ROUND and large rose the harvest moon, shining benignly down upon
the fields of Apthorne, where men were busily at work, carrying the
plentiful grain of a "good year."
Though the old Squire was dead, and though a new owner at the antipodes
was in possession, and though the present agent knew that his power was
passing from him, everything went on as usual. The dismissal, while
kindly, was decisive, and Mr. Dewsbury would soon have to abdicate. But
he was not a man to neglect his duties meanwhile.
He stood near a half-laden waggon, watching the men as they toiled. Now
and again his lips were pressed together, for he realized that this was
the last time. Twenty-three harvests had been gathered in under his
auspices; and now—never again!
[Illustration: He stood near a half-laden waggon,
watching the men as they toiled.]
He had hoped to keep his post for a few more years. Though over sixty,
he was still strong, he still enjoyed work. He loved the place, loved
the fields and it went to his heart to hand all over to a stranger.
He was unmarried, a solitary man, with no other interests; and he
would feel the blank acutely. And though he had laid by enough to keep
himself in tolerable comfort, he had intended to feather his nest a
little more softly before retiring into the background. At his age, to
find another post of the kind would be impossible. Besides, what other
post could be to him like Apthorne?
However, no choice had been given. By the first possible mail, his
dismissal had arrived, generous in mode, but unhesitating. Full
payment, not only for the next quarter, but with the addition of a
goodly sum, and permission to remain in his little home as long as he
wished, at a nominal rent. Yes, it was kind and generous, but none the
less he was wounded and sore.
Was it that the present owner, George Kennedy, remembered how he,
Dewsbury, had sided with the offended uncle, when Kennedy insisted on
leaving England for Australia? But how could he have done anything
else? He had thought Kennedy wrong. He thought him so still. He knew
how the old Squire had missed his nephew, had grieved over the loss of
him.
In supposing this, he misjudged Kennedy. Not because Dewsbury had sided
with the Squire, but because he himself had loved Dulcie, did the
present owner promptly decide to make Dulcie's brother his agent. But
this the old agent could not guess.
He knew the Hursts well by name, and he had once seen Norman Hurst's
sister—a fine girl, very handsome and greatly admired. That was more
than ten years earlier. She had paid a short visit to somebody in the
neighbourhood, and he had met and talked with her. The brother he had
not seen, but he had heard of his friendship with George Kennedy; a
friendship not altogether approved of by the old Squire.
This new agent would be a city man, inexperienced, doubtless ready to
adopt all the newest fads. He loathed the thought.
But he allowed no regrets to hamper him in his duty. Till the last
moment he would attend to the smallest matter.
No chance of anything getting out of order while Dewsbury had the
management. That was a figment of Kennedy's imagination.
For Dewsbury was a thorough man of business, never caught napping.
And he had the knack of making those under him work as hard as he did
himself—probably "because" he worked so hard and thus set an example.
He never put pleasure before duty, never neglected work or thought of
ease.
This perfect weather would not last, so said the weather-wise; and it
had to be made the most of. Not a day would he delay in carrying the
corn.
The wide golden expanse, still uncut, was fair to see; and a last dying
ray of sunlight played among the sheaves, lying ready to be piled upon
the heavy waggon. Then, as sunlight vanished, the glow of the harvest
moon grew brighter; and the men strove apace to get as much as might be
finished, before darkness should settle down.
Two people were coming slantwise from opposite sides of the great
field, both apparently making for the spot where stood Dewsbury. One
of the two was the Vicar: a man lately appointed, gaunt, pallid,
broken-down in health by years of strenuous toil in the East End of
London, compelled against his wish to take for a time to easier village
work. But though broken in health, he was still strenuous, earnest,
bent on doing his utmost, eager to arouse those about him to a truer
and fuller sense of life and its requirements. He came slowly from the
further side, ending a long walk with a small boy, Bobbie, only child
of the village doctor, who had developed a vehement admiration for the
new Vicar, and was never so happy as when trotting at his heels.
