The Bars of Iron

by Ethel M. Dell

It had been a tragic day throughout, and she was thankful when at length it drew to a close.

But when night came at last, and she lay down in the darkness, she found herself much too full of thought for sleep. Till then, she had not had time to review the day's happenings, but they crowded upon her as she lay, driving away all possibility of repose.

What was she going to do? Over and over again she asked herself the question, bringing herself as it were each time to contemplate afresh the obstacle that had arisen in her path. Had she really promised to marry Piers? The Squire evidently thought she had. The memory of those last words of his came back to her again and again. He had been very much in earnest, very anxious to provide for his boy's future, desperately afraid of leaving him alone. How would he view his impetuous action, she wondered, on the morrow? Had he not even now possibly begun to repent? Would he really desire her to take him literally?

And Piers,—what of Piers? A sudden, warm thrill ran through her. She glowed from head to foot. She had not seen Piers since that morning by the sea. She had a feeling that he was purposely avoiding her, and yet deep in the secret heart of her she knew that what she had rejected over and over again was still irrevocably her own. He would come back to her. She knew he would come back. And again that strange warmth filled her veins. The memory of him just then was like a burst of sunshine after a day of storm.

He had not been at home when Julian had taken the news of the Squire's accident to the Abbey, and only menservants had come to the rescue. She had accompanied them part of the way back, but Tudor had overtaken them in the drive, and she and the boys had turned back. Sir Beverley had been exhausted and but half-conscious, and he had not uttered another word to her. She wished Dr. Tudor had looked in on his way home, and then wondered if the Squire's condition were such as to necessitate his spending the night at the Abbey. He had once told her that Sir Beverley suffered from a weakness of the heart which might develop seriously at any time; but though himself fully aware of the fact, the old man had never permitted Piers to be told. She had deemed it unfair to Piers, but it was no matter for interference. A great longing to know what was happening possessed her. Surely—surely Mr. Lorimer would send up in the morning to enquire!

Her thoughts took another turn. She had been given definite notice to go. In her efforts to console Mrs. Lorimer, and the children, she had scarcely herself realized all that it would imply. She began to picture the parting, and a quiver of pain went through her. How they had all grown about her heart! How would she bear to say good-bye to her little delicate Jeanie? And how would the child fare without her? She hardly dared to think.

And then again that blinding ray of sunshine burst riotously through her clouds. If the impossible happened, if she ever married Piers—for the first time she deliberately faced and contemplated the thought—would she not be at least within reach if trouble came? A little thrill of spiteful humour ran through her at this point. She was quite sure that under such circumstances she would not be refused admittance to the Vicar's home. As Piers' wife, its doors would always be open to her.

As Piers' wife! She found herself repeating the words, repeating and repeating them till their strangeness began to give place to a certain familiarity. Was it after all true, as he had once so vehemently asserted, that they were meant for each other, belonged to each other, that the fate of each was bound in that of the other? What if she were a woman grown? What if her years outnumbered his? Had he not waked in her such music as her soul had never known before? Had he not opened for her the gates of the forbidden land? And was there after all, any actual reason that she should refuse to enter? That land where the sun shone always and the flowers bloomed without fading! That land where it was always spring!

There came in her soul a sudden swift ecstasy that was like the singing of many birds in the dawning, thrilling her through and through. She rose from her bed as though in answer to a call, and went to her open window.

There before her, silver against the darkness, there shone a single star. The throbbing splendour of it seemed to pierce her. She held her breath as one waiting for a message.