_ PART II. THE PLACE OF TORMENT
CHAPTER XIII. THE HAND OF THE SCULPTOR
During the week that followed, no second summons came to Piers from his wife's room. He hung about the house, aimless, sick at heart, with hope sinking ever lower within him like a fire dying for lack of replenishment.
He could neither sleep nor eat, and Victor watched him with piteous though unspoken solicitude. Victor knew the wild, undisciplined temperament of the boy he had cherished from his cradle, and he lived in hourly dread of some sudden passionate outburst of rebellion, some desperate act that should lead to irremediable disaster. He had not forgotten that locked drawer in the old master's bureau or the quick release it contained, and he never left Piers long alone in its vicinity.
But he need not have been afraid. Piers' thoughts never strayed in that direction. If his six months in Crowther's society had brought him no other comfort, they had at least infused in him a saner outlook and steadier balance. Very little had ever passed between them on the subject of the tragedy that had thrown them together. After the first bitter outpouring of his soul, Piers had withdrawn himself with so obvious a desire for privacy that Crowther had never attempted to cross the boundary thus clearly defined. But his influence had made itself felt notwithstanding. It would have been impossible to have lived with the man for so long without imbibing some of that essential greatness of soul that was his main characteristic, and Piers was ever swift to feel the effect of atmosphere. He had come to look upon Crowther with a reverence that in a fashion affected his daily life. That which Crowther regarded as unworthy, he tossed aside himself without consideration. Crowther had not despised him at his worst, and he was determined that he would show himself to be not despicable. He was moreover under a solemn promise to return to Crowther when he found himself at liberty, and in very gratitude to the man he meant to keep that promise.
But, albeit he was braced for endurance, the long hours of waiting were very hard to bear. His sole comfort lay in the fact that Avery was making gradual progress in the right direction. It was a slow and difficult recovery, as Maxwell Wyndham had foretold, but it was continuous. Tudor assured him of this every day with a curt kindliness that had grown on him of late. It was his own fashion of showing a wholly involuntary sympathy of which he was secretly half-ashamed, and which he well knew Piers would have brooked in no other form. It established an odd sort of truce between them of which each was aware the while he sternly ignored it. They could never be friends. It was fundamentally impossible, but at least they had, if only temporarily, ceased to be enemies.
Little Mrs. Lorimer's sympathy was also of a half-ashamed type. She did not want to be sorry for Piers, but she could not wholly restrain her pity. The look in his eyes haunted her. Curiously it made her think of some splendid animal created for liberty, and fretting its heart out in utter, hopeless misery on a chain.
She longed with all her motherly heart to comfort him, and by the irony of circumstance it fell to her to deal the final blow to what was left of his hope. She wondered afterwards how she ever brought herself to the task, but it was in reality so forced upon her that she could not evade it. Avery, lying awake during the first hours of a still night, heard her husband's feet pacing up and down the terrace, and the mischief was done. She was thrown into painful agitation and wholly lost her sleep in consequence. When Mrs. Lorimer arrived about noon on the following day, she found her alarmingly weak, and the nurse in evident perplexity.
"I am sure there is something worrying her," the latter said to Mrs. Lorimer. "I can't think what it is."
But directly Mrs. Lorimer was alone with Avery, the trouble came out. For she reached out fevered hands to her, saying, "Why, oh, why did you persuade me to come back here? I knew he would come if I did!"
Again the emergency impelled Mrs. Lorimer to a display of common-sense with which few would have credited her.
"Oh, do you mean Piers, dear?" she said. "But surely you are not afraid of him! He has been here all the time--ever since you were so ill."
"And I begged you not to send!" groaned Avery.
"My dear," said Mrs. Lorimer very gently, "it was his right to be here."
"Then that night--that night--" gasped Avery, "he really did come to me--that night after the baby was born."
"My darling, you begged for him so piteously," said Mrs. Lorimer apologetically.
Avery's lip quivered. "That was just what I feared--what I wanted to make impossible," she said. "When one is suffering, one forgets so."
"But surely it was the cry of your heart, darling," urged Mrs. Lorimer tremulously. "And do you know--poor lad--he looks so ill, so miserable."
But Avery's face was turned away. "I can't help it," she said. "I can't--possibly--see him again. I feel as if--as if there were a curse upon us both, and that is why the baby died. Oh yes, morbid, I know; perhaps wrong. But--I have been steeped in sin. I must be free for a time. I can't face him yet. I haven't the strength."
"Dearest, he will never force himself upon you," said Mrs. Lorimer.
Avery's eyes went instinctively to the door that led into the room that Piers had occupied after his marriage. The broken bolt had been removed, but not replaced. A great shudder went through her. She covered her face with her hands.
"Oh, beg him--beg him to go away," she sobbed, "till I am strong enough to go myself!"
Argument was useless. Mrs. Lorimer abandoned it with the wisdom born of close friendship. Instead, she clasped Avery tenderly to her and gave herself to the task of calming her distress.
