The Bars of Iron. Ethel M. Dell

purchases lay at his feet. He picked it up. "Come along! He's crouched up in the corner, and his eyes look as if he thought all the devils in hell were after him. Odd as it may seem to you, I can understand his feelings—and yours. Let's go, and leave him to escape in peace!"

      He took her arm as naturally as though he had a right, and led her away. Her basket was in his other hand in which he carried his riding-whip also. He whistled over his shoulder to his horse who followed him like a dog.

      The rain was gradually ceasing, but the clouds had wholly closed upon the sunset. Avery did not want to walk in silence, but somehow she could not help it. His hold upon her arm was as light as a feather, but she could not help that either for the moment. She walked as one beneath a spell.

      And before them the clouds slowly parted, and again there shone that single, magic star, dazzingly pure against the darkness.

      "Do you see that?" said Piers suddenly.

      She assented almost under her breath.

      For a moment she was conscious of the tightening of his hand at her

       elbow. "It's the Star of Hope, Avery," he whispered. "Yours—and mine."

       He stopped with the words. "Don't say anything!" he said hurriedly.

       "Pretend you didn't hear, if—if you wish you hadn't. Goodbye!"

      He thrust her basket into her hand, and turned from her.

      A moment he stood as if to give her the opportunity of detaining him if she so desired, and then as she made no sign he went to his horse who waited a couple of yards away, mounted, and without word or salute rode away.

      Avery drew a deep, deep breath and walked on. There was a curious sensation at her heart—almost a trapped feeling—such as she had never before experienced. Again deeply she drew her breath, as if to rid herself of some oppression. Life was difficult—life was difficult!

      But presently, as she walked, the sense of oppression lessened. She even faintly smiled to herself. What an odd, passionate youth he was! It was impossible to be angry with him; better far not to take him seriously at all.

      She recalled old Mrs. Marshall's dour remarks concerning him;—"brought up by men from his cradle," brought up, moreover, by that terrible old Sir Beverley on the one hand and an irresponsible French valet on the other. She caught herself wishing that she had had the upbringing of him, and smiled again. There was a great deal of sweetness in his nature; of that she was sure, and because of it she found she could forgive his waywardness, reflecting that he had probably been mismanaged from his earliest infancy.

      At this point she reached the high-road, and heard the wheels of a dog-cart behind her. She recognized the quick, hard trot of the doctor's cob, and paused at the side of the road to let him pass. But the doctor's eyes behind their glasses were keen as a hawk's. He recognized her, the deepening dusk notwithstanding, while he was still some yards from her, and pulled in his horse to a walk.

      "Jump up!" he said. "I'm going your way."

      He reached down a hand to her, and Avery mounted beside him. "How lucky for me!" she said.

      "Tired, eh?" he questioned.

      She laughed a little. "Oh no, not really. But it's nice to get a lift.

       Were you coming to see Jeanie?"

      "Yes," said Tudor briefly.

      She glanced at him, caught by something in his tone. "Dr. Tudor," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "are you—altogether—satisfied about her?"

      Tudor was looking at his horse's ears; for some reason he was holding the animal in to a walk. "I am quite satisfied with regard to the fracture," he said. "She will soon be on her legs again."

      His words were deliberately wary. Avery felt a little tremor of apprehension go through her.

      "I'm afraid you don't consider her very strong," she said uneasily.

      He did not at once reply. She had a feeling that he was debating within himself as to the advisability of replying at all. And then quite suddenly he turned his head and spoke. "Mrs. Denys, you are accustomed to hearing other people's burdens, so I may as well tell you the truth. I can't say—because I don't know—if there is anything radically wrong with that little girl; but she has no stamina whatever. If she had to contend with anything serious, things would go very badly with her. In any case—" he paused.

      "Yes?" said Avery.

      Tudor had become wary again. "Perhaps I have said enough," he said.

      "I don't know why you should hesitate to speak quite openly," she rejoined steadily. "As you say, I am a bearer of burdens. And I don't think I am easily frightened."

      "I am sure you are not," he said. "If I may be allowed to say so, I think you are essentially a woman to be relied on. If I did not think so, I certainly should not have spoken as I have done."

      "Then will you tell me what it is that you fear for her?" Avery said.

      He was looking straight at her through the gloom, but she could not see his eyes behind their glasses. "Well," he said somewhat brusquely at length, "to be quite honest, I fear—mind you, I only fear—some trouble, possibly merely some delicacy, of the lungs. Without a careful examination I cannot speak definitely. But I think there is little room for doubt that the tendency is there."

      "I see," Avery said. She was silent a moment; then, "You have not considered it advisable to say this to her father?" she said.

      He shrugged his shoulders. "Would it make any difference?"

      Avery was silent.

      He went on with gathering force. "I went to him once, Mrs. Denys—once only—about his wife's health. I told him in plain language that she needed every care, every consideration, that without these she would probably lose all her grip on life and become a confirmed invalid with shattered nerves. I was very explicit. I told him the straight, unvarnished truth. I didn't like my job, but I felt it must be done. And he—good man—laughed in my face, begged me to croak no more, and assured me that he was fully capable of managing all his affairs, including his wife and family, in his own way. He was touring in Switzerland when the last child was born."

      "Hound!" said Avery, in a low voice.

      Tudor uttered a brief laugh, and abruptly quitted the subject. "That little girl needs very careful watching, Mrs. Denys. She should never be allowed to overtire herself, mentally or physically. And if she should develop any untoward symptom, for Heaven's sake don't hesitate to send for me! I shan't blame you for being too careful."

      "I understand," Avery said.

      He flicked his horse's ears, and the animal broke into a trot.

      When Tudor spoke again, it was upon a totally different matter. His voice was slightly aggressive as he said: "That Evesham boy seems to be for ever turning up at the Vicarage now. He's an ill-mannered cub. I wonder you encourage him."

      "Do I encourage him?" Avery asked.

      He made a movement of irritation. "He would scarcely be such a constant visitor if you didn't."

      Avery smiled faintly and not very humorously in the darkness. "It is

       Jeanie he comes to see," she observed.

      "Oh, obviously." Tudor's retort was so ironical as to be almost rude.

      She received it in silence, and after a moment he made a half-grudging amendment.

      "He never showed any interest in Jeanie before, you know. I don't think she is the sole attraction."

      "No?" said Avery.

      Her response was perfectly courteous, but so vague that it sounded to Lennox Tudor as if she were thinking of something else. He clenched his hand hard upon the handle of his whip.

      "People tolerate him for the sake of his position," he said