The question of the Cove was greatly agitating the mind of Pendragon.
Meetings had been held, a scheme had been drawn up, and it would appear
that the thing was settled. It had been conclusively proved that two
rows of lodging-houses where the Cove now stood would be an excellent
thing. The town was over-crowded--it must spread out in some
direction, and the Cove-end was practically the only possible place for
spreading.
The fishery had been declining year by year, and it was hinted at the
Club that it would be rather a good thing if it declined until it
vanished altogether; the Cove was in no sense of the word useful, and
by its lack of suitable drainage and defective protection from weather,
it was really something of a scandal,--it formed, as Mr. Grayseed, pork
butcher and mayor of the town, pointed out, the most striking contrast
with the upward development so marked in Pendragon of late years. He
called the Cove an "eyesore" and nearly proclaimed it an "anomaly"--but
was restrained by the presence of his wife, a nervous woman who
followed her husband with difficulty in his successful career, and
checked his language when the length of his words threatened their
accuracy.
The town might be said to be at one on these points, and there was no
very obvious reason why the destruction of the Cove should not be
proceeded with--but, still, nothing was done. It was said by a few
that the Cove was picturesque and undoubtedly attracted strangers by
the reason of its dirty, crooked streets and bulging doorways--an odd
taste, they admitted, but nevertheless undoubted and of commercial
importance. On posters Pendragon was described as "the picturesque
abode of old-time manners and customs," and Baedeker had a word about
"charming old-time byways and an old Inn, the haunt, in earlier times,
of smugglers and freebooters." Now this was undoubtedly valuable, and
it would be rather a pity were it swept away altogether. Perhaps you
might keep the Inn--it might even be made into a Museum for relics of
old Pendragon--bits of Cornish crosses, stones, some quaint drawings of
the old town, now in the possession of Mr. Quilter, the lawyer.
The matter was much discussed at the Club, and there was no doubt as to
the feeling of the majority; let the Cove go--let them replace it with
a smart row of red-brick villas, each with its neat strip of garden and
handsome wooden paling.
Harry had learnt to listen in silence. He knew, for one thing, that no
one would pay very much attention if he did speak, and then, of late,
he had been flung very much into himself and his reserve had grown from
day to day. People did not want to listen to him--well, he would not
trouble them. He felt, too, as Newsome had once said to him, that he
belonged properly to "down-along," and he knew that he was out of touch
with the whole of that modern movement that was going on around him.
But sometimes, as he listened, his cheeks burned when they talked of
the Cove, and he longed to jump up and plead its defence; but he knew
that it would be worse than useless and he held himself in--but they
didn't know, they didn't know. It enraged him most when they spoke of
it as some lifeless, abstract thing, some old rubbish-heap that
offended their sight, and then he thought of its beauties, of the
golden sand and the huddling red and grey cottages clustering over the
sea as though for protection. You might fancy that the waves slapped
them on the back for good-fellowship when they dashed up against the
walls, or kissed them for love when they ran in golden ripples and
softly lapped the stones.
On the second night after his visit to Dahlia Feverel, Harry went down,
after dinner, to the Cove. He found those evening hours, before going
to bed, intolerable at the House. The others departed to their several
rooms and he was suffered to go to his, but the loneliness and
dreariness made reading impossible and his thoughts drove him out. He
had lately been often at the Inn, for this was the hour when it was
full, and he could sit in a corner and listen without being forced to
take any part himself. To-night a pedlar and a girl--apparently his
daughter--were entertaining the company, and even the melancholy sailor
with one eye seemed to share the feeling of gaiety and chuckled
solemnly at long intervals. It was a scene full of colour; the lamps
in the window shone golden through the haze of smoke on to the black
beams of the ceiling, the dust-red brick of the walls and floor, and
the cavernous depths of the great fireplace. Sitting cross-legged on
the table in the centre of the room was the pedlar, a little, dark,
beetle-browed man, and at his side were his wares, his pack flung open,
and cloths of green and gold and blue and red flung pell-mell at his
side. Leaning against the table, her hands on her hips, was the girl,
dark like her father, tall and flat-chested, with a mass of black hair
flung back from her forehead. No one knew from what place they had
come nor whither they intended to go--such a visit was rare enough in
these days of trains--and the little man's reticence was attacked again
and again, but ever unsuccessfully. There were perhaps twenty sailors
in the room, and they sat or stood by the fireplace watching and
listening.
