The Bars of Iron. Ethel M. Dell

looked a little startled. "Oh, do you?" she said.

      "Don't you?" said Piers.

      "I—I really don't know. Isn't it—isn't it wrong to detest anyone!" faltered Jeanie.

      "Wrong!" said Piers. He frowned momentarily, then as suddenly he smiled. He bent very abruptly and kissed her on the forehead. "Yes, of course it's wrong," he said, "for the people who keep consciences."

      "Oh, but—" Jeanie remonstrated, and then something in his face stopped her. She flushed and murmured in confusion, "Thank you for!—for kissing me!"

      "Don't mention it!" said Piers, with a laugh.

      "I should like to kiss you if I may," said Jeanie. "You have been so very kind."

      He bent his face to hers and received the kiss. "You're a nice little girl," he said, and there was an odd note of feeling in the words for all their lightness that made Jeanie aware that in some fashion he was moved.

      "I don't think he is quite—quite happy, do you?" she said to Avery that night when the worst of her troubles were over, and she was safely back at the Vicarage.

      And Avery answered thoughtfully, "Perhaps—not quite."

CHAPTER VIII

       Table of Contents

      A TALK BY THE FIRE

      The Reverend Stephen Lorimer was writing his sermon for the last Sunday in Advent. His theme was eternal punishment and one which he considered worthy of his utmost eloquence. There was nothing mythical or allegorical in that subject in the opinion of the Reverend Stephen. He believed in it most firmly, and the belief afforded him the keenest satisfaction. It was a nerve-shaking sermon. Had it been of a secular nature, it might almost have been described as inhuman, so obviously was it designed to render his hearers afraid to go home in the dark. But since it was not secular, it took the form of a fine piece of inspiration which, from Mr. Lorimer's point of view at least, could scarcely fail to make the most stubborn heart in his congregation tremble. He pictured himself delivering his splendid rhetoric with a grand and noble severity as impressive as the words he had to utter, reading appreciation—possibly unwilling appreciation—and dawning uneasiness on the upturned faces of his listeners.

      Mr. Lorimer did not love his flock; his religion did not take that form. And the flock very naturally as a whole had scant affection for Mr. Lorimer. The flock knew, or shrewdly suspected, that his eloquence was mere sound—not always even musical—and as a consequence its power was somewhat thrown away. His command of words was practically limitless, but words could not carry him to the hearts of his congregation, and he had no other means at his disposal. For this of course he blamed the congregation, which certainly had no right to wink and snigger when he passed.

      This Advent sermon however was a masterpiece, and as Mr. Lorimer lovingly fingered the pages of his manuscript he told himself that it could not fail to make an impression upon the most hardened sinner.

      A low knock at the door disturbed these pleasant thoughts and he frowned. There was an unwritten law at the Vicarage that save for the most urgent of reasons he should never be interrupted at this hour.

      Softly the door opened. Humbly his wife peeped in.

      "Are you very busy, Stephen?"

      His frown melted away. Here at least was one whose appreciation was never lacking. "Well, my dear Adelaide, I think I may truthfully say that the stress of my business is fairly over. You may come in."

      She crept in, mouse-like, and a distant burst of music wafted in with her, causing her to turn and quickly close the door.

      "Have you finished your sermon, dear? Can we have a little talk?" she asked him nervously.

      He stretched out a large white hand to her without rising. "Yes. I do not think much remains to be said. We have as it were regarded the matter from every point of view. I do not think there will be many consciences unaroused when I have enunciated my final warning."

      "You have such a striking delivery," murmured Mrs. Lorimer, clasping the firm white hand between both her own.

      Mr. Lorimer's eyes vanished in an unctuous smile. "Thou idle flatterer!" he said.

      "No, indeed, dear," his wife protested. "I think you are always impressive, especially at the end of your sermons. That pause you make before you turn your face to the altar—it seems to me so effective—so, if one may say it, dramatic."

      "To what request is this the prelude?" enquired Mr. Lorimer, emerging from his smile.

      She laughed a little nervous laugh. Her thin face was flushed. "Shall we sit by the fire, Stephen, as we used to that first happy winter—do you remember?—after we were married?"

      "Dear me!" said Mr. Lorimer. "This sounds like a plunge into sentiment."

      Nevertheless he rose with a tolerant twinkle and seated himself in the large easy-chair before the fire. It was the only really comfortable chair in the room. He kept it for his moments of reflection.

      Mrs. Lorimer sat down at his feet on the fender-curb, her tiny hand still clinging to his. "This is a real treat," she said, laying her head against his knee with a gesture oddly girlish. "It isn't often, is it, that we have it all to ourselves?"

      "What is it you have to say to me?" he enquired.

      She drew his hand down gently over her shoulder, and held it against her cheek. There fell a brief silence, then she said with a slight effort: "Your idea of a mother's help has worked wonderfully, Stephen. As you know, I was averse to it at first but I am so glad you insisted. Dear Avery is a greater comfort to me than I can possibly tell you."

      "Avery!" repeated the Reverend Stephen, with brows elevated. "I presume you are talking of Mrs. Denys?"

      "Yes, dear. I call her Avery. I feel her to be almost one of ourselves." There was just a hint of apology in Mrs. Lorimer's voice. "She has been—and is—so very kind to me," she said. "I really don't know what the children and I would do without her."

      "I am glad to hear she is kind," said Mr. Lorimer, with a touch of acidity.

      "My dearest, she is quite our equal in position," murmured Mrs. Lorimer.

      "That may be, my dear Adelaide." The acidity developed into a note of displeasure. "In a sense doubtless we are all equal. But in spite of that, extremes of intimacy are often inadvisable. I do not think you are altogether discreet in making a bosom friend of a woman in Mrs. Denys's position. A very good woman, I grant you. But familiarity with her is altogether unsuitable. From my own experience of her I am convinced that she would very soon presume upon it."

      He paused. Mrs. Lorimer said nothing. She was sitting motionless with her soft eyes on the fire.

      Mr. Lorimer looked down at the brown head at his knee with growing severity. "You will, therefore, Adelaide, in deference to my wish—if for no other reason—discontinue this use of Mrs. Denys's Christian name."

      Mrs. Lorimer's lips moved, but they said nothing.

      "Adelaide!" He spoke with cold surprise.

      Instantly her fingers tightened upon his with a grip that was almost passionate. She raised her head, and looked up at him with earnest, pleading eyes. "I am sorry, Stephen—dear Stephen—but I have already given my friendship to—to Mrs. Denys. She has been—she is—like a sister to me. So you see, I can't possibly take it away again. You would not wish it if you knew."

      "If I knew!" repeated Mr. Lorimer, in a peculiar tone.

      She turned her face from him again, but he leaned slowly forward in his chair and taking her chin between his finger and thumb turned it deliberately back again.

      She shrank a little, but she did not resist