"HURRAH!" shouted Norman again, his face hardly less transformed than
Dulcie's. Dolefulness was gone, and his eyes sparkled. "Old George is a
brick, and no mistake."
"What does he say?"
"Wants me to manage his property for him." Her colour lessened fast.
"Then he does not mean to come home!"
"Well, not at present, certainly. Doesn't seem to be in any hurry. He
says he must wait to see his way—not come this year, anyhow. No end of
business out there, which he can't leave. So he wants somebody to take
things in hand for him, and he says he can't do better than appoint me
to the post. Well done, old man! I'll write to Harcourt, and tell him
he needn't expect to see me again. It's a magnificent score to be out
of his power."
"Tell me more, please." She was thirsting for fuller information.
"I'm telling you as fast as I can. You don't seem to take it in. I'm to
be his agent over the estate. Everything is to be in my hands. We'll
give up these poky little rooms, and go to live at Apthorne. You'll
come and help me, of course. I shall want you to type-write my letters,
and to do no end of things. I always hated writing, you know." He might
have said that he always hated trouble of all kinds, but she was able
to supply the omission.
"And you've a good business-head," he went on. "Of course, you'll throw
over your work here, and I'll make it up to you, one way and another. I
couldn't get along without you, Dulcie."
She knew that he could not, and her heart warmed in response to the
affectionate utterance.
"How about the old agent, Norman?"
"Kennedy is writing by the same mail, to give him his dismissal. Says
he is getting old, and must be past work; but he will pay him a good
round sum down, so that he won't be a loser, and he means to let him
stay on in the house as long as he wishes—wouldn't like to turn him
out, after all these years. But he wants me to take up the work as soon
as possible—straight off. I'm to have £250 a year. It would have been
two hundred, if he could have let us use the agent's house, rent free.
He believes there's a cottage or two we can choose from. I'm to cable
out a reply—accepting or not."
He drummed on the little table at his side, with thoughtful fingers.
"You'll have to see to that for me. And you'll have to run down to
Apthorne too, and make arrangements. Of course, you'll see the old
agent. Kennedy seems to think that things may have fallen out of order
in his uncle's old age—the agent being elderly too, you see. So he
wants everything to be looked into, and put straight. Doesn't mean to
have any of his tenants with leaking roofs and damp floors. Gives me a
free hand to do what I think best."
"How are you to meet expenses?"
"That's all arranged for. A sum of money will be paid into the Bank,
which I'm to draw upon, as I find needful—for wages, and repairs, and
improvements, and so forth."
"How much?" she asked.
He had not meant to state the amount, and hesitated; but she was
waiting. He never found it easy to evade Dulcie.
"A good round sum. Well—about five hundred, to begin with. He
wants to hear all particulars. I shall get you to write to him—"
laughingly—"till my arm is right."
She said nothing, but her heart beat fast.
"And it's plain he means this to go on, even if he should decide in
time to come home. He will want an agent still, he says, so he isn't
asking me to give up anything to my own injury. There you may as well
read the letter. You'll understand, then."
She went slowly through the sheets of close writing, lingering over
some passages, sometimes wandering off into a dream of George Kennedy,
as she had known him in the past—as she had seen him this afternoon in
her dream. He might be greatly altered now. She herself was altered.
But how singular that she should have been dreaming of him at the
moment when his letter came!
A doubt pushed its way to the front. Would it be wise of her to make
a permanent home at Apthorne, where, by-and-by, she must expect to be
thrown with the man whom she loved, who by this time probably cared for
her no longer?
That query she put aside. It was not at present her concern. Her duty
now was to be with her brother, to watch over him, to keep him in a
straight path.
These years had changed him, and not for the better. Ten years earlier,
he had been far more sensitive to—more responsive to—her influence
than he was at this date. Of late, he had gone downhill, had yielded
to habits of self-indulgence, had become a victim to discontent. He
had indulged himself perilously in that craze for amusement, which
is widely sapping the old brave spirit of hard work and strenuous
endeavour, whereby in past centuries, our dear old England grew to what
she is. Will she be the same in future years? That is a grave question
for all Englishmen.
