Another charwoman had now been engaged; and Mrs. Goudie, retiring on a
small pension from the Dales, came to Vine-Pits only to pay her
respects or now and then to appear as the least greedy and most
deserving petitioner of all those who sat on the bench or stood
waiting at the back door. Coming thus for a dole of tea, she asked
Norah to inform Mr. Dale that young Bates--as he was still called--had
again been seen in the neighborhood. As usual, he had come and gone
furtively.
Dale, duly receiving the message, frowned and shook his head
ominously. He had never been able to get hold of young Bates, although
Mrs. Goudie had reported several of these sinister reappearances, and
probably nothing could have been gained by an interview with such a
heartless scoundrel. So long as old Bates was weak enough to give,
young Bates would be cruel enough to go on taking; and from the aspect
of things it appeared that the too generous father would before long
be altogether denuded. He was getting shabbier and shabbier in his
apparel; his poor old face looked pinched and thin, and the talk was
that he lived on starvation rations. It all seemed horrible to Dale--a
thing that should not be permitted; and yet what could one do?
He thought about it all next day, and it was more or less occupying
his mind at dusk when he sat with Norah in the office clearing up for
the night.
"There, my dear, that'll do. You'll only hurt your eyes."
"It's all right, Mr. Dale. I can see well enough just to finish."
Dale was sitting at the table in the window and Norah stood at his
desk beside the high stool, copying rows of figures out of a huge
day-book. He turned his head and watched her for a minute or so in
silence. Her dusky black hair was like a crown over her stooping face;
her left elbow and hand lay on the desk; and the moving pen in her
other hand pointed straight at the right shoulder, exactly as Dale had
taught her to point it when she first began to imitate his
copper-plate writing. She had been an apt pupil, and there was no
mistake about the help she gave him nowadays. At the beginning he used
to pretend a little, saying that her aid lightened his labors, merely
to encourage and please her.
"Now stop, lassie. This is what Mr. Osborn terms blind man's holiday.
Shut the book."
"I should have liked to finish," said Norah.
Nevertheless she obeyed him, closing the book and putting her papers
in a drawer.
"Look here, if you _must_ be busy to the last moment, come over here
nearer the light and address these envelopes for me--and I'll have a
pipe."
Norah came meekly to the window and took the chair that Dale had
vacated for her. Standing close behind the chair and looking down upon
her, he noticed the deft way in which her hands gathered the loose
envelopes and stacked them; the shapeliness of her arms and
shoulders; and the ivory whiteness of her cheek. It was the fading
light that produced this effect, because she was not by any means a
pale girl. Her skin, although white enough, had warm tones in it, and
under it still warmer tones--a brownish glow, like a sunburn that had
been transmitted by nomad ancestors who baked themselves under fierce
southern skies centuries ago. The gipsy blood showed to that extent in
her complexion, and to a greater extent in her hair.
And suddenly he thought of what Mavis had been as a girl. _She_ had a
white skin--if you please; much whiter than Norah's; but she was like
this girl in many respects, was Mavis when he first saw her. She and
Norah were as like as two peas out of one pod in the matter of looking
fragile and yet firm, as gracefully delicate of form as it is possible
to be without arousing any suspicion of debility or unhealthiness. The
back of Mavis' stooping neck used to be exactly like this girl's--a
smooth, round stem, without a crease or a speck on it, a solid,
healthy neck, and yet so slender that his great hand would almost
girdle it.
"Aren't I doing right?" Norah looked up quickly. "I'm copying the
addresses off the letters."
"No, you're doing quite right." Dale put his hands in his pockets and
moved away to the high stool. "What made you think you were doing
wrong?"
"Oh, I don't know. I always get nervous when you watch me and don't
say anything."
"Then we'll talk. There, I'll wait till you're through, and then we'll
talk a bit."
"I am through now," said Norah in a minute. "Shall I put the stamps
on?"
"No, don't trouble. I'll do it myself--and post 'em at the pillar."
He had seated himself on the stool and had brought out his pipe. He
looked at its bowl reflectively, and then began to talk to Norah about
the children.
"Don't you think, Norah, that we ought to be putting Billy out to
school?"