And when that was somewhat accomplished, she left her to go sadly in search of Piers.
She found him sitting on the terrace with the morning-paper beside him and Caesar pressed close to his legs, his great mottled head resting on his master's knee.
He was not reading. So much Mrs. Lorimer perceived before with a sharp turn of the head he discovered her. He was on his feet in a moment, and she saw his boyish smile for an instant, only for an instant, as he came to meet her. She noted with a pang how gaunt he looked and how deep were the shadows about his eyes. Then he had reached her, and was holding both her hands almost before she realized it.
"I say, you're awfully good to come up every day like this," he said. "I can't think how you make the time. Splendid sun to-day, what? It's like a day in summer, if you can get out of the wind. Come and bask with me!"
He drew her along the terrace to his sheltered corner, and made her sit down, spreading his newspaper on the stone seat for her accommodation. Her heart went out to him as he performed that small chivalrous act. She could not help it. And suddenly the task before her seemed so monstrous that she felt she could not fulfil it. The tears rushed to her eyes.
"What's the matter?" said Piers gently. He sat down beside her, and slipped an encouraging hand through her arm. "Was it something you came out to say? Don't mind me! You don't, do you?"
His voice was softly persuasive. He leaned towards her, his dark eyes searching her face. Mrs. Lorimer felt as if she were about to hurt a child.
She blew her nose, dried her eyes, and took the brown hand very tightly between her own. "My dear, I'm so sorry for you--so sorry for you both!" she said.
A curious little glint came and went in the eyes that watched her. Piers' fingers closed slowly upon hers.
"I've got to clear out, what?" he said.
She nodded mutely; she could not say it.
He was silent awhile; then: "All right," he said. "I'll go this afternoon."
His voice was dead level, wholly emotionless, but for a few seconds his grip taxed her endurance to the utmost. Then, abruptly, it relaxed.
He bent his black head and kissed the nervous little hands that were clasped upon his own.
"Don't you fret now!" he said, with an odd kindness that was to her more pathetic than any appeal for sympathy. "You've got enough burdens of your own to bear without shouldering ours. How is Jeanie?"
Mrs. Lorimer choked down a sob. "She isn't a bit well. She has a cold and such a racking cough. I'm keeping her in bed."
"I'm awfully sorry," said Piers steadily. "Give her my love! And look here, when Avery is well enough, let them go away together, will you? It will do them both good."
"It's dear of you to think of it," said Mrs. Lorimer wistfully. "Yes, it did do Jeanie good in the autumn. But Avery--"
"It will do Avery good too," he said. "She can take that cottage at Stanbury Cliffs for the whole summer if she likes. Tell her to! And look here! Will you take her a message from me?"
"A written message?" asked Mrs. Lorimer.
He pulled out a pocket-book. "Six words," he said. He scrawled them, tore out the leaf and gave it to her, holding it up before her eyes that she might read it.
"Good-bye till you send for me. Piers."
"That's all," he said. "Thanks awfully. She'll understand that. And now--I say, you're not going to cry any more, are you?" He shook his head at her with a laugh in his eyes. "You really mustn't. You're much too tender-hearted. I say, it was a pity about the baby, what? I thought the baby might have made a difference. But it'll be all the same presently. She's wanting me really. I've known that ever since that night--you know--ever since I held her in my arms."
He spoke with absolute simplicity. She had never liked him better than at that moment. His boyishness had utterly disarmed her, and not till later did she realize how completely he had masked his soul therewith.
She parted with him with a full heart, and had a strictly private little cry on his account ere she returned to Avery. Poor lad! Poor lad! And when he wasn't smiling, he did look so ill!
The same thought struck Crowther a few hours later as Piers sat with him in his room, and devoted himself with considerable adroitness to making his fire burn through as quickly as possible, the while he briefly informed him that his wife was considered practically out of danger and had no further use for him for the present.
Crowther's heart sank at the news though he gave no sign of dismay.
"What do you think of doing, sonny?" he asked, after a moment.
"I? Why, what is there for me to do?" Piers glanced round momentarily. "I wonder what you'd do, Crowther," he said, with a smile that was scarcely gay.
Crowther came to his side, and stood there massively, while he filled his pipe. "Piers," he said, "I presume she knows all there is to know of that bad business?"
Piers rammed the poker a little deeper into the fire and said nothing.
But Crowther had broken through the barricade of silence at last, and would not be denied.
"Does she know, Piers?" he insisted. "Did you ever tell her how the thing came to pass? Does she know that the quarrel was forced upon you--that you took heavy odds--that you did not of your own free will avoid the consequences? Does she know that you loved her before you knew who she was?"
He paused, but Piers remained stubbornly silent, still prodding at the red coals.
He bent a little, taking him by the shoulder. "Piers, answer me!"
