CHAPTER XXXIV
THE MESSAGE
"My good Mrs. Denys, it is quite fruitless for you to argue the matter.Nothing you can say can alter the fact that you took the childrentrespassing in the Rodding Park preserves against my most stringentcommands, and this deplorable accident to the Squire is the directoutcome of the most flagrant insubordination. I have borne a good dealfrom you, but this I cannot overlook. You will therefore take a month'snotice from to-day, and as it is quite impossible for me to reconsidermy decision in this respect it would be wasted effort on your part tolodge any appeal against it. As for the children, I shall deal with themin my own way."
The Vicar's thin lips closed upon the words with the severity of anirrevocable resolution. Avery heard him with a sense of wild rebellion ather heart to which she knew she must not give rein. She stood before him,a defenceless culprit brought up for punishment.
It was difficult to be dignified under such circumstances, but shedid her best.
"I am extremely sorry that I took the children into the preserves," shesaid. "But I accept the full responsibility for having done so. They werenot greatly to blame in the matter."
"Upon that point," observed Mr. Lorimer, "I am the best judge. Thechildren will be punished as severely as I deem necessary. Meantime, youquite understand, do you not, that your duties here must terminate amonth from now? I am only sorry that I allowed myself to be persuaded toreconsider my decision on the last occasion. For more than one reason Ithink it is to be regretted. However,--" he completed the sentence with aheavy sigh and said no more.
It was evident that he desired to close the interview, yet Averylingered. She could not go with the children's fate still in the balance.
He looked at her interrogatively with raised brows.
"You will not surely punish the children very severely?" she said.
He waved a hand of cool dismissal. "I shall do whatever seems to me rightand advisable," he said.
It came to Avery that interference on this subject would do more harmthan good, and she turned to go. At the door his voice arrested her."This day month then, Mrs. Denys!"
She bent her head in silent acquiescence, and went out.
In the passage Gracie awaited her and wound eager arms about her.
"Was he very horrid to you, Avery darling? What did he say?"
Avery went with her to the schoolroom where the other offenders wereassembled. It seemed to her almost cruel to attempt to suppress thetruth, but their reception of it went to her heart. Jeanie--the placid,sweet-tempered Jeanie--wept tears of such anguished distress that shefeared she would make herself ill. Gracie was too angry to weep. Shewanted to go straight to the study and beard the lion in his den, andonly Avery's most strenuous opposition restrained her. And into the midstof their tribulation came Mrs. Lorimer to mingle her tears with theirs.
"What I shall do without you, Avery, I can't think," was the burden ofher lament.
Avery couldn't think either, for she knew better even than Mrs. Lorimerherself how much the latter had come to lean upon her.
She had to turn her energies to comforting her disconsolate companions,but this task was still unaccomplished when the door opened and the Vicarstalked in upon them.
He observed his wife's presence with cold displeasure, and at onceproceeded to dismiss her.
"I desire your presence in the study for a few moments, Adelaide. Perhapsyou will be kind enough to precede me thither."
He held the door open for her with elaborate ceremony, and Mrs. Lorimerhad no choice but to obey. She departed with a scared effort to check hertears under the stern disapproval of his look.
He closed the door upon her and advanced to the table, gazing round uponthem with judicial severity.
"I am here," he announced, "to pass sentence."
Jeanie, crying softly in her corner, made desperate attempts tocontrol herself under the awful look that was at this pointconcentrated upon her.
After a pause the Vicar proceeded, with a spiteful glance at Avery. "Itis my intention to impose a holiday-task of sufficient magnitude to keepyou all out of mischief during the rest of the holidays. You willtherefore commit to memory various different portions of Milton's_Paradise Lost_ which I shall select, and which must be repeated to me intheir entirety without mistake on my return from my own hard-earnedholiday. And let me give you all fair warning," he raised his voice andlooked round again, regarding poor Jeanie with marked austerity, "that ifany one of you is not word-perfect in his or her task by the day of myreturn--boy or girl I care not, the offence is the same--he or she willreceive a sound caning and the task will be returned."