Harry slipped in and took his place by Newsome in the corner.
"I will sing," said the girl.
She stood away from the table and flung up her head--she looked
straight into the fire and swayed her body to the time of her tune.
Her voice was low, so that men bent forward in order that they might
hear, and the tune was almost a monotone, her voice rising and falling
like the beating of the sea, with the character of her words. She sang
of a Cornish pirate, Coppinger, "Cruel Coppinger," and of his deeds by
land and sea, of his daring and his cleverness and his brutality, and
the terror that he inspired, and at last of his pursuit by the king's
cutter and his utter vanishing "no man knew where." But gradually as
her song advanced Coppinger was forgotten and her theme became the
sea--she spoke like one possessed, and her voice rose and fell like the
wind--all Time and Place were lost. Harry felt that he was unbounded
by tradition of birth or breeding, and he knew that he was absolutely
as one of these others with him in the room--that he felt that call of
those old gods just as they did. The girl ceased and the room was
silent. Through the walls came the sound of the sea--in the fire was
the crackling of the coals, and down the great chimney came a little
whistle of the wind. "A mighty fine pome 'tis fur sure," said the
white-bearded sailor solemnly, "and mostly wonderful true." He sighed.
"They'm changed times," he said.
The girl sat on the table at her father's side, watching them
seriously. She flung her arms behind her head and then suddenly--
"I can dance too," she said.
They pulled the table back and watched her.
It was something quite simple and unaffected--not, perhaps, in any way
great dancing, but having that quality, so rarely met with, of being
exactly right and suited to time and place. Her arms moved in ripples
like the waves of the sea--every part of her body seemed to join in the
same motion, but quietly, with perfect tranquillity, without any sense
of strain or effort. The golden lamps, the coloured clothes, the
red-brick floor, made a background of dazzling colour, and her black
hair escaped and fell in coils over her neck and shoulders.
Suddenly she stopped. "There, that's all," she said, binding her hair
up again with quick fingers. She walked over to the sailors and talked
to them with perfect freedom and ease; at last she stayed by the
handsomest of them--a dark, well-built young fellow, who put his arm
round her waist and shared his drink with her.
Harry, as he watched them, felt strangely that it was for him a scene
of farewell--that it was for the last time that the place was to offer
him such equality or that he himself would be in a position to accept
it. He did not know why he had this feeling--perhaps it was the talk
of the Club about the Cove, or his own certain conviction that matters
at the House were rapidly approaching a crisis. Yes, his own protests
were of no avail--things must move, and perhaps, after all, it were
better that they should.
Bethel came in, and as usual joined the group at the fire without a
word; he looked at the pedlar curiously and then seemed to recognise
him--then he went up to him and soon they were in earnest conversation.
It grew late, and at the stroke of midnight Newsome rose to shut up the
house.
"I will go back with you," Bethel said to Harry, and they walked to the
door together. For a moment Harry turned back. The girl was bending
over the sailor--her arms were round his neck, and his head was tilted
back to meet her mouth; the pedlar was putting his wares into his pack
again, but some pieces of yellow and blue silk had escaped him and lay
on the floor at his feet; down the street three of the sailors were
tramping home, and the chorus of a chanty died away as they turned the
corner.
The girl, the pedlar, the colours of the room, the vanishing song,
remained with Harry to the end of his life--for that moment marked a
period.
As he walked up the hill he questioned Bethel about the pedlar.
"Oh, I had met him," he said vaguely. "One knows them all, you know.
