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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f57f44 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text +*.htm text +*.html text +*.png binary +*.jpg binary +*.svg text +*.pdf binary +*.bmp binary +*.zip binary +*.midi binary +*.mp3 binary diff --git a/78931-0.txt b/78931-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..03de2db --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2912 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78931 *** + +Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed. + +New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the +public domain. + + + + [Illustration] + + + HER BROTHER'S KEEPER. + + + BY + + AGNES GIBERNE + + Author of + "The Nameless Shadow," etc. + + + HOME WORDS + FOR + HEART AND HEARTH + + 1906 + + "HOME WORDS" PUBLISHING OFFICE + 11, LUDGATE SQUARE, LUDGATE HILL, E.C. + + + + CONTENTS. + + [Illustration] + + I. Will He Come Home? + + II. A Letter from Australia + + III. Fresh Prospects + + IV. The Time of Harvest + + V. Life in Ivy Cottage + + VI. A Downward Path + + VII. Brought upon Himself + + VIII. Confessions + + IX. A Moonlit Battle + + X. No Easy Matter + + XI. Adjusted + + + + HER BROTHER'S KEEPER. + + +CHAPTER I. Will He Come Home? + +IN a motor-bus, making its vociferous way along one of the noisiest of +main City thoroughfares, sat Dulcie Hurst. + +She was used to London clamour, and it hardly disturbed the even +current of her thoughts. Omnibuses lumbered by in the opposite +direction; cabs went this way and that; private motors, reluctantly +compelled to creep, gave forth their asthmatic coughs of warning; yells +of "Evening pi-per" pierced the din; but she neither turned her head +nor varied her steadfast gaze. + +She was close to the door, and one seat at the further end remained +empty. All others were occupied. + +Two distinct trains of ideas were working behind that strong pale face, +at which few looked once without looking a second time. + +"Will he be there?" she was asking, as she kept continuous watch for a +certain side-street, at the corner of which her brother Norman, clerk +in a house of business, was wont to joint the bus which took her back +from her day in a city typing-office. Punctuality was not a prime +virtue with Norman Hurst, and he often failed to arrive in time. + +This returning together from their respective occupations meant a good +deal to Dulcie. They were orphans, practically alone in the world; and +he, in a sense, was everything to her. She was much to him, but not +quite in the same sense. + +"Would he be in time?" again she questioned. And below this upper +current of her cogitations flowed another. She was saying also— + +"'Will he come?'" + +But the subject of the second query was a different "he,"—was one who +might have been far more to her than even her brother, one whom for ten +long years she had not seen, yet never could forget. + +During three months past, she had been asking the question and finding +no satisfactory reply. But as his face arose in her mind, her own +gained a great softness, which made more than one opposite passenger +examine her wonderingly. + +She was a woman of rather large build, tall, well-proportioned, not +stout, but sufficiently substantial for her height; and she looked +fully her twenty-eight years. Ten years earlier, she had been nothing +less than lovely, regular-featured with radiant colouring and hair of +pale gold, a vision that had taken captive the heart of George Kennedy. +Her complexion now was uniformly pale, having lost all brilliance, and +her hair had darkened into ordinary brown, and she was no longer a +"girl," though many keep their girlhood well into the thirties. But she +was an attractive woman. + +Kennedy had wooed her with all the vehemence of which he was capable, +and had failed to win. Then in despair, he had fled from the country, +giving dire offence by so doing to his only near relative, the Squire +of Apthorne, and apparently sacrificing his own prospects by the act. +He told no one the true reason, not even his friend, Norman Hurst; but +go he did, despite all opposition. + +Dulcie kept his secret, and her own too. Her girlish heart had been +won by him from the first, but she would not marry. She had an invalid +and suffering mother, dependent on her for constant care, dependent +partly on her exertions for daily support; and she also had a brother +who needed her at every turn. It might be years before she could count +herself free. Hers was a self-sacrificing nature; and she allowed +no hint of her real feelings to escape. She would not risk binding +Kennedy down to years of waiting, and she received his advances coldly, +repelling them with decision. + +Whether she would