A RADIANT April day. Spring had come in a burst of sunshine, hedges
were green with the brilliant hue of young life, trees on all sides
were breaking into leaf, and the birds sang in a wild tumult of joy, as
if unable to contain themselves.
Dulcie stood in the little front garden, again looking out for Norman.
He had gone to London by an early train; had said that he "must" go,
and had given no reason, though his haggard and troubled look convinced
her that some very real cause existed. He would be back in time for
tea, he said. But the usual tea-time was past, and he had not arrived.
No hope now of his coming by the afternoon train.
Had it not been for her constant sense of uneasiness about him, an
uneasiness of late much deepened, Dulcie would have revelled in a day
like this.
She loved flowers and birds, the freedom of country life, the
resurrection-loveliness of spring-tide. Standing there, drinking in the
sweet clear air, all laden with violet scent, she murmured—"To think
that anybody can choose to live in London, who might have a home like
this!"
The postman came along with his brisk step, greeting and being greeted
with a smile. He handed her a letter, addressed to Norman. She saw at
once the Australian post-mark; and even now, though letters to Norman
from Kennedy were frequent, she never could see that handwriting
without a thrill.
Also when she saw it, a fear suggested itself lest the contents might
include a serious reprimand for Norman. All that could be done she had
done to counteract her brother's unbusiness-like methods, but she could
not do much. She knew that in time, reports must surely reach Kennedy.
As she stood, envelope in hand, speculating as to what the letter
within might say, another individual appeared, trotting with short
little steps; no other than Bobbie, the doctor's son and the Vicar's
admirer, who by this time included Dulcie in his list of delectable
"grownups." The doctor lived in this lane, not five minutes' distant,
and Bobbie was always trotting round to see her, blissfully sure of a
welcome.
"Have you come to tea with me?" she asked, and she stooped to kiss the
round cheek.
Bobbie beamed, and discreetly withheld the fact that already he had had
a substantial tea at home.
Dulcie led the way indoors. "Come," she said. "I've got a beautiful
cake, Bobbie."
Bobbie beamed again, for he could always eat, no matter how recent his
last meal.
Dulcie, perhaps, ought to have inquired further, but in the interest of
that letter from Australia, she forgot to do so.
Bobbie ate and chattered, chattered and ate, in complete oblivion of
his preliminary meal. And towards the end, when his powers began to
fail him, he casually remarked—
"Seen Mr. Hurst."
"Where, dear?"
Bobbie pointed round in a general way with several fingers. "Over
there."
"But he is in London. You haven't seen Mr. Hurst this afternoon?"
Bobbie's nod was positive, and he generally knew what he was about.
"Seen Mr. Hurst," he repeated, and his eyes went longingly to the cake,
though his capacity for eating was at an end.
"Tell me where. Was it at the station?"
Bobbie's head was energetically shaken. "Seen him in the wood. Mummie
and me."
"What was Mr. Hurst doing?"
Bobbie slid off his chair, and plumped down on the footstool, lounging
forward and hanging his head, in an infantine reproduction of a
depressed attitude. The original might well have been Norman. Dulcie
wondered.
Then she took Bobbie home, and gave him over to his mother, remarking
on his good appetite, whereat the doctor's wife exclaimed, "You don't
mean to say he has had tea with you! Why, he had just had it before he
went. Oh, Bobbie, Bobbie!"
And Bobbie smiled contentedly.
"Bobbie says that you came across my brother in the wood."
"Yes,—" and there was a quick glance which Dulcie saw without seeming
to do so. "I—did not think he looked very well. He did not seem to
notice us."
Dulcie went to the wood, but could find no trace of Norman. She had
intended to meet the next train, and decided instead to wait at home
for his coming. She fell vaguely uneasy as she walked back. His face
that morning haunted her; it had been so dark, so troubled. Something
in the paper, or in his letters, had brought the look; she did not know
which, since he had them both together.
Suddenly he had announced that he must have a few hours in London. And
with difficulty, she had made him tell her his Apthorne engagements,
that she might send excuses. He seemed to be dazed.
And well might he be dazed. For the worst had happened. A sudden rise
in prices had flattered his best hopes, and by the advice of his
"friend" he had held on, hoping for further rise, for bigger gains.
Then suddenly, without warning, came a heavy fall, which meant for him
a dead loss. The bubble was pricked. No hope of any fresh rise. The
whole of the money entrusted to him by George Kennedy was gone.
No wonder he felt crushed. Though nothing was to be gained by going,
he had rushed off to London, to make sure how things were. He bitterly
reproached his adviser, who protested against being held responsible,
arguing that he had done his best, had given the advice which seemed
right at the time, no man could do more, and any man was liable to be
mistaken. If Hurst would go on, would persevere, success would come in
time.
Norman knew that this was impossible. He had flung away his friend's
money; and of his own, he had none, beyond what would meet for a few
weeks their small household expenses.
The sweet voices of spring meant nothing to him as, alone and hopeless,
he wandered about, half facing, half shirking, the terrible position in
which, thanks to his own folly, he found himself.
He was utterly at a loss what to do. The five hundred pounds would have
to be accounted for, sooner or later; and how could he possibly explain
what he had done?
Tell Dulcie! Never! Meet her clear true eyes, and confess that he had
used money not his own! Impossible.
Should he fling up everything, and disappear? The suggestion crossed
his brain. But that would mean poverty, discomfort, misery. Norman
always shrunk from what was unpleasant. It might come to that in the
end; only not yet. He did not need to decide at present. He would wait.