But it is difficult to remember where. He is one of the last of his
kind and an amusing fellow enough----" But he sighed--"I am out of
sorts to-night--my kite broke. Do you know, Trojan, there are times
when one thinks that one has at last got right back--to the power, I
mean, of understanding the meaning and truth of things--and then,
suddenly, it has all gone and one is just where one was years ago and
it seems wasted. I tell you, man, last night I was on the moor and it
was alive with something. I can't tell you what--but I waited and
watched--I could feel them growing nearer and nearer, the air was
clearer--their voices were louder--and then suddenly it was all gone.
But of course you won't understand--none of you--why should you? You
think that I am flying a kite--why, I am scaling the universe!"
"Whatever you are doing," said Harry seriously, "you are not keeping
your family. Look here, Bethel, you asked me once if I would be a
friend of yours. Well, I accepted that, and we have been good friends
ever since. But it really won't do--this kind of thing, I mean.
Scaling the universe is all very well, if you are a single man--then it
is your own look-out; but you are married--you have people depending on
you, and they will soon be starving."
Bethel burst out laughing.
"They've got you, Trojan! They've got you!" he cried. "I knew it
would come sooner or later, and it hasn't taken long. Three weeks and
you're like the rest of them. No, you mustn't talk like that, really.
Tell me I'm a damned fool--no good--an absolutely rotten type of
fellow--and it's all true enough. But you must accept it at that. At
least I'm true to my type, which is more than the rest of them are, the
hypocrites!--and as to my family, well, of course I'm sorry, but
they're happy enough and know me too well to have any hope of ever
changing me----"
"No--of course, I don't want to preach. I'm the last man to tell any
one what they should do, seeing the mess that I've made of things
myself. But look here, Bethel, I like you--I count myself a friend,
and what are friends for if they're not to speak their minds?"
"Oh! That's all right enough. Go on--I'll listen." He resigned
himself with a humorous submission as though he were indulging the
opinions of a child.
"Well, it isn't right, you know--it isn't really. I don't want to tell
you that you're a fool or a rotter, because you aren't, but that's just
what makes it so disappointing for any one who cares about you. You're
letting all your finer self go. You're becoming, what they say you
are, a waster. Of course, finding yourself's all right--every man
ought to do that. But you have no right to throw off all claims as
completely as you have done. Life isn't like that. We've all got our
Land of Promise, and, just in order that it may remain, we are never
allowed to reach it. Whilst you are lying on your back on the moor,
your wife and daughter are killing themselves in order to keep the home
together--I say that it is not fair."
"Oh, come, Trojan," Bethel protested, "is that quite fair on your side?
Things are all right, you know. They like it better, they do really.
Why, if I were to stay at home and try to work they'd think I was going
to be ill. Besides, I couldn't--not at an office or anything like
that. It isn't my fault, really--but it would kill me now if I
couldn't get away when I want to--not having liberty would be worse
than death."
"Ah, that's yourself," said Harry. "That's selfish. Why don't you
think of them? You can't let things go on as they are, man. You must
get something to do."
"I'm damned if I will." Bethel stopped short and stretched his arms
wide over the moor. "It isn't as if it would do them any good, and it
would kill me. Why, one is deaf and blind and dumb as soon as one has
work to do. I'm a child, you know. I've never grown up, and of course
I hadn't any right to marry. I don't know now why I did. And all you
people--you grown-ups--with your businesses and difficult pleasures and
noisy feasts--of course you can't understand what these things mean.
Only a few of you who sit with folded hands and listen can know what it
is. I saw a picture once--some people feasting in a forest, and
suddenly a little faun jumped from a tree on to their table and waited
for them to play with him. But some were eating and some drinking and
some talking scandal, and they did not see him. Only a little boy and
an old man--they were doing nothing--just dreaming--and they saw him.
Oh! I tell you, the dreamer has his philosophy and creed like the rest
of you!"
"That's all very well," cried Harry. "But it's a case of bread and
butter. You will be bankrupt if you go on as you are!"
"Oh no!" Bethel laughed. "Providence looks after the dreamers.
Something always happens--I know something will happen now. We are on
the edge of some good fortune. I can feel it."