Mavis so far had acted as governess, with Norah to assist, and between
them they had taught both children to read and write; but this home
tuition could not go on indefinitely, and Dale thought that the time
had already come when larger and bolder steps must be taken toward
achieving that liberal education which he had solemnly promised his
son and heir. He was always reading advertisements of attractive
seaside schools, where the boy could secure home comforts, the
rudiments of sound religious faith, as well as a good grounding in the
humanities. Mavis, however, would not yet hear of a separation from
her darling. She pleaded that he was such a _little_ fellow still; she
prayed Will not to hurry.
"Tell me what _you_ think about it, Norah--quite candidly."
Norah had hesitated about replying; but she now said that she really
thought Dale need not be in a hurry. Billy was so clever that when he
did get to school he would learn faster than other boys; and she added
that his departure from home would be "a dreadful wrinch for Mrs.
Dale."
"But it will be a wrench for her whenever it happens. In life one has
to prepare one's self for _wrenches_--That, I fancy, is the better way
of pronouncing the word. Yes, wrench after wrench, Norah--that's life;
until the last great wrench comes--and, well, that _isn't_ life....
Who was that passed the window?"
Norah turned her bright young face to the window and peered out.
"It's Mr. Bates, sir. How funny he looks!"
"What d'you mean--funny?"
"Walking so slow, and leaning on his great stick--as if he was a
pilgrim."
Dale had jumped off his stool; and he ran out to the road and begged
the old man to come in.
"Certainly, William," said Mr. Bates.
He had cut himself a long staff from some woodland holly-tree, a rough
prop that reached shoulder high, and on this he leaned heavily as soon
as he stopped walking. He looked very old and very shaky.
"Good evening, Miss Veale," he said courteously as he entered the
office.
"Oh, you mustn't call her _Miss_ Veale. She's Norah--one of us, you
know." And as he spoke, Dale laid his hand on the back of Norah's neck
to prevent her from rising. "She's our _multum in parvo_--making
herself so useful to the wife and me that we can't think what we
should ever do without her. Bide where you are a moment, Norah."
Dale established his visitor on a chair that faced the rapidly waning
light, and addressed him again with increased deference.
"If you can spare a few minutes, there's a thing I'd like to speak to
you about, Mr. Bates."
"I can spare all the minutes between now and morning," said Mr. Bates
cordially, "if I can be of the least service to you, William."
As much now as in the beginning of the enterprise Bates held himself
at the younger man's disposal, indeed liked nothing better than to
give information and counsel whenever his prosperous successor was of
a mind to accept either.
"I won't keep you as long as that," said Dale, smiling; "but will you
give us the pleasure of your company at supper?"
"You're very kind, William, but I don't think I can."
"Do, Mr. Bates. The wife will be as pleased as me--as I."
The old fellow looked up at Dale hesitatingly; and Dale, looking down
at his clean-shaven cheeks, bushy white eyebrows, and the long wisps
of white hair brushed across his bald head, felt a great reverence. He
would not look at the threadbare shabbiness of the gray cloth suit, or
at the queer tints given by time and weather to the black felt hat
that was being balanced on two shrunken knees.
"I, ah, don't think I'll present myself before Mrs. Dale--ah, without
more preparation than this. Besides, would it not put her out?"
"No, indeed. Quite unceremonious--taking us exactly as you find
us--pot-luck."
"Then be it so. You are very good. Thank you, William."
"Thank you, Mr. Bates." Dale seized upon the visitor's hat and stick.
"Now you may cut along, Norah, and tell Mrs. Dale that Mr. Bates is
kind enough to stay supper--without ceremony."
Norah glided across the office to the inner door, and, going out,
asked if she should bring a lamp.
"Yes, bring the lamp in ten minutes--not before. There's light enough
for two such old friends to chat together;" and Dale waited until she
had shut the door. "Now, sir, this is kind and friendly. Give me your
hand, Mr. Bates. I'd like to hold it in mine, while I say these few
prelim'nary words."
"Yes, William?" The old man had immediately offered his hand, and he
looked up with a puzzled and anxious expression.