have acted more kindly by speaking out is a question +on which judges may differ, but in any case, she acted from high and +unselfish motives. If she did make a mistake, which is very doubtful, +she made it nobly and unselfishly. Most people's mistakes lie in the +other direction. + +The Squire of Apthorne, Kennedy's uncle, whom he so direfully offended +by his apparently capricious flight to Australia, was believed to have +disinherited him in consequence. But when, three months before this +date, he died, it was found that he had left everything without reserve +to the nephew with whom for ten years he had held no intercourse. The +reading of the will took everybody by surprise. + +George Kennedy was now a rich man: a land-owner. He would surely return +at once to his possessions. + +Would he? That was the question. Dulcie was aware that he had declared +he never would again set foot in his native land. Would circumstances +alter this resolution? And if he did come home, would he remember the +past?—Would he still care for her? And if he did care—what then? + +Her lips moved with a noiseless "No!" She was tied yet. There was +Norman, her only brother, "his" friend. But the "No" was not very +emphatic. + +Norman was different altogether from herself; a pleasant fellow enough; +kind-hearted and generous, when personal comfort was not involved: very +much of a favourite generally, but—Dulcie's mind flashed back to her +mother's dying injunction—"You will look after Norman, darling—keep him +out of mischief—keep him straight. He is so dear—so affectionate—but +you know!—you know—!" + +Yes, she knew. There had been no need to finish that pathetic little +murmur, which had died away into a sigh. She knew only too well. Norman +was very affectionate, very loveable, but he had not backbone. He was +not staunch. He could be easily turned this way or that. He was a man +and she was a woman: he was eight years the elder; but hers was the +stronger nature, the firmer will. She had been, to the best of her +ability, his guardian angel through years of City life; yet she could +not feel that she had altogether succeeded. She was always trying to +veil his weaknesses from others; but she was always seeing them herself. + +Of late, he had been a greater care than ever. He had not been his +usual self. He was worried, moody, fretful, uneasy: less sweet-tempered +than of old, more inclined to neglect his work, and to indulge in +restless desires for more money, less drudgery. She recognized the +presence of some new element in his life, but she could discover +nothing definite. + +With her mind thus bent upon other matters, it was hardly surprising +that she should forget the noise and bustle around. + +In the corner opposite, an elderly man sat upright, resting his +sunburnt hands upon a stick, and scanning the busy world around with +interested eyes—sharp yet not unkindly eyes. He was grey-haired, with +an alert, purposeful face; and in age, he perhaps bordered on the +sixties. Now and again his glance wandered to Dulcie. For a while she +did not notice him, but at length her attention was drawn, and she +found herself wondering when and where had she met him before? + +He was speaking to another man by his side, and she overheard what +passed. + +"Can't conceive how any human being can live by choice in this +hurly-burly." + +"You prefer the country?" the other asked, with a Londoner's polite +pity. + +"Prefer it! I couldn't exist here! It would land me in a lunatic +asylum. I've spent most of my life in the country and hope to end my +days there." + +"Ah!" the other remarked, with a slight glance at the country cut of +the speaker's clothes. "Tastes differ. I'm never happy long out of +London." + +"One man's meat is another man's poison." + +"That's it, I suppose." + +"Well, all I say is, give 'me' pure air, let who will live in this +choking atmosphere! Give me green fields and country quiet, not this +deafening roar." + +"Get used to it in time." + +"Not I! I wouldn't set up my tent in London, if I was paid to do it." + +"Don't you think there is a word to be said on both sides?" asked +Dulcie. "One gets the best of some things in London, and the best of +other things in the country." + +"I'll give up my share of town good things to anybody who likes to take +them. Nothing can make up for this!"