The Bars of Iron by Ethel May Dell (top rated books of all time .txt) 📖

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.


CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES

The encounter was so amazing, so utterly unlooked for, that Avery had a moment of downright consternation. The child's whole air and expression were so exactly reminiscent of her father that she almost felt as if she stood before the Vicar himself--a culprit caught in a guilty act.
She looked at Olive without words, and Olive looked straight back at her with that withering look of the righteous condemning the ungodly which so often regarded a dumb but rebellious congregation through the Vicar's stern eyes.
Piers, however, was not fashioned upon timid lines, and he stepped into the hall without the faintest sign of embarrassment.
"Hullo, little girl!" he said. "Why aren't you in bed?"
The accusing eyes turned upon him. Olive seemed to swell with indignation. "I was in bed long ago," she made answer, still in those frozen tones. "May I ask what you are doing here, Mr. Evesham?"
"I?" said Piers jauntily. "Now what do you suppose?"
"I cannot imagine," the child said.
"Not really?" said Piers. "Well, perhaps when you are a little older your imagination will develop. In the meantime, if you are a wise little girl, you will run back to bed and leave your elders to settle their own affairs."
Olive drew herself up with dignity. "It is not my intention to go so long as you are in the house," she said with great distinctness.
"Indeed!" said Piers. "And why not?"
He spoke with the utmost quietness, but Avery caught the faintest tremor in his voice that warned her that Olive was treading dangerous ground.
She hastened to intervene. "But of course you are going now," she said to him. "It is bedtime for us all. Good-night! And thank you for walking home with me!"
Her own tone was perfectly normal. She turned to him with outstretched hand, but he put it gently aside.
"One minute!" he said. "I should like an answer to my question first. Why are you so determined to see me out of the house?"
He looked straight at Olive as he spoke, no longer careless of mien, but implacable as granite.
Olive, however, was wholly undismayed. She was the only one of the Vicar's children who had never had cause to feel a twinge of fear. "You had better ask yourself that question," she said, in her cool young treble. "You probably know the answer better than I do."
Piers' expression changed. For a single instant he looked furious, but he mastered himself almost immediately. "It's a lucky thing for you that you are not my little girl," he observed grimly. "If you were, you should have the slapping of your life to-night. As it is,--well, you have asked me for an explanation of my presence here, and you shall have one. I am here in the capacity of escort to Mrs. Denys. Have you any fault to find with that?"
Olive returned his look steadily with her cold grey eyes while she considered his words. She seemed momentarily at a loss for an answer, but Piers' first remarks were scarcely of a character to secure goodwill or allay suspicion. She rapidly made up her mind.
"I shall tell Miss Whalley in the morning," she said. "My father said I was to go to her if anything went wrong." She added, with a malevolent glance towards Avery, "I suppose you know that Mrs. Denys is under notice to leave at the end of her month?"
Piers glanced at Avery too--a glance of swift interrogation. She nodded very slightly in answer.
He looked again at Olive with eyes that gleamed in a fashion that few could have met without quailing.
"Is she indeed?" he said. "I venture