The man was incorrigible--there was no doubt of it--but Harry had
something further to say.
"Well, I want you to let me take a deeper interest in your affairs.
May I ask your daughter to marry me?"
"What? Mary?" Bethel stopped and shouted--"Why! That's splendid! Of
course, that's what Providence has been intending all this time. The
very thing, my dear fellow----" and he put his arm on Harry's
shoulder--"there's no one I'd rather give my girl to. But it's nothing
to do with me, really. She'll know her mind and tell you what she
feels about it. Dear me! Just to think of it!"
He broke out into continuous chuckles all the way home, and seemed to
regard the whole affair as a great joke. Harry left him shouting at
the moon. He had scarcely meant to speak of it so soon, but the
thought of her struggle and the knowledge of her father's utter
indifference decided matters. He went back to the house, determining
on an interview in the morning.
Mary meanwhile had been spending an evening that was anything but
pleasant--she had been going through her accounts and was horrified at
what she saw. They were badly overdrawn, most of the shops had refused
them further credit, and the little income that came to them could not
hope to cover one-half of their expenses. What was to be done? Ruin
and disgrace stared them in the face. They might borrow, but there was
no one to whom she could go. They must, of course, give up their
little house and go into rooms, but that would make very little
difference. She looked at it from every point of view and could think
of no easier alternative. She puzzled until her head ached, and the
room, misty with figures, seemed to swim round her. She felt cruelly
lonely, and her whole soul cried out for Harry--he would help her, he
would tell her what to do. She knew now that she loved him with all
the strength that was in her, that she had always loved him, from the
first moment that she had known him. She remembered her promise to him
that she would come and ask for his help if she really needed it--well,
perhaps she would, in the end, but now, at least, she must fight it out
alone. The first obvious thing was that her parents must know; that
they would be of any use was not to be expected, but at least they must
realise on what quicksands their house was built. They were like two
children, with no sense whatever of serious consequences and penalties,
and they would not, of course, realise that they were face to face with
a brick wall of debts and difficulties and that there was no way
over--but they must be told.
On the next morning, after breakfast, Mary penned her mother into the
little drawing-room and broached the subject. Mrs. Bethel knew that
something serious was to follow, and sat on the edge of her chair,
looking exactly like a naughty child convicted of a fault. She was
wearing a rather faded dress of bright yellow silk and little yellow
shoes, which she poked out from under her dress every now and again and
regarded with a complacent air.
"They are really not so shabby, Mary, my dear--not nearly so shabby as
the blue ones, and a good deal more handsome--don't you think so, my
dear? But you say you want to talk about something, so I'll be
quiet--only if you wouldn't mind being just a little quick because
there are, really, so many things to be done this morning, that it
puzzles me how----"
"Yes, mother, I know. But there is something I want to say. I won't
be long, only it's rather important."
"Yes, dear--only don't scold. You look as if you were going to scold.
I can always tell by that horrid line you have, dear, in your forehead.
I know I've done something I oughtn't to, but what it is unless it's
those red silks I bought at Dixon's on Friday, and they were so cheap,
only----"
"No, mother, it's nothing you've done. It's rather what I've done, or
all of us. We are all in the same boat. It's my managing, I suppose;
anyhow, I've made a mess of it and we're very near the end of the rope.
There doesn't seem any outlook anywhere. We're overdrawn at the bank;
they won't give us credit in the town, and I don't see where any's to
come from."
"Oh, it's money! Well, my dear, of course it is provoking--such a
horrid thing to have to worry about; but really I'm quite relieved. I
thought it was something I'd done. You quite frightened me; and I'm
glad you don't mind about the red silks, because it really was tempting
with----"
"No, dear, that's all right. But this is serious. I've come to the
end and I want you to help me. Will you just go through the books with
me and see if anything can be done? I'm so tired and worried. I've
been going at them so long that I daresay I've muddled it. It mayn't
be quite so hopeless as I've made out."