—And he scanned with a face of +disgust the slimy pavements, the thronging foot-passengers, the grimy +walls, the ceaseless streams of vehicles. "Plenty of room, and not too +many folks for comfort—that's what I'm used to." + +They were stopping at the corner where Dulcie's brother should have +been, and she lent forward, to meet with disappointment. He had not +come. + +One passenger jumped out, another stepped in. Still, a vacant seat. + +Changing the tone of its racket, the motor-bus went on; and Norman +appeared. Though not a very energetic character, he could be active on +occasions; and he thought nothing of racing after a motor-bus, to board +it when going at high speed. He set off instantly, and Dulcie watched +his movements. He had often done the same before. + +[Illustration: He missed his aim . . . and fell heavily in the roadway.] + +But, the streets were clothed in a thick film of sticky mud, and he was +perhaps over-confident. At the moment of making his spring, his foot +slid. He missed his aim, and, instead of landing on the board, fell +heavily in the roadway, striking his face against the "tail" of the +bus, and crashing with his whole weight upon a doubled right arm. + +Shouts on all sides and desperate efforts to draw up saved him from +being run over. Before the motor-bus could fully slacken its speed, +Dulcie had sprung out, and rushed to his side. With hardly less +celerity, the grey-haired man followed, and others came quickly round. +They helped him up, but he was dazed, half-stunned, evidently much +hurt. Blood poured from a cut in his forehead, and the right arm hung +helplessly. When the grey-haired man touched it, he all but swooned. + +"Not to a hospital! Take me home," he muttered, over-hearing what was +said. + +By this time, they had him on the pavement, and the motor-bus was +gone on, but the grey-haired man remained behind. A crowd of gazers, +inevitable on such occasions, stood around, five or six deep. + +"No, I'm not a doctor," the elderly man said, meeting Dulcie's look of +appeal. "But I might have been—I went through half the training." Then +in a lower voice—"Yes, it's broken. You must have a cab. Where do you +live? Stop—I'll tie up his head." + +He used a clean handkerchief, supplied by Dulcie, doing the business +not ineffectually. Then he helped the injured man into a cab, showing +her how to support the arm, and advising her to send at once for a +surgeon. + +"If you'd like me to come with you—" he added. + +"Thank you very much, but I could not think of troubling you. We shall +manage quite well," she said cheerfully. + +He did not further press his help, but stood looking after the cab as +it drove away. + +Where had he seen that face before? Not Norman's, but Dulcie's. + +He could find no answer to this question. Presently, he dismissed it +from his mind, and stepped into the next bus, going the same way. + +A second question, often in his mind of late, rose to the surface; and, +strangely, it was the same as that of Dulcie, bearing reference to the +identical person. + +"'Will he come home?'" + +And if he—George Kennedy—did come home—"Shall I be allowed to keep my +work?" the grey-haired man wanted to know. + + + +CHAPTER II. A Letter from Australia. + +"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] + + + +CHAPTER III. Fresh Prospects. + +"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! + + + +CHAPTER IV. The Time of Harvest. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER V. Life In Ivy Cottage. + +A DULL February day, clouds level and low, mist lying in hollows, mud +thick upon the ground, trees bare; but upon the hedges and bushes a +faint suggestion of new life dawning. + +Winter in the country may have a forlornness of its own, but for those +who can see, it has its own loveliness. And Dulcie, as she stood in the +small porch of Ivy Cottage, realized this to the full. + +Grey the day was, but how soft and mild the air, clean-washed by +recent rain; how different from the dank penetrating wet of such a day +in London! Cloudy—yes, but she contrasted the gentle mistiness with +a yellow City fog. Bare boughs—yes, but she studied with admiration +a tree opposite, its solid trunk spreading into huge arms, the arms +sub-divided into strong boughs, and the boughs into branches great and +small, with countless ramifications which ended in twigs innumerable, +the whole forming a delicate and finished tracery, the wonderful +complexity of which enchained her eyes; while she pictured how in a few +weeks each bough and branch and twig would be laden with young green +leaves, and how she would joyously watch their daily growth. + +She was waiting for Norman, who usually returned to early dinner. It +was nearly an hour past the time; and still she waited, and still he +remained absent. + +As she stood, a man strode past, and in a moment, she recognized the +ex-agent Dewsbury. He walked steadily and fast, looking straight ahead, +declining to vouchsafe a single glance towards the cottage, but Dulcie +went to the garden-gate, and said cheerfully, "How do you do, Mr. +Dewsbury?" + +He wheeled half round, and responded curtly in the same phrase. + +"You don't happen to have come across my brother this