"THERE never was such an unlucky dog! Everything goes wrong, no matter
what I do. A hundred men may board a hundred busses, and do it safely.
It's only I who must slip and break my arm. Stupendously idiotic of me,
no doubt; but that doesn't mend matters."
Norman Hurst spoke in a tone of languid complaint, as he lay on the
hard horse-hair sofa in their small sitting-room. They lived in
lodgings, chosen, not for charm, but for cheapness. The one window
looked out upon a dull street; the furniture was worn, the carpet was
threadbare. But at least the place was clean, the landlady was honest
and kind. Many pretty knick-knacks of their own lay about, and a few
flowers gracefully arranged gave brightness. Dulcie had a womanly gift
not possessed by all women for making the best of her surroundings;
and a touch from those capable fingers would lend prettiness to the
clumsiest materials.
It was Saturday afternoon, and Dulcie had returned early from her
office. Two days' holiday she had been compelled to take directly
after his accident, but that could not go on, for illness meant added
expense, and more need than ever to work. She was busily darning now,
seated near him; and both her prolonged absence in the City and her
present preoccupation with the needle were grievances in his eyes.
His arm was in splints; his forehead was still half hidden by plaster.
He had slept ill, for the fracture was a bad one, some of the ligaments
being severely wrenched in addition to the broken bone. He was not a
man of much bodily fortitude, rather the reverse; and he seemed to
be completely down, showing no disposition to make the best of a bad
business, and incessantly bemoaning his "hard luck." The pleasantness
of temper, which he was wont to show when life went smoothly, failed
him now; and Dulcie found him no easy patient.
"It's unendurable to be boxed up in this wretched hole all day, with
nobody to speak to," he murmured. "Mrs. Forest,—" in reference to their
landlady. "As if she counted! Yes, she's always poking in, bothering
to know what I want. How can I tell what I want? The pain has been
unbearable. I shall have to loosen the bandages, if it goes on."
"No," she said firmly. "That won't do, dear. It might mean a useless
arm for life."
"Can't help it." He was in a mood for contradiction. "It's all very
well for you—going about and enjoying yourself. I've had no sleep worth
mentioning for days, and I'm worn out."
She could have told him that she had had even less than he. Each night
and all night she had been up and down perpetually, attending to his
wants; and if she did manage to drop off, the tinkle of his hand-bell
was sure to arouse her. She took it as a matter of course; but working
in the day and nursing at night are together exhausting. She had placed
herself now in the shade, that he might not see how heavily her eyelids
drooped.
"Can't you put that darning away, and give me your attention for once?"
"Yes, dear, certainly." The mending would have to be done if not by
day, then by night.
But she did as he asked, and drew her chair nearer. "Is the pain still
so bad?"
"More than I know how to put up with, Dulcie, I'll tell you what this
means. They keep my post open for me."
The suggestion startled her. "I hope they will. They could not be so
unkind."
"I know better. No end of fusses and grumblings lately. They'll catch
at the first chance to get rid of me."
She held one hand tightly with the other, thinking. It might be so.
More than two years earlier he had forfeited a good post, through
his unpunctuality and carelessness, his lack of business habits,
his growing devotion to pleasure and dislike of steady work. A long
interregnum had followed. His present employers, being in want of
temporary help through the illness of one of their clerks, had
consented to try him, though half under protest, since his credentials
could not be counted satisfactory. And when the other man died, they
kept him on.
Twice since then they had all but dismissed him; and twice Dulcie in
person had pleaded on his behalf. For her sake, not for his, they had
yielded; but she knew that she could not ask it again. Lately, he had
received fresh warnings, unknown to Dulcie till this moment.
At the best it was a very inferior post to that which he had lost
earlier; for the pay was poor, and the prospects of a rise were almost
nil. Still, it was better than nothing. And Dulcie dreaded having her
brother again idle on her hands, with only her own small earnings to
depend upon.
Norman was the first to speak. "Mr. Harcourt is always at me—the old
cad!"
"I don't think it is quite right to speak so of him. He has been good
to you."
"Can't help it. He is that."
"Why should he have been 'at you' lately?"
"A fellow can always find something to growl at, if he wishes. I've
only get to be a fraction of a second late—or get something done not to
the very T., as he chooses!"
"Wouldn't it be better to give him no loophole at all?"
"Wouldn't it be better if nobody ever did anything wrong?" he
demanded satirically. "One can't be always slaving. I'm sick of the
whole concern. I wasn't made for this sort of life. Always did hate
desk-work."
"What work do you like?" she involuntarily said.
He moved impatiently. "Not that sort."
"Don't you think we are 'made' for any kind of life that is given to us
to live?"
"You don't understand! A woman never minds how she pegs away at one
thing. A man must have variety."