Thus he delivered himself, and turned to go; but paused at the door toadd, "Also, Mrs. Denys, will you be good enough to remember that it isagainst my express command that either you or any of the children shouldenter any part of Rodding Park during my absence. I desire that to beclearly understood."
"It is understood," said Avery in a low voice.
"That is well," said the Reverend Stephen, and walked majesticallyfrom the room.
A few seconds of awed silence followed his departure; then to Avery'shorror Gracie snatched off one of her shoes and flung it violently at thedoor that he had closed behind him. Luckily for Gracie, her father was atthe foot of the stairs before this episode took place and beyond earshotalso of the furious storm of tears that followed it, with which evenAvery found it difficult to cope.
It had been a tragic day throughout, and she was thankful when at lengthit drew to a close.
But when night came at last, and she lay down in the darkness, she foundherself much too full of thought for sleep. Till then, she had not hadtime to review the day's happenings, but they crowded upon her as shelay, driving away all possibility of repose.
What was she going to do? Over and over again she asked herself thequestion, bringing herself as it were each time to contemplate afresh theobstacle that had arisen in her path. Had she really promised to marryPiers? The Squire evidently thought she had. The memory of those lastwords of his came back to her again and again. He had been very much inearnest, very anxious to provide for his boy's future, desperately afraidof leaving him alone. How would he view his impetuous action, shewondered, 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. Sheglowed from head to foot. She had not seen Piers since that morning bythe sea. She had a feeling that he was purposely avoiding her, and yetdeep in the secret heart of her she knew that what she had rejected overand 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 herveins. The memory of him just then was like a burst of sunshine after aday of storm.
He had not been at home when Julian had taken the news of the Squire'saccident to the Abbey, and only menservants had come to the rescue. Shehad accompanied them part of the way back, but Tudor had overtaken themin the drive, and she and the boys had turned back. Sir Beverley had beenexhausted and but half-conscious, and he had not uttered another word toher. She wished Dr. Tudor had looked in on his way home, and thenwondered if the Squire's condition were such as to necessitate hisspending the night at the Abbey. He had once told her that Sir Beverleysuffered from a weakness of the heart which might develop seriously atany time; but though himself fully aware of the fact, the old man hadnever permitted Piers to be told. She had deemed it unfair to Piers, butit was no matter for interference. A great longing to know what washappening possessed her. Surely--surely Mr. Lorimer would send up in themorning 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 hadscarcely herself realized all that it would imply. She began to picturethe parting, and a quiver of pain went through her. How they had allgrown about her heart! How would she bear to say good-bye to her littledelicate Jeanie? And how wou
ld the child fare without her? She hardlydared to think.
And then again that blinding ray of sunshine burst riotously through herclouds. If the impossible happened, if she ever married Piers--for thefirst time she deliberately faced and contemplated the thought--would shenot be at least within reach if trouble came? A little thrill of spitefulhumour ran through her at this point. She was quite sure that under suchcircumstances she would not be refused admittance to the Vicar's home. AsPiers' wife, its doors would always be open to her.
As Piers' wife! She found herself repeating the words, repeating andrepeating them till their strangeness began to give place to a certainfamiliarity. Was it after all true, as he had once so vehementlyasserted, 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 awoman grown? What if her years outnumbered his? Had he not waked in hersuch music as her soul had never known before? Had he not opened for herthe gates of the forbidden land? And was there after all, any actualreason that she should refuse to enter? That land where the sun shonealways and the flowers bloomed without fading! That land where it wasalways spring!
There came in her soul a sudden swift ecstasy that was like the singingof many birds in the dawning, thrilling her through and through. She rosefrom 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 breathas one waiting for a message.
And, as she stood waiting, through her heart, softly, triumphantly, themessage came, spoken in the voice she had come to hear through allother voices.
"It is the Star of Hope, Avery; yours--and mine."
But even as she watched with all her spirit a-quiver with the wonder ofit, the vision passed; the star was veiled.