morning?" + +"No." + +"He is late. I don't know what can have kept him." + +"Sorry I can't help you." The ex-agent strode on. + +"If only Norman had taken some trouble in that quarter!" she thought +regretfully. + +[Illustration: "You don't happen to have come across + my brother this morning?"] + +She had done her best to bring about a different state of things. On +their first arrival, she had hoped to transmute the retiring agent +into their friend, for she was grateful to him for his kindness at the +time of the accident, and she felt that he had been rather hardly used +by the new owner of the property, even though that owner was George +Kennedy. It would have been good policy also, apart from worthier +reasons, since Dewsbury, though not a man beloved, was a man highly +respected, and he ranked as a power in the place. + +But Norman saw matters from another point of view. "Nothing of the +sort," he replied, when she suggested taking advice from the former +agent on a knotty point. "If once I begin going to 'him,' I shall have +no freedom. He will meddle whenever he gets a chance." + +This happened early in their Apthorne experience. And though Dulcie did +not give in with one attempt, she failed. + +"I tell you, I'm not going to do it," he said with unusual roughness, +when she pressed the point. "Dewsbury is out of the concern now, and +I mean to keep him out. Kennedy made a mistake in letting him stay on +in the Agent's house; and I've got to hold my own. I'm not going to +be a mere cipher. And I won't have you consulting the man either. You +understand?" + +"Yes, I understand," she said in her quietest tone. "I think it is you +who are making a mistake now. Still, of course it must be as you wish." + +So Norman lost his opportunity of conciliating the man whom he had +displaced; a disappointed and hurt man, who yet could have been won; +for at first sight he had liked Dulcie, in spite of himself, and she +would have made him like her more. + +She was loyal to her brother, and would not oppose him; nevertheless +she was sensible of his lack of wisdom, when Mr. Dewsbury strode grimly +away, refusing to be agreeable. + +Left in the background, to sit in dudgeon and nurse his wrongs, the +ex-agent naturally kept a sharp look-out over the doings of his +successor, whose inexperience became early manifest. Nor was it a +matter for surprise that, finding himself thus ignored, his advice not +asked, his wisdom never appealed to, Dewsbury should indulge in some +gratification over the new agent's blunders, knowing as he did how much +better he would have managed in Hurst's place. + +Somebody else was trudging along the road; this time a farmer in +gaiters and heavy boots, encrusted with mud. He paused outside the +gate, spoke a civil word or two, and than remarked— + +"Mr. Hurst not back yet, I suppose?" + +"No; I am expecting him every moment." + +The farmer glanced at her, looked round about, examined his +old-fashioned turnip-watch, and deliberated. "No—not likely," he said. +"Couldn't catch that train, without he was most uncommon quick. No—he +wouldn't." + +Dulcie controlled her surprise. She was far too much "all there" to +betray that she knew less of Norman's movements than Farmer Jones +appeared to do. "Can you wait?" she asked pleasantly. "Won't you come +indoors?" + +"No use, thank you all the same, Miss Hurst. Next train don't get in +for two hours and more, even if he catches that. And he promised he'd +give this morning up to 'me.'" There was an under-growl of displeasure. +"Said he'd be with me by eleven, sure, and not a word did he send to +say he couldn't. If my boy hadn't come across him at the station, +starting for London, I'd have been waiting all day. That's the third +time he has failed me." + +"I'm sorry. He ought to have sent you word." + +"Yes, he ought, and that's a fact. P'rhaps you'd tell him from me, +Miss Hurst, that I can't go on shilly-shallying like this much longer. +I've got to know where I stand; and it ain't what I've been used to. +We're used to business-ways here. All the years I've had to do with Mr. +Dewsbury, he's never once forgot if he's made an appointment. Never +once he hasn't. There's no getting Mr. Hurst to the point, begging your +pardon for saying it to you! The third time he's failed me this is." + +"I'll be sure to tell him what you say. I'm so sorry you have been +inconvenienced," she said, with a smile which more than half mollified +the old farmer. + +As he trudged on, she went indoors, and, standing before the fire, +asked aloud—"Now, what is it for? London again! Why did he not tell me?" + +She could guess why. He had been one day the week before, and another +day the week before that; and she had remonstrated. By a quick train, +London could be reached in less