"The books! My dear Mary----" Mrs. Bethel looked at her daughter
pathetically. "You know that I've no head for figures. Why, when
mother died at home--we were in Chertsey then, Frank and Doris and
I--and I tried to manage things, you know, it was really too absurd. I
used to make the most ridiculous mistakes and Frank said that the
village people did just what they liked with me, and I remember old
Mrs. Blenkinsop charging me for eggs after the first month at quite an
outrageous rate because----"
"Yes, mother, I know. But two heads are better than one, and I am
really hopelessly puzzled to know what to do." Mary got up and went
over to her mother and put her arm round her. "You see, dear, it is
serious. There's no money at all--less than none; and I don't know
where we are to turn. There's no outlook at all. I'm afraid that it's
no use appealing to father--no use--and so it's simply left for us two
to do what we can. It's frightening always doing it alone, and I
thought you would help me."
"Well, of course, Mary dear, I'll do what I can. No, I'm afraid that
it would be no good appealing to your father. It's strange how very
little sense he's ever had of money--of the value of it. I remember in
the first week that we were married he bought some book or other and we
had to go without quite a lot of things. I was angry then, but I've
learnt since. It was our first quarrel."
She sighed. It was always Mrs. Bethel's method of dealing with any
present problem to flee into the happy land of reminiscence and to stay
there until the matter had, comfortably or otherwise, settled itself.
"But I shouldn't worry," she said, looking up at her daughter. "Things
always turn up, and besides," she added, "you might marry, dear."
"Marry!" Mary looked up at her mother sharply. Mrs. Bethel looked a
little frightened.
"Well, you will, you know, dear, probably--and perhaps--well, if he had
money----"
"Mother!" She sprang up from her chair and faced her with flaming
cheeks. "Do you mean to say that they are talking about it?"
"They? Who? It was only Mrs. Morrison the other day, at tea-time,
said--that she thought----"
"Mrs. Morrison? That hateful woman discussing me? Mother, how could
you let her? What did she say?"
"Why, only--I wish you wouldn't look so cross, dear. It was nothing
really--only that Mr. Trojan obviously cared a good deal--and it would
be so nice if----"
"How dare she?" Mary cried again. "And you think it too, mother--that
I would go on my knees to him to take us out of our trouble--that I
would sweep his floors if he would help the family! Oh! It's hateful!
Hateful!"
She flung herself into a chair by the window and burst into tears.
Mrs. Bethel stared at her in amazement. "Well, upon my word, my dear,
one never knows how to take you! Why, it wasn't as if she'd said
anything, only that it would be rather nice." She paused in utter
bewilderment and seemed herself a little inclined to cry.
At this moment the door opened--Mary sprang up. "Who is it?" she asked.
"Mr. Henry Trojan, miss, would like to come up if it wouldn't----"
"No. Tell him, Jane, that----"
But he had followed the servant and appeared in the doorway smiling.
"I knew you wouldn't mind my coming unconventionally like this," he
said; "it's a terrible hour in the morning--but I felt sure that I
would catch you."
He had seen at once that there was something wrong, and he stopped
confusedly in the doorway.
But Mrs. Bethel came forward, smiling nervously.
"Oh, please, Mr. Trojan, do come in. We always love to see you--you
know we do--you're one of our real friends--one of our best--and it's
only too good of you to spare time to come round and see us. But I am
busy--it's quite true--one is, you know, in the morning; but I don't
think that Mary has anything very important immediately. I think she
might stop and talk to you," and in a confusion of tittered apologies
she vanished away.
But he stood in the doorway, waiting for Mary to speak. She sat with
her head turned to the window and struggled to regain her self-command;
they had been talked about in the town. She could imagine how it had
gone. "Oh! the Bethel girl! Yes, after the Trojan money and doing it
cleverly too; she'll hook him all right--he's just the kind of man."
Oh! the hatefulness of it!
"What's up?" He came forward a little, twisting his hat in his hands.
"Nothing!" She turned round and tried to smile. Indeed she almost
laughed, for he looked so ridiculous standing there--like a great
schoolboy before the headmaster, his hat turning in his hands; or
rather, like a collie plunging out of the water and ready to shake
himself on all and sundry. As she looked at him she knew that she
loved him and that she could never marry him because Pendragon thought
that she had hooked him for his money.
