The Bars of Iron

by Ethel M. Dell

  CHAPTER VIII

  A TALK BY THE FIRE

  The Reverend Stephen Lorimer was writing his sermon for the last Sundayin Advent. His theme was eternal punishment and one which he consideredworthy of his utmost eloquence. There was nothing mythical or allegoricalin that subject in the opinion of the Reverend Stephen. He believed in itmost firmly, and the belief afforded him the keenest satisfaction. It wasa nerve-shaking sermon. Had it been of a secular nature, it might almosthave been described as inhuman, so obviously was it designed to renderhis 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'spoint of view at least, could scarcely fail to make the most stubbornheart in his congregation tremble. He pictured himself delivering hissplendid rhetoric with a grand and noble severity as impressive as thewords he had to utter, reading appreciation--possibly unwillingappreciation--and dawning uneasiness on the upturned faces of hislisteners.

  Mr. Lorimer did not love his flock; his religion did not take thatform. And the flock very naturally as a whole had scant affection forMr. Lorimer. The flock knew, or shrewdly suspected, that his eloquencewas mere sound--not always even musical--and as a consequence itspower was somewhat thrown away. His command of words was practicallylimitless, but words could not carry him to the hearts of hiscongregation, and he had no other means at his disposal. For this ofcourse he blamed the congregation, which certainly had no right to winkand snigger when he passed.

  This Advent sermon however was a masterpiece, and as Mr. Lorimer lovinglyfingered the pages of his manuscript he told himself that it could notfail 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 urgentof 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 neverlacking. "Well, my dear Adelaide, I think I may truthfully say that thestress of my business is fairly over. You may come in."

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

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

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

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

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

  "No, indeed, dear," his wife protested. "I think you are alwaysimpressive, especially at the end of your sermons. That pause you makebefore 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, emergingfrom his smile.

  She laughed a little nervous laugh. Her thin face was flushed. "Shall wesit by the fire, Stephen, as we used to that first happy winter--do youremember?--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 thelarge easy-chair before the fire. It was the only really comfortablechair 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 stillclinging to his. "This is a real treat," she said, laying her headagainst 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 hercheek. There fell a brief silence, then she said with a slight effort:"Your idea of a mother's help has worked wonderfully, Stephen. As youknow, I was averse to it at first but I am so glad you insisted. DearAvery is a greater comfort to me than I can possibly tell you."

  "Avery!" repeated the Reverend Stephen, with brows elevated. "I presumeyou 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 hasbeen--and is--so very kind to me," she said. "I really don't know whatthe children and I would do without her."

  "I am glad to hear she is kind," said Mr. Lorimer, with a touchof 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 ofdispleasure. "In a sense doubtless we are all equal. But in spite ofthat, extremes of intimacy are often inadvisable. I do not think you arealtogether discreet in making a bosom friend of a woman in Mrs. Denys'sposition. A very good woman, I grant you. But familiarity with her isaltogether unsuitable. From my own experience of her I am convinced thatshe would very soon presume upon it."

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

  Mr. Lorimer looked down at the brown head at his knee with growingseverity. "You will, therefore, Adelaide, in deference to my wish--if forno 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 almostpassionate. She raised her head, and looked up at him with earnest,pleading eyes. "I am sorry, Stephen--dear Stephen--but I have alreadygiven my friendship to--to Mrs. Denys. She has been--she is--like asister to me. So you see, I can't possibly take it away again. You wouldnot 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 hischair and taking her chin between his finger and thumb turned itdeliberately back again.

  She shrank a little, but she did not resist him. He looked searchinglyinto her eyes. The lids flickered nervously under his gaze, but he didnot relax his scrutiny.

  "Well?" he said.

  Her lips quivered. She said nothing.

  But her silence was enough. He released her abruptly and dropped back inhis chair without another word.

  She sank down trembling against his knee, and there followed a mostpainful pause. Through the stillness there crept again the faintstrains of distant music. Someone was playing the Soldiers' March outof _Faust_ on the old cracked schoolroom piano, which was rising noblyto the occasion.

  Mr. Lorimer moved at length and turned his head. "Who is that playing?"

  "Piers Evesham," whispered Mrs. Lorimer. She was weeping softly and darednot stir lest he should discover the fact.

  There was a deep, vertical line between Mr. Lorimer's brows. "And whatmay Piers Evesham be doing here?" he enquired.

  "He comes often--to see Jeanie," murmured his wife deprecatingly.

  He laughed unpleasantly. "A vast honour for Jeanie!"

  Two tears fell from Mrs. Lorimer's eyes. She began to feel furtively forher handkerchief.

  "And Dr. Lennox Tudor,"--he pronounced the name with elaborate care,--"hecomes--often--for the same reason, I presume?"

  "He--he came to see me yesterday," faltered Mrs. Lorimer.

  "Indeed!" The word was as water dropped from an icicle.

  She dabbed her eyes and bravely turned and faced him. "Stephen dear, I amvery sorry. I didn't want to vex you unnecessarily. I hoped againsthope--" She broke off, and knelt up before him, clasping his hand tightlyagainst her breast. "Stephen--dearest, you said--when our firstborncame--that he was--God's gift."

  "Well?" Again that one, uncompromising word. The vertical line deepenedbetween her husba
nd's brows. His eyes looked coldly back at her.

  Mrs. Lorimer caught her breath on a little sob. "Will not this littleone--be just as much so?" she whispered.

  He began to draw his hand away from her. "My dear Adelaide, we will notbe foolishly sentimental. What must be, must. I am afraid I must ask youto run away now as I have yet to put the finishing touches to my sermon.Perhaps you will kindly request young Evesham on my behalf to make alittle less noise."

  He deliberately put her from him, and prepared to rise. But Mrs. Lorimersuddenly and very unexpectedly rose first. She stood before him, slightlybending, her hands on his broad shoulders.

  "Will you kiss me, Stephen?" she said.

  He lifted a grim, reluctant face. She stooped, slipping her arms abouthis neck. "My own dear husband!" she whispered.

  He endured her embrace for a couple of seconds; then, "That will do,Adelaide," he said with decision. "You must not let yourself getemotional. Dear me! It is getting late. I am afraid I really must ask youto leave me."

  Her arms fell. She drew back, dispirited. "Forgive me,--oh, forgive me!"she murmured miserably.

  He turned back to his writing-table, still frowning. "I was not awarethat I had anything to forgive," he said. "But if you think so,--" heshrugged his shoulders, beginning already to turn the pages of hismasterpiece--"my forgiveness is yours. I wonder if you would care todivert your thoughts from what I am sure you will admit to be a purelyselfish channel by listening to a portion of this Advent sermon."

  "What is it about?" asked Mrs. Lorimer, hesitating.

  "My theme," said the Reverend Stephen, "is the awful doom that awaitsthe unrepentant sinner."

  There was a moment's silence, and then Mrs. Lorimer did an extraordinarything. She turned from him and walked to the door.

  "Thank you very much, Stephen," she said, and she spoke with decisionalbeit her voice was not wholly steady. "But I don't feel that that kindof diversion would do me much good. I think I shall run up to the nurseryand see Baby Phil have his bath."

  She was gone; but so noiselessly that Mr. Lorimer, turning in his chairto rebuke her frivolity, found himself addressing the closed door.

  He turned back again with a heavy sigh. There seemed to be somedisturbing element at work. Time had been when she had deemed it herdearest privilege to sit and listen to his sermons. He could notunderstand her refusal of an offer that ought to have delighted her. Hehoped that her heart was not becoming hardened.

  Could he have seen her ascending the stairs at that moment with the tearsrunning down her face, he might have realized that that fear at least wasgroundless.