than two hours; but the expense of +going so often mounted up considerably, and she failed to see the need. + +They had now been some time in Apthorne, first in rooms, then in this +cottage, which was sufficiently furnished for use; more furnished than +Dulcie had thought right, less than Norman wished. He loved spending, +and he thought a great deal of his own personal comfort. + +Dulcie found him increasingly difficult to deal with. In years long +gone by, he was usually amenable to reason; but things had changed, and +he was now far otherwise. + +For several weeks after entering on his new work, he had been in gay +spirits, pleased with the post, and enjoying the variety. People had +given to the brother and sister a kind welcome. Dulcie could always +make herself liked, and Norman was accepted, not only as Kennedy's +agent, but as being his friend. Indeed, he began to look upon himself +as, for the time, lord of all he surveyed. Although lacking in +experience, he was not lacking in self-confidence, and mistakes in +judgment were by no means few. Still, he was so genial and pleasant in +manner, that for a while, he won golden opinions. + +"He's new to the life, and he'll learn," people said indulgently, as +they contrasted his smiling ways with the grim air of the old agent. + +But the tide was turning. Smiles alone do not manage a large property; +and the close attention needed, the incessant calls upon his time, +the frequent appeals and complaints, the interviews that had to be +arranged, the letters that had to be written, were not to Norman's +liking. At first, his lame arm won sympathy and served as an excuse for +dilatory ways. But the arm now was practically well, and he did not +grow less dilatory. On the contrary, he became more slack, he failed to +keep appointments, he forgot requests, he neglected to answer letters, +he put off attending to matters which required immediate settlement. + +The biggest farmer on the estate, an important person in his own eyes, +arriving one day at Ivy Cottage, for a talk previously arranged, was +irate to find that the agent had calmly taken himself off for a day +in London. Another farmer, second to the above in consequence, having +stayed in all the morning for a call from the agent, promised at ten, +was disgusted to see him walk in at twelve, with a bland confession +that he had "somehow managed to oversleep himself" and was consequently +"rather late." + +The old agent had never overslept himself, had never been behindhand. +Smiles on these occasions carried little weight. The worst of the +matter was that he did not care, did not see that he was wasting +valuable time for others as well as for himself. + +All such incidents reached the ears of Dewsbury; for in a country +village, everybody knows what everybody does. + +Norman had never been a lover of the country. He had no eye for its +beauties, no ear for its harmonies. That which to Dulcie meant joy and +delight, to him meant dull monotony. + +He hated work of all kinds; he hated solitude; he loathed early rising; +he detested being tied; he wanted only to be free to amuse himself. +But opportunities for such amusements as suited his taste were few in +village-life; and he soon began to seize on every possible excuse for +a day in town. This meant expense; and though he often contrived to +include something on behalf of the estate, which made it possible for a +loose conscience to charge the return-ticket to his employer, he could +not always do it. + +Something else, besides the craving for amusement, took him to London. + +He was all agog to make money in haste; and five hundred pounds lay, +or had recently lain, at his command. Some amount of outlay on the +property was inevitable; but less need to spend existed than Kennedy +had anticipated. + +Norman's desire perhaps hardly suited in plain words even to himself +was, not to spend on the estate, but to use the money in making some +for himself. + +He would "borrow" two or three hundred pounds temporarily, would invest +that amount with wisdom, would sell out at the crucial moment of some +sudden rise, and then would devote to further efforts whatever he +succeeded in gaining by this transaction. + +Supposing that he could thus make some three or four hundred pounds, +and in addition should still have the five hundred pounds, less only +such necessary payments as belonged to the care of Apthorne who could +say that he had not a right to retain for his own use the gain of his +speculations? Not even Dulcie need hear a word about it! + +What he would do, if decrease in place of increase should be the result +of his speculations, was a matter on which he did not trouble his head. +He meant to succeed. + +Night and day he dwelt upon these schemes. He studied incessantly