Again Piers' eyes glanced upwards. His face was hard. "Oh, get away, Crowther!" he growled. "What's the good?" And then in his winning way he gripped Crowther's hand hard. "No, I never told her anything," he said. "And I made it impossible for her to ask. I couldn't urge extenuating circumstances because there weren't any. Moreover, it wouldn't have made a ha'porth's difference if I had. So shunt the subject like a good fellow! She must take me at my worst--at my worst, do you hear?--or not at all."
"But, my dear lad, you owe it to her," began Crowther gravely.
Piers cut him short with a recklessness that scarcely veiled the pain in his soul. "No, I don't! I don't owe her anything. She doesn't think any worse of me than I am. She knows me jolly well,--better than you do, most worthy padre-elect. If she ever forgives me, it won't be because she thinks I've been punished enough, but just because she is my mate,--and she loves me." His voice sank upon the words.
"And you are going to wait for that?" said Crowther.
Piers nodded. He dropped the poker with a careless clatter and stretched his arms high above his head. "You once said something to me about the Hand of the Sculptor," he said. "Well, if He wants to do any shaping so far as I am concerned, now is His time. I am willing to be shaped."
"What do you mean?" asked Crowther.
Piers' eyes were half-closed, and there was a drawn look about the lids as of a man in pain. "I mean, my good Crowther," he said, "that the mire and clay have ceased to attract me. My house is empty--swept and garnished,--but it is not open to devils at present. You want to know my plans. I haven't any. I am waiting to be taken in hand."
He spoke with a faint smile that moved Crowther to deep compassion. "You will have to be patient a long while, maybe, sonny," he said.
"I can be patient," said Piers. He shifted his position slightly, clasping his hands behind his head, so that his face was in shadow. "You think that is not much like me, Crowther," he said. "But I can wait for a thing if I feel I shall get it in the end. I have felt that--ever since the night after I went down there. She was so desperately ill. She wanted me--just to hold her in my arms." His voice quivered suddenly. He stopped for a few seconds, then went on in a lower tone. "She wasn't--quite herself at the time--or she would never have asked for me. But it made a difference to me all the same. It made me see that possibly--just possibly--there is a reason for things,--that even misery and iron may have their uses--that there may be something behind it all--what?--Something Divine."
He stopped altogether, and pushed his chair further still into shadow.
Crowther was smoking. He did not speak for several seconds, but smoked on with eyes fixed straight before him as though they scanned a far-distant horizon. At length: "I rather think the shaping has begun, sonny," he said. "You don't believe in prayer now?"
"No, I don't," said Piers.
Crowther's eyes came down to him. "Can't you pray without believing?" he said slowly.
Piers made a restless movement. "What should I pray for?"
Crowther was smiling slightly--the smile of a man who has begun to see, albeit afar off, the fulfilment of a beloved project.
"Do you know, old chap," he said, "I expect I seem a fool to you; but it's the fools who confound the wise, isn't it? I believe a thundering lot in prayer. But I didn't always. I prayed without believing for a long time first."
"That seems to me like offering an insult to God," said Piers.
"I don't think He views it in that light," said Crowther, "any more than He blames a blind man for feeling his way. The great thing is to do it--to get started. You're wanting a big thing in life. Well,--ask for it! Don't be afraid of asking! It's what you're meant to do."
He drew a long whiff from his pipe and puffed it slowly forth.
There fell a deep silence between them. Piers sat in absolute stillness, gazing downwards into the fire with eyes still half-closed.
Suddenly he jerked back his head. "It's a bit of a farce, what?" he said. "But I'll do it on your recommendation, I'll give it a six months' trial, and see what comes of it. That's a fair test anyhow. Something ought to turn up in another six months."
He got to his feet with a laugh, and stood in front of Crowther with a species of challenge in his eyes. He looked as if he expected rebuke, and were prepared to meet it with arrogance.
But Crowther uttered neither reproach nor admonition. He met the look with the utmost kindliness--the most complete understanding.
"Something will turn up, lad," he said, with steady conviction. "But not--probably--in the way you expect."
Piers' face showed a momentary surprise. "How on earth do you know?" he said.
"I do know," Crowther made steadfast reply; but he offered no explanation for his confidence.
Piers thrust out an impulsive hand. "You may be right and you may not; but you've been a brick to me, old fellow," he said, a note of deep feeling in his voice,--"several kinds of a brick, and I'm not likely to forget it. If you ever get into the Church, you'll be known as the parson who doesn't preach, and it'll be a reputation to be proud of."
Crowther's answering grip was the grip of a giant. There was a great tenderness in the far-seeing grey eyes as he made reply. "It would be rank presumption on my part to preach to you, lad. You are made of infinitely finer stuff than I."
"Oh, rats!" exclaimed Piers in genuine astonishment.
But the elder man shook his head with a smile. "No; facts, Piers!" he said. "There are greater possibilities in you than I could ever attain to."
"Possibilities for evil then," said Piers, with a very bitter laugh.
Crowther looked him straight in the eyes. "And possibilities for good, my son," he said. "They grow together, thank God." _