The other was a young woman, tall and good-looking, in a plain
grey coat and skirt. She held herself well, and walked with firm
characteristic tread, crossing the stubble.
"Hello! Who's that?" queried the Vicar, whom nothing escaped.
"Who's what?" asked his little echo.
"Somebody I have never seen before, Bobbie."
Bobbie quickened his short steps to match the Vicar's stride. He felt
no especial interest in the new-comer, but where his friend went, he
would go too.
"What's the moon got so big for?" he demanded.
"It isn't really bigger than usual. It only looks so. Things are not
always exactly as they seem to us. That's a lesson you've got to learn
some day."
Bobbie nodded a wise head. "Mother said there was a new moon comed last
week—lots of time ago."
"We call the moon 'new' when it looks its smallest. It isn't really
new. Not a fresh moon. It is always the same old moon."
Bobbie smiled broadly, willing to accept whatever the Vicar chose to
say.
"Squire's gone to Heaven," he irrelevantly remarked; perhaps not so
irrelevantly, since the moon might suggest heaven to his infant mind.
"Runnin' about there."
Mr. Stuart supposed this to be a figure of speech, denoting the absence
of that lameness which had troubled the Squire's last years; and he
nodded assent in his turn. "No doubt," he said cheerfully.
"You an' me an' all 'll go to heaven," Bobbie asserted conclusively.
"But we've got to live first here the sort of life that will make us
'like' heaven, if we get there," suggested the Vicar, looking down from
his height upon his small companion.
Bobbie knew how to turn the edge of personal remarks. "Mother says the
Squire's forgave his naughty nephew what went away, and she don't think
he'll never come home."
"Come, we won't meddle with other folks' business."
The Vicar paused, a little way off from the old agent, for the
stranger—Dulcie herself—had reached the spot first, and was saying in a
pleasant voice—
"Could you kindly tell me where I can find Mr. Dewsbury?"
"That's my name," came a trifle gruffly.
"I am Dulcie Hurst," she said. "I have come to arrange about my
brother."
Then her face changed, lighted up, showed astonishment.
"Why—!" she said. "I believe—It 'is!'"—And she put out so cordial a
hand to be shaken that he had no choice.
"It 'is!'" she repeated, smiling. "Don't you know me? It was you who
so kindly helped us when my brother fell, trying to get into the
motor-bus, and broke his arm. You were so kind! I am glad to know you,
and to be able to thank you."
Nothing had been farther from Dewsbury's mind than the scene in
the crowded city street. And at the first moment, he had failed to
recognize her, though she knew him instantly. Now he knew why, at the
time of the accident, he had puzzled his brain to recall where he had
seen her before.
She was the sister of Hurst, his supplanter; and, as already explained,
he had earlier met the sister.
He shook hands, for she evidently had no idea of being refused; but his
face did not light up. Rather, it darkened. He did not wish to like the
Hursts.
"Then that was—Mr. Hurst!" he said awkwardly.
"Yes. He broke his arm badly, and he has been suffering a great deal
since. But he is getting on now, and hopes to come down here in a week
or so perhaps two." She said the last word slowly, for it dawned upon
her that Mr. Dewsbury would have no welcome to offer. He would view
them as intruders. He would fain have been agent still, in place of
Norman. Looking at his alert wiry frame, it was impossible to think of
him as an old man past work.
[Illustration: "I'm busy now. See you another time," the agent replied
gruffly.]
"I want to ask you, please, about Ivy Cottage," she said. "It will be
empty, I am told, in a few weeks; and it might do nicely for my brother
and me. I should be glad to know a few particulars whether it is
well-built and dry, and so forth."
"I'm busy now. See you another time," the agent replied gruffly.
"Then I must write. I have to catch my train."
"Can I do anything?" the Vicar asked, coming near.
He introduced himself, and she explained her object in being there,
while Mr. Dewsbury moved on.
The Vicar liked Dulcie's face, as indeed few people failed to do. "Ah!"
he said two or three times. Then—"What train? You have not much spare
time. I'll come towards the station with you. Ivy Cottage, do you say?
You couldn't do better."