the +Money-market; he corresponded perpetually with an acquaintance on the +Stock Exchange; he watched and waited, hoped and feared, exulted and +was depressed. No form of gambling is more exciting, more engrossing, +than that upon which he had entered; and especially it becomes +absorbing, if done with another's money, unknown to that person. He +lived in a fever of expectation. No wonder he had small interest and +little leisure to bestow on the humdrum management of the estate. + +As a beginning, he had invested one hundred pounds; and he really did +sell out at an advantage, making fifteen pounds by the transaction, +which was all the worse for him, since the small success whetted his +appetite for more. + +An acquaintance at that juncture further fired his imagination by +telling him of a "chap" who, to the speaker's knowledge, had recently +"made" a thousand pounds in a fortnight. He did not trouble himself to +explain how large a sum had been utilized for this result, nor did he +expatiate on the losses which had gone before and had followed the said +success. + +But Norman was taken captive by the notion. Wherever he went, he saw +thousands of pounds before him, and conscience had almost ceased to +speak. He no longer reproached himself for the unauthorized use that +he was making of money entrusted to his care for other purposes, money +that was not his own. + +Each of his recent trips to town had been for the purpose of seeing +after investments. The first small success had been followed as such +successes commonly are by a loss at least equal in amount; and for +days, he was worried and low-spirited. + +But he had no thought of stopping. He would win next time. He only had +to try again, to choose his moment more carefully, to make everything +else in life work, duty, what not give way before any sudden call which +might mean a chance of selling out advantageously. His Stock Exchange +acquaintance was indeed ready to act for him, and a journey to London +could not be counted a necessity. But he was in the grip of excitement, +wild to see and know all that was passing without an hour's delay; and +nothing else seemed to be of the smallest consequence by comparison. + +As for telling Dulcie, he would not on any account. Why should he? He +would ask himself, when thinking about the matter. She was a woman, +and women see things differently from men. That hers was a better +business-head than his was put aside as irrelevant. What he did not +say, though conscious of it, was that he could manage to hide from +himself the true issues in a cloud of argument, but that no argument +would shadow Dulcie's clear vision. He would never be able to persuade +"her" that wrong was right; therefore, he said nothing. + + + +CHAPTER VI. A Downward Path. + +"AT last!" Dulcie said to herself, as she heard Norman's step in the +garden. + +All the afternoon she had been on the watch for his return, and now it +was dark. She knew before she could see his face that something had +gone wrong. He shut the front door noisily, and tramped heavily in the +passage. And when she went out to greet him, no smile met hers. + +He said shortly—"Horrible weather!" + +"Not raining, is it?" + +"I'd rather have rain any day than this soaking damp." + +"Supper will do you good, dear. Where did you get dinner?" + +"I picked up scrap—somewhere." + +Dulcie reflected that she would have been puzzled, had she not known +more than he supposed. Scraps are not "picked up" in country fields; +and one hardly so describes lunch with a farmer. + +"Couldn't get back sooner, I had too much to do," he said: and then +came an irritable—"I'm dead tired!" as he tried to pull off his +overcoat and failed. The right arm was still weak. + +"Wait. Let me help you, Norman?" + +"Yes, you might help a fellow. I've been at it all day." + +"At it," like his last remark was meant to mislead her. + +[Illustration: The letter reached its destination, + and was opened and read by George Kennedy.] + +Whatever he might have been "at," it was not Apthorne business. But +she would not in haste divulge what she had heard. If she delayed, he +might tell her himself. She had supper brought in with as little delay +as possible, and herself superintended the process. Then, while looking +to his comforts, she chatted on indifferent subjects, doing her best to +cheer him, and meeting with scant response. + +He ate moodily, refused to talk, and seemed plunged in meditation. + +To arouse him, she at length said, "Farmer Jones has been here. He +expected you this morning." + +"What a nuisance! I ought to have remembered." + +"Did you forget?" came involuntarily. + +"Thought of it too late," was an evasive reply. + +"He seems very anxious to see you and to have things settled. Was it +not rather