"'That' is the spirit that is doing its best to ruin British trade,"
she answered.
"You needn't lecture. I've enough to bear, without being scolded as
well."
"Scolding" was the last thing she intended, and the last word that
could rightly be used for her thoughtful utterance. She took this in
silence, however, and he resumed in the same tone—
"If I had a few hundreds at command. I'd soon make my way. How? I know
how! No end of ways. It's only a little capital that's wanted. I'm
tied down on all sides for want of it. But I always was unlucky. Just
see!—Here am I, close upon thirty-seven, with no prospects, nothing but
this miserable clerkship. Barely enough to keep body and soul together."
She would not remind him that his prospects once had been fair, and
that he had only himself to blame for the loss, but perhaps he divined
what she was thinking.
"It's very easy to blame a fellow for things going wrong, but you
wouldn't have done better in my place," he said fretfully.
Would she not? Dulcie silently dissented. Whatever her faults might be,
laziness and self-indulgence did not rank among them.
He moved restlessly again, and groaned. "Can't see why I should have
all this pain. Other fellows don't with a broken arm."
"It is your muscles being so strained and torn, dear. I'm afraid that
means time."
She racked her tired brain to find some fresh subject, since it was
hardly the right time for pointing out his past errors. "I suppose you
have not managed to find a name for the man who helped you when you
fell. He was so kind; and I feel sure I have seen him before."
"I'm sure I don't know. He may be Smith—Brown—Jones anybody. That's
about the sixth time you've discussed him. How many more times?"
She made no reply. Her heavy eyelids were dropping, her head bending
forward as if weighted with lead.
And he reverted to what he had been saying:
"I don't know what you propose to do when I'm dismissed. It's little
enough that I get, but it keeps us from starvation-point. Seems to me
there's nothing but ruin ahead."
She tried to arouse herself. "God will care for us still," she said.
[Illustration: "I say! It's from Australia—from George Kennedy himself."
"Is it?" she said, and she took up her work.]
Norman in his turn was silent. The utterance awoke no response.
"All these years, He never has failed us—never has forsaken us. Isn't
it only His due that we should trust Him still? Should we doubt an
earthly friend who had been so faithful?"
Norman could have said "Speak for yourself!" since no such personal
confidence had come into his experience. That which to Dulcie was Life,
to him was nothing. Such religion as he still held was a mere form; an
unthinking acquiescence in truths for which he did not care; a bare
acknowledgment of Divine realities, which to him were not realities;
an indifferent acceptance of Church teaching which he never took the
trouble to test by practice.
He muttered something to himself.
And Dulcie, nearly at the end of her power to keep up, laid her head
against the high back of her chair, for a moment's rest. The moment
grew into many moments. When Norman next spoke, she was in a dead sleep.
Vexed at the non-response, he spoke again. But she did not hear. Then
he pulled himself forward to get a clear view, since usually the
faintest sound would wake her. She was past that now, and she slept
on. Something in the serene calm of that colourless face appealed to
his better self. He felt ashamed. Well, she should have half-an-hour,
undisturbed. He thought himself magnificently unselfish to permit so
much.
At the half-hour's end, he raised himself again, and saw her smiling
in her sleep. Such a smile! He wondered, almost said "Dulcie!" and
hesitated.
Then came a sharp double-rap at the front door, and she opened her eyes.
"How stupid of me! I'm sorry," she said.
"Were you dreaming?"
"Yes." She smiled again at the recollection.
"What about?" His curiosity was aroused.
But she made no reply. Instead, she went to the letter-box. And
when she returned, he looked at her in amazement, for her face was
transformed. The pallor of years had vanished, and in its place was the
radiant colouring of girlish days.
"I say! What on earth has happened?"
She laughed in a low tone, and her eyes shone. "Nothing. Here are some
letters."
He took them from her, but stared still.
"Something has come to you. What is it? Dulcie—what have you been
dreaming about?"
How could she tell him that her dream had been of George Kennedy, a
letter from whom now lay in his hand?
"I think my nice sleep has rested me. I was so stupidly tired."
"Not tired now?"
"Not nearly so much. It was a very sound sleep."
He did not listen, though he had put the question. "One from old
Harcourt. I thought so. Wants to know how long it will be before I can
get back to work. The old brute! Just after I've broken my arm. He
turned to the second envelope, unconscious of Dulcie's suspense, never
dreaming of the close connexion between her brilliant cheeks and that
handwriting.
"I say! It's from Australia—from George Kennedy himself. A long letter,
too."
"Is it?" she said, and she took up her work.
As his eyes travelled down the first page, he uttered a vigorous
"Hurrah!"
"What does he say, Norman?"
"Splendid! O don't bother! Let me read to the end in peace."
She waited with silent but tried patience.
[Illustration]