"It seems a nice little house. Should we find it healthy?"
"I've not been long at Apthorne, but no complaint of it has reached me.
Most of the cottages are in first-rate repair. And the situation is
excellent."
Dulcie was glad. "That is nice," she said warmly. "I like the look of
it. And how I shall love to be in the country again! It seems like a
dream. We must come to rooms first, for a few weeks."
"Have you been living in London?"
This led to some details of her past life, and to the fact that Norman
was a personal friend of the new Squire. "I am afraid Mr. Dewsbury does
not much like our coming," she said.
"Is that likely? He has held the post for nearly twenty-four years."
"I'm afraid it is hard upon him. Mr. Kennedy seems to think him too old
for the work but—"
"He is young for his years. No doubt, he will feel the change. But you
cannot help that."
"No." Dulcie looked up gravely. "It is my brother not I! And Mr.
Kennedy has the right to choose his own agent."
"He has absolute right; but one wishes he had been a degree less
drastic."
"You mean—"
"He might have let the old fellow go on for a quarter of a year."
"It is rather sudden for him. But—" with unconscious jealousy for
George Kennedy—"I suppose the new Squire thinks of him as old enough to
wish for freedom from worry. And I am sure he has done it kindly."
"Liberally, at all events, from the money point of view. I am saying
this to you on purpose, Miss Hurst. Things 'are' a little hard on
Dewsbury; and when you come, if you see him tried, I hope you will make
allowances."
"Yes, indeed," she said earnestly. "If I can do anything to make it
easier for him, I shall be glad."
The Vicar went with her to the station, and waited to see her off. And
she felt that already she had a friend at Apthorne.
"Norman, I have so enjoyed my day," she said, getting back to the
little dull rooms which soon would shelter them no longer. "The country
was exquisite! Such a perfect day—and, oh, the harvest—the glorious
colouring, and the fresh, fresh air! To think that our home is to be
there!"
"Did you see Mr. Dewsbury?"
"Yes; and only imagine—it was he who helped you that day—the
grey-haired man who jumped out of the motor-bus after me, and got you
into the cab. I told you I was sure he and I had met before. And of
course we did. He was agent at Apthorne, when I went—all those years
ago." A faint colour came with the recollection.
"Must be pretty active still, if he can jump out of a motor-bus in
motion. Not decrepid yet, at all events!"
"Rather sad for him to have to give it all up! I'm afraid he minds it."
"Every change is sad for somebody," Norman remarked, with a philosophy
which he might not have felt had he been himself in Dewsbury's place.
"He has had a good long spell of it. Time I should have my turn. You
didn't go to the big house, I suppose?"
"No; there was not time. I have found some rooms that we can have at
first; and I have seen a perfectly delightful little cottage, but so
dainty and neat, with a garden all round it. I suppose we must have a
girl, but I mean to overlook everything myself."
"You will have a lot to do for me. I'm not going to have you poking
about in the kitchen all day, playing at cookery."
She laughed. "It won't be play. It will be real earnest. But we have
to be careful. The cottage will need furniture; and that costs a great
deal."
"We shall manage all right. Bills must just stand over."
"Oh, no, that would be a bad beginning. I would rather go without
things, till we can pay down for them. Just the simplest possible
necessaries."
"I'm going to have our house look decent, Dulcie. How can I take my
proper place there, if everything about us is poor and messy?"
"Nothing shall be messy," she promised. "But we won't begin by running
into debt. We never have been in debt yet; and I hope we never shall
be."
He moved uneasily. How little she knew! But he said nothing, either
of the debts he had already incurred, or of the dreams in his mind,
gaining strength each day, of possible speculations with part of the
money which would be entrusted to him. He was allowing himself to think
constantly of this, and he no longer shrank from the thought as evil.
On the contrary, he told himself, he would do his best for his friend
and, incidentally, for himself.
"People will not value us for our chairs and tables, but for
ourselves," she said cheerfully.
"People are not like you. They think a great deal more of one's house
and furniture than you imagine," he said, with a touch of curtness.