatness, a mute, unconscious majesty, that caught her by the throat.

She went softly to the bedside.

He turned his head at her coming, not quickly, not with any eagerness of welcome; but with that in his eyes, a slow kindling, that seemed to surround her with the glow of a great warmth.

But when he spoke, it was upon no intimate subject. "Has Crowther gone?" he asked.

His voice was pitched very low. She saw that he spoke with deliberate quietness, as if he were training himself thereto.

"Yes," she made answer. "He wouldn't stay."

"He couldn't," said Piers. "He is going to be ordained tomorrow."

"Oh, is he?" she said in surprise. "He never told me!"

"He wouldn't," said Piers. "He never talks about himself." He moved his hand slightly towards her. "Won't you sit down?"

She glanced round. Victor was advancing behind her with a chair. Piers'

eyes followed hers, and an instant later, turning back, she saw his quick frown. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers with the old imperious gesture, pointing to the door; and in a moment Victor, with a smile of peculiar gratification, put down the chair, trotted to it, opened it with a flourish, and was gone.

Avery was left standing by the bed, slightly uncertain, wanting to smile, but wanting much more to cry.

Piers' hand fell heavily. For a few seconds he lay perfectly still, with quickened breathing and drawn brows. Then his fingers patted the edge of the bed. "Sit down, sweetheart!" he said.

It was Piers the boy-lover who spoke to her with those words, and, hearing them, something seemed to give way within her. It was as if a tight band round her heart had suddenly been torn asunder.

She sank down on her knees beside the bed, and hid her face in his pillow. Tears--tears such as she had not shed since the beginning of their bitter estrangement--came welling up from her heart and would not be restrained. She sobbed her very soul out there beside him, subconsciously aware that in that hour his strength was greater than hers.

Like an overwhelming torrent her distress came upon her, caught her tempestuously, swept her utterly from her own control, tossed her hither and thither, flung her at last into a place of deep, deep silence, where, still kneeling with head bowed low, she became conscious, strangely, intimately conscious, of the presence of G.o.d.

It held her like a spell, that consciousness. She was as one who kneels before a vision. And even while she knelt there, lost in wonder, there came to her the throbbing gladness of faith renewed, the certainty that all would be well.

Piers' hand was on her head, stroking, caressing, soothing. By no words did he attempt to comfort her. It was strange how little either of them felt the need of words. They were together upon holy ground, and in closer communion each with each than they had ever been before. Those tears of Avery's had washed away the barrier.

Once, some time later, he whispered to her, "I never asked you to forgive me, Avery; but--"

And that was the nearest he ever came to asking her forgiveness. For she stopped the words with her lips on his, and he never thought of uttering them again.

EPILOGUE

Christmas Eve and children's voices singing in the night! Two figures by the open window listening--a man and a woman, hand in hand in the dark!

"Don't let them see us yet!" It was the woman's voice, low but with a deep thrill in it as of full and complete content. "I knew they were coming. Gracie whispered it to me this morning. But I wasn't to tell anyone. She was so afraid their father might forbid it."

The man answered with a faint, derisive laugh that yet had in it an echo of the woman's satisfaction. He did not speak, for already through the winter darkness a single, boyish voice had taken up another verse:

"He comes, the prisoners to release In Satan's bondage held; The gates of bra.s.s before Him burst, The iron fetters yield."

The woman's fingers clung fast to his. "Love opens every door," she whispered.

His answering grip was close and strong. But he said nothing while the last triumphant lines were repeated.

"The gates of bra.s.s before Him burst, The iron fetters yield."

The next verse was sung by two voices in harmony, very soft and hushed.

"He comes the broken heart to bind, The bleeding soul to cure, And with the treasures of His grace To bless the humble poor."

Then came a pause, while through the quiet night there floated the sound of distant bells.

"Look!" said Piers suddenly.

And Avery, kneeling beside him, raised her eyes.

There, high above the trees, alone and splendid, there shone a great, quivering star.

His arm slid round her neck. "The Star of Hope, Avery," he whispered.

"Yours--and mine."

She clung to him silently, with a closeness that was pa.s.sionate.

And so the last verse, very clear and strong, came to them out of the night.