Norman Hurst, like thousands in the present, had taken life too
lightly, too easily. He had put pleasure first, work second. He had
been "thorough" in nothing, unless in so-called recreation. The sense
of duty of what is due from a man to his fellow-men, to his employers,
to his country, above all to his God was lacking in him, or at best
was very faint. He looked upon work, not as his prime interest, not
as worth doing for its own sake, not as grand, if done to and for our
God, Who Himself "works,"—but simply as a bore and trouble, to be as
far as possible shirked. Such a spirit spells Failure, both for the man
himself and for the country to which he belongs.
In addition—unknown to Dulcie—he had taken to speculating with such
small sums of money as he could manage to scrape together or to borrow;
and already he had landed himself in difficulties.
How far these developments, or so much of them as Dulcie was aware of,
would be likely to affect his standing in his new post, she could only
conjecture; but with her conjectures mingled a touch of foreboding.
[Illustration: "Old George is a brick, and no mistake.
Wants me to manage his property for him."]
A wonder assailed her. If George Kennedy knew her brother now,
familiarly as he had known him ten years before, would he feel the
unwavering confidence expressed in his letter? His trust was, indeed,
based rather on his knowledge of the Hurst family generally than on any
profound understanding of Norman's character; but "now" not even his
high opinion of Norman's parents and sister were sufficient guarantee
for Norman's trustworthiness, did Kennedy but know the fact. It was
a grief to Dulcie that she could not feel more confidence in her
brother. Yet, to utter any word of warning about him to his friend was
impossible. All she could do was to go too, resolved to overlook all,
and to try her utmost to enforce the faithful carrying out of Kennedy's
intentions.
For the opening itself, apart from sisterly anxieties, she was truly
thankful. It meant ease, quiet, comfort, and a country life for which
often she had longed. If Norman would keep straight, and would put his
heart into his work, the appointment might bring great happiness to
them both.
"Well?" he said at length.
"Dear Norman, I am very glad! But it will be a responsibility."
"I've no objection to that. It will be something worth doing, at last."
"Harder work than you have been accustomed to!"
"Are 'you' becoming a croaker? As if I minded work!"
He drummed lightly with his left hand upon the little table at his
side. Tea was brought in, and she poured it out, while he enlarged on
all that he meant to do, and she listened with unfailing interest. He
looked better already for the good news, and made a hearty meal.
Then in his turn, he waxed thoughtful; but his mind ran on a line of
its own. "Now I shall have my chance!" he was saying. Five hundred
pounds within immediate reach suggested endless possibilities.
Of course, it was all to be spent on the estate; and of course he
meant to spend it thus. But still— He recalled his late difficulties,
the borrowed sums which he had not known how to repay, the tempting
speculations which he had in vain thirsted to try—and he failed to
recognize the first whispers of temptation.
He began to wish that he could be alone, just for a short time, to jot
down certain figures and to work out certain calculations. Dulcie's
presence hampered him. If she saw him pencil in hand, she would ask
what he was doing, and would offer to write for him. He did not intend
to tell her frankly how he proposed to employ the money placed at his
command. She was very sensible mind clear-headed, but she was a woman,
and she might not see things exactly as he did—from what he called to
himself "the business point."
A sound of Church bells came from across road, ringing softly to
evening service. Dulcie lifted her head with the look of one responding
to a call, then checked herself.
To her surprise, he said: "Do you want to go to Church?"
"I have been so much away from you."
"It only means half-an-hour. I don't mind."
She bent over him gratefully. "Thank you very much. How kind!"
He felt a little ashamed, and not without reason. But the impression
passed. He had soon forgotten everything except the calculations which,
with his left hand, he was laboriously making on a scrap of paper.
In less than a minute, Dulcie had donned hat and gloves, and was
crossing the road. She went in at the West door, to find a small
congregation gathering; and she knelt down with hidden face, noticing
nothing around. Here for years she had been wont to come for comfort,
for strength to endure, for the Divine Presence. To her, it was "the
Place where 'His' honour dwelleth," and she loved from her very heart
"the Courts of the House of our God." Here things of earth grew dim,
things of the other world grew vivid. She had much to thank for, much
to pray for, on her own behalf, and yet more on behalf of her brother.
[Illustration: Here for years she had been wont to come for comfort.]
Not once did she lift her head till the singing of the Psalms began,
and the sweet voices of the choristers rang out in waves of harmony.
Then she stood up, her face alight, and joined heart and soul with them.
It was all so real to Dulcie!