"Yes--there is something. What is it?" He had come forward and taken
her hands.
But she drew them away slowly and sat down on the sofa. "I'm tired,"
she said a little defiantly, "that's all--you know if you will come and
call at such dreadfully unconventional hours you mustn't expect to find
people with all the paint on. I never put mine on till lunch----"
"No--it's no good," he answered gravely. "You're worried, and it's
wrong of you not to tell me. You are breaking your promise----"
"I made no promise," she said quickly.
"You did--that day on the moor. We were to tell each other always if
anything went wrong. It was a bargain."
"Well, nothing's wrong. I'm tired--bothered a bit--the old
thing--there's more to be bought than we're able to pay for."
"I've come with a proposition," he answered gravely. "Just a
suggestion, which I don't suppose you'll consider--but you might--it is
that you should marry me."
It had come so suddenly that it took her by surprise. The colour flew
into her cheeks and then ebbed away again, leaving her whiter than
ever. That he should have actually said the words made her heart beat
furiously, and there was a singing in her ears so that she scarcely
heard what he said. He paused a moment and then went on. "Oh! I know
it's absurd when we've only known each other such a little time, and
I've been telling myself that again and again--but it's no good. I've
tried to keep it back, but I simply couldn't help it--it's been too
strong for me."
He paused again, but she said nothing and he went on. "I ought to tell
you about myself, so that you should know, because I'm really a very
rotten type of person. I've never done anything yet, and I don't
suppose I ever shall; I've been a failure at most things, and I'm
stupid. I never read the right sort of books, or look at the right
sort of pictures, or like the right sort of music, and even at the sort
of things that most men are good at I'm nothing unusual. I can't
write, you know, a bit, and in my letters I express myself like a boy
of fifteen. And then I'm old--quite middle-aged--although I feel young
enough. So that all these things are against me, and it's really a
shame to ask you."
He paused again, and then he said timidly, bending towards her--
"Could you ever, do you think, give me just a little hope--I wouldn't
want you to right away at once--but, any time, after you'd thought
about it?"
She looked up at him and saw that he was shaking from head to foot.
Her pride was nearly overcome and she wanted to fling herself at his
feet, and kiss his hands, and never let him go, but she remembered that
Pendragon had said that she was catching him for his money; so, by a
great effort, she stayed where she was, and answered quietly, even
coldly--
"I am more honoured, Mr. Trojan, than I can tell you by your asking me.
It is much, very much more than I deserve, and, indeed, I'm not in the
least worthy of it. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid it's no good. You see
I'm such a stupid sort of girl--I muddle things so. It would never do
for me to attempt to manage a big place like 'The Flutes'--and then I
don't think I shall ever marry. I don't think I am that sort of girl.
You have been an awfully good friend to me, and I'm more grateful to
you than I can say. I can't tell you how much you have helped us all
during these last weeks. But I'm afraid I must say no."
The light from the window fell on her hair and the blue of her dress--a
little gold pin at her throat flashed and sparkled; his eye caught it,
and was fixed there.
"No--don't say actually no." He was stammering. "Please--please.
Think about it after I have gone away. I will come again another day
when you have thought about it. I'm so stupid in saying things--I
can't express myself; but, Miss Bethel--Mary--I love you--I love you.
There isn't much to say about it--I can't express it any better--but,
please--you mustn't say no like that. I would be as good a husband to
you as I could, dear, always. I'm not the sort of fellow to change."
"No"--she was speaking quickly as though she meant it to be final--"no,
really, I mean it. I can't, I can't. You see one has to feel certain
about it, hasn't one?--and I don't--not quite like that. But you are
the very best friend that I have ever had; don't let it spoil that."
"Perhaps," he said slowly, "it's my age. You don't feel that you could
with a man old enough to be your father. But I'm young--younger than
Robin. But I won't bother you about it. Of course, if you are
certain----"
He rose and stumbled a moment over the chair as he passed to the door.