"I merely wish to assure you, Mr. Bates, very sincerely, that if you
at this moment could see right into my heart, you'd plainly see my
respect, and what is more, my true affection for you, sir."
"I believe it, William."
"And it has always been a source of comfort to me to think that you,
sir, have entertained a most kindly feeling to me, sir."
Mr. Bates had averted his eyes, and he moved his feet restlessly, his
demeanor seeming to indicate that he regretted having accepted the
supper invitation and was perhaps desirous of withdrawing his
acceptance.
"I hope," Dale went on, "I haven't been presumptuous in my estimate of
your feeling, sir."
"No." And the old man looked up again. His eyes, his whole face had
grown soft, and the tone of his voice was firm, yet rather low and
very sweet. "No, William, my feeling for you began in taking note of
your sharpness combined with your steady ways, and it has ended in
love."
"That's a large word, Mr. Bates."
"It's no larger than the truth."
"Then I say 'Thank you, sir, for the honor you have done me.'" Dale
pressed the old chap's hand, dropped it, and returned to the high
stool. "And now, after what has passed between us two, man to man,
you'll credit me with no disrespectfulness if I make bold to let fall
certain remarks."
Bates nodded his white head and stared at the floor.
"There's a thing, sir, that I particularly want to say. It is about
yourself, sir--"
"Go on, William," said Mr. Bates, "and get it over. I know what you're
after, of course--something about Richard. Well, I'll take it from
you. I wouldn't take it from any one else."
"D'you remember all you used to advise me about the danger of rats,
telling me to fight 'em as if it was the devil himself, horns and
tail, and not just so many stinking little avaricious rodents? You
said, one rat was sufficient to mess me up."
Mr. Bates nodded.
"And you knew what you were talking about--no one better. And for why?
Because it was your own story you were telling me, in the form of a
parable."
"You're wrong there, William."
"Not a bit. You'd had one rat--but, by Jupiter, he was a whooping big
'un, and he'd eaten your grain, and messed you up--he'd ruined your
business, and well-nigh broken your heart, and practically done for
you."
"Have you finished?" asked Mr. Bates, with dignity.
"Yes, sir--almost;" and Dale in the most earnest manner besought his
old friend to resist any further attacks from that wicked son. "I do
implore you, sir, not to be weak and fullish. Don't take him to your
boosum. He's a rat still--an' he'll gnaw and devour the little that's
left to you, so sure as I sit here."
But it was all no use, as he could easily see. Mr. Bates raised his
eyes, moved his feet, and then spoke gently but proudly.
"I thank you, William, for your well-meant intentions. I have listened
to what you wished to say. Now shall we talk of something else?"
"Yes--but with just this one proviso added. Will you remember that I
am your banker, for the full half of what the banker's worth? If the
pinch comes, draw on me."
"I thank you again, William. But I shan't need help."
"I think you will."
"Then to speak quite truly, I couldn't take help, William, I really
couldn't."
"Why not? Think of all you've done for me. Don't deny me the pleasure
of doing something for you."
"I'll consider, William. Please let it rest there."
Dale could say no more and they both sat silent for a little while.
Then old Bates spoke again.
"William," he said, "if you'll excuse me, I really won't stay. You
have--to tell the truth--agitated me."
"Indeed I'm sorry, sir. But don't punish me by going."
"I am not quite up to merry-making."
Just then Norah arrived, carrying the lamp, and Dale turned to her for
aid.
"Norah, speak for me. Mr. Bates says he won't stay. Tell him how
disappointed we shall be."
"Oh, do stay, Mr. Bates," said Norah. "It'll be such a disappointment
to Mr. Dale."
"Some other evening, Miss--ah, Norah. But you must excuse me this
time."
And, having picked up his hat and stick, Mr. Bates bade them good
night.
Dale and Norah went out into the road and watched him as he walked
away.
"There, Norah;" and Dale, slipping his arm within hers, drew her
closer to his side. "Look with all your eyes. You'll never see a
better man than that."
They watched him till he disappeared in the gathering darkness; and he
seemed just like a pilgrim with his staff, slowly approaching the end
of a cruelly long journey.