Something might turn up. Things might somehow right themselves. If he
kept on, and said nothing to anybody, he would manage to get along. At
the worst, he could borrow to meet expenses; thus, of course, plunging
deeper into difficulties.
But it was not his way to look far ahead. Anything rather than to speak
out bravely!
Having reached this point, he half-unconsciously turned his steps
homeward. He was tired and wanted his easy chair,—hungry and needed
food.
Dulcie, ever on the watch, saw him coming.
"Why, Norman, dear, how late you are! What have you been doing?"
[Illustration: An odd stifled sound broke from him.]
He would not meet her eyes. It seemed as if they must read him through.
"I had to go some distance round, after getting in—and I'm about dead
beat."
He dropped into the chair, hollow-eyed and dull. And she saw that his
trip to London had brought no cheer.
She would not at once draw attention to the letter from Australia,
but gave him his supper, and did her best to divert his mind from his
troubles, whatever they might be. Her efforts met with scant success.
The meal ended, he stood up and moved restlessly about the room, thus
coming on the letter, which she had placed in front of the clock. "For
me—" he said.
"It came this afternoon."
He opened it and read, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece; and Dulcie
stood back, waiting. An odd stifled sound broke from him; and he held
the mantelpiece hard, his face becoming ashen-pale. Dulcie's impression
was that for an instant he must have lost consciousness. Then he
staggered rather than walked to the basket-chair and dropped into it.
"Is anything wrong?" she asked.
"Wrong! No. Why should there be?" And he gave vent to a forced laugh.
"I'm only a bit done up. Kennedy is coming home."
Colour leapt into her face, a light into her eyes. Then both faded, for
instantly she conjectured that his return might be due to Apthorne's
reports of her brother's incapacity.
"Does he say what is bringing him?"
"No,—" roughly. "Why should he?"
"I thought he had made up his mind to wait for a year or two."
"People change their minds. He has changed his. Some fancy or other."
She hardly dared ask more. Norman looked so white and strange. She came
close, stooped down and kissed his forehead.
He drew himself impatiently away.
"Oh, don't worry. I tell you, I'm dead beat. I can't be bothered."
Then he went up to his own room, and she saw little more of him that
evening.
He gave her no further information. But next day and in days following,
the look of restless trouble remained stamped upon his face. Sometimes
he was moody and irritable; sometimes he tried to carry things off
with forced cheerfulness and a joke. All through, she recognized that
a heavy burden of some kind lay upon him; and in her deep anxiety and
suspense, she could hardly be glad even at the prospect of seeing
Kennedy again. She had such a dread of what it might mean for her
brother.
Day after day this went on; and other people spoke with concern of
Norman's looks. She answered lightly, and said, as was true, that he
had not been well lately. But she could not silence remarks.
[Illustration: "Hurst, you've not been looking yourself lately."]
After much cogitation, she went to the Vicar, certain of sympathy
and reticence from him, and told frankly her trouble. "Something is
wrong and I cannot make Norman tell me what. Will you try to win his
confidence? Perhaps he will speak out to you."
The Vicar took action without delay. He too had noted the agent's face
of habitual gloom. And he called at Ivy Cottage next day and got into a
pleasant chat. Then, when Dulcie slipped away, he went at once to the
mark.
"Hurst, you've not been looking yourself lately."
"Rather seedy," was the careless answer.
"No doubt you have had worries, settling into the place."
"Bothers without end," Hurst admitted.
"Nothing that I can help you in?" The Vicar spoke very kindly.
"No thanks." But a thought leapt up in Norman's heart,—what if he were
to confess all to the Vicar?
"Are you sure? I would do my best. For your sister's sake—I think she
is anxious about you."
Norman's look softened. "She is the best sister a man ever had."
"And if you were happier, she would be happier. Hurst, I'm going
to speak plainly. You don't look as you should. You don't look as
you did, when first you came to Apthorne. Is there some burden—some
anxiety—which I might lighten? Don't be afraid to speak out. I will not
betray confidence. We Clergy are well used to keeping other people's
secrets, you know."
Norman's lips worked. He could not make up his mind. To speak out would
undoubtedly be the wiser and better course, the safer in every way. But
he chose that path which for the moment was the easier, in preference
to that which was right. He shook off the impulse to tell, and managed
a sickly smile.
"I've been a bit out of sorts. Nothing much. I shall have to get away
for a week's change."
"When Mr. Kennedy comes, he will arrange a holiday for you, no doubt."
The Vicar was not convinced, but he could hardly press matters further.
That evening brought another letter from Kennedy, fixing the probable
date of his appearance in Apthorne.
One fortnight off! Only a fortnight!
"I shall have to leave the country. Nothing else is possible!" Norman
muttered to himself.
But day after day he waited, taking no definite action, coming to no
distinct resolution; always with a vague hope that "something" might
turn up. Till—suddenly as it seemed to him, despite the long suspense,
the looking forward, the counting of days and weeks—suddenly the advent
of Kennedy was at hand. A telegram announced that his ship was in; and
that next day he would come.
"Then" Norman realized his position. He thought he had known it before,
but he had only dallied with the knowledge. A flood-tide of agonized
understanding rushed over him, and with it a very horror of remorse.
He could not tell Dulcie. He could not face Kennedy. He made up his
mind to flee. He would go at once—that night—away, anywhere, out of
reach. Nobody should ever see or hear of him again.
But the brotherly love that he had for Dulcie rose up at the last with
a force which would not be denied. He could not disappear without a
farewell words to her. He had been swayed to and fro, unable hour after
hour to arrive at any steady purpose. Now, ready to start, bag in hand,
he hesitated anew. Whatever happened, he must have one word with Dulcie.