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" she cried. "I----" and then she had to turn to
hide her face. In her heart there was a struggle such as she had never
faced before. Her love called her a fool and told her that she was
flinging her life away--that the ship of her good fortune was sailing
from her, and it would be soon beyond the horizon; but her pride
reminded her of what they had said--that she had laid traps for him,
for his money.
"I am sorry," she said again. "But it must be only friendship."
But she had forgotten that although her back was turned he was towards
the mirror. He could see her--her white face and quivering lips.
He sprang towards her.
"Mary, try me. I will love you better than any man in God's world,
always. I will live for you, and work for you, and die for you."
It was more than she could bear. She could not reason now. She was
only resolved that she would not give way, and she pushed past him
blindly, her head hanging.
The drawing-room door closed. He stared dully in front of him. Then
he picked up his hat and left the house.
She had flung herself on her bed and lay there motionless. She heard
the door close, his steps on the stairs, and then the outer door.
She sprang to the window, and then, moved by some blind impulse, rushed
to the head of the stairs. There were steps, and Mrs. Bethel's voice
penetrated the gloom. "Mary, Mary, where are you?"
She crept back to her room.
He walked back to "The Flutes" with the one fact ever before him--that
she had refused him. He realised now that it had been his love for her
that had kept him during these weeks sane and brave. Without it, he
could not have faced his recent troubles and all the desolate sense of
outlawry and desolation that had weighed on him so terribly. Now he
must face it, alone, with the knowledge that she did not love him--that
she had told him so. It was his second rejection--the second flinging
to the ground of all his defences and walls of protection. Robin had
rejected him, Mary had rejected him, and he was absolutely, horribly
alone. He thought for a moment of Dahlia Feverel and of her desertion.
Well, she had faced it pluckily; he would do the same. Life could be
hard, but he would not be beaten. His methods of consolation, his
pulling of himself together--it was all extremely commonplace, but then
he was an essentially commonplace man, and saw things unconfusedly, one
at a time, with no entanglement of motives or complicated searching for
origins. He had accepted the fact of his rejection by his family with
the same clear-headed indifference to side-issues as he accepted now
his rejection by Mary. He could not understand "those artist fellows
with their complications"--life for him was perfectly straight-forward.
But the gods had not done with his day. On the way up to his room he
was met by Clare.
"Father is worse," she said quickly. "He took a turn this morning, and
now, perhaps, he will not live through the night. Dr. Turner and Dr.
Craile are both with him. He asked for you a little while ago."
She passed down the stairs--the quiet, self-composed woman of every
day. It was characteristic of a Trojan that the more agitated outside
circumstances became the quieter he or she became. Harry was Trojan in
this, and, as was customary with him, he put aside his own worries and
dealt entirely with the matter in hand.
Already, over the house, a change was evident. In the absolute
stillness there could be felt the presence of a crisis, and the
monotonous flap of a blind against some distant window sounded clearly
down the passages.
In Sir Jeremy's room there was perfect stillness. The two doctors had
gone downstairs and the nurse was alone. "He asked for you, sir," she
whispered; "he is unconscious again now."
Harry sat down by the bed and waited. The air was heavy with scents of
medicine, and the drawn blinds flung grey, ghost-like shadows over the
bed. The old man seemed scarcely changed. The light had gone from his
eyes and his hand lay motionless on the sheets, and his lips moved
continually in a never-ceasing murmur.
Suddenly he turned and his eyes opened. The nurse moved forward.
"Where's Harry?" He waved his arm feebly in the air.
"I'm here, father," Harry said quietly.
"Ah, that's good"--he sank back on the pillows again. "I'm going to
die, you know, and I'm lonely. It's damned gloomy--got to die--don't
want to--but got to."
He felt for his son's hand, found it, and held it. Then he passed off
again into half-conscious sleep, and Harry watched, his hand in his
father's and his thoughts with the girl and the boy who had rejected
him rather than with the old man who had accepted him.