a pity to disappoint him?" + +"Everybody wants everything settled instantaneously here. One might +think the affairs of the Nation were involved." + +"Mr. Jones said that Mr. Dewsbury never forgot an engagement. You don't +want people to make comparisons of that sort, do you, dear?" + +"I'm sure I don't care. Dewsbury spoilt the tenants—always dancing +attendance on them. I'm not going to make myself a slave to all their +whims and fancies." + +"But Norman—" She hesitated. Should she venture? He took ill in these +days any suggestion of rebuke; yet, if she did not speak, nobody else +would. "But, dear, after all, 'this' is duty, and going to London is +only pleasure." + +"Coming back to this out-of-the-way hole for a lecture, certainly isn't +pleasure!" + +"You don't love the country as I do, I'm afraid." + +"I! I hate it." He pushed his plate aside, stood up restlessly, went to +the window, peered into the darkness, sauntered back, and flung himself +into the basket arm-chair, with his arms crossed behind his head. + +"I'd give something for a row of street-lamps." + +"Not likely to come into existence here at present," she said +cheerfully. + +"It's deadly dull. How you can endure such a humdrum existence passes +my comprehension—never getting away from it!" + +"I really don't know what it is to feel dull. If only I could know that +you were happy, I should be perfectly content." + +He changed colour, and she followed up her advantage. + +"You are not happy, and I see it. Won't you tell me what is wrong? +Something is, I am sure." + +"Nonsense, Dulcie. I only don't want to be bothered." + +She waited a space, then said gently, "Why didn't you tell me you were +going to London to-day?" + +There was again an impatient movement. "Why should I? I'm not in +leading-strings." + +"Only, you know what an interest I take in everything that you do." + +"Yes. I dare say; but you worry a fellow so! I had to go, and I knew +you would fuss." + +"Don't you think we ought to consider expenses?" + +"Of course. We always are considering them. Business is business, all +the same, and it has to be seen to." + +He stood up once more, stretched himself, and a second time went to the +window. She recognized signs of mental uneasiness, and she knew that +she must carry her remonstrances no farther. Instead, she went to his +side, slipped her hand under his arm, and said, "Poor Norman! How tired +you are." + +"Oh, all right," he answered in a making-up tone. "I've no end of +writing to do this evening." + +"Can I help?" + +"No; it doesn't matter, thanks. I shall get on better if I'm quiet." + +Which meant that he did not wish for her company. She fell in with +the desire, and did not follow, as he made his way to the small +drawing-room. + +But letter-writing that evening had scant attention. He opened his +desk, indeed, spread papers about, and made believe to be occupied, in +case Dulcie should come in. Then he did nothing. + +Except to think, which often is the hardest work a man can do. He had +much to think about. + +One hundred and fifty pounds of the five hundred he had sunk, in hopes +of gradually doubling the amount. But instead of doubling the amount, +he had lost it. A mistake on his part, a blunder on the part of his +adviser, a sudden drop in prices where a rise had been confidently +looked for, and his venture had come to grief. The hundred and fifty +pounds were wiped out. + +And the money was not his. He could see no way to replace it. The move +to Apthorne, and the furnishing of their new little home, had not only +swallowed up all their ready money, but had largely encroached on the +two next quarters' income. It was as much as he and Dulcie could do to +pay their way. And now—this! + +Something had to be done. Sooner or later, he would have to account to +George Kennedy for every shilling of the five hundred pounds. And he +had robbed his friend of one hundred and fifty. + +His Stock Exchange adviser, who could by no possibility be called his +"friend," had been ready with advice. He must try again. Failure was +sure to be followed by success. He must not be chicken-hearted. There +was a splendid opening, just ready; and if he could manage to send +three or four hundred pounds, he would retrieve all, he would soon have +ample in hand to replace the hundred and fifty pounds, as well as to +recoup himself for weeks of worry. He only had to act promptly. + +Should he risk it? + +That was the question. He did not look at the right and wrong of it? He +did not say— + + "How can I do this great evil, and sin against God?" + +He only reckoned sums of money, tried to calculate "chances," pictured +the impossibility of getting straight unless he should somehow make a +good sum in the course of the next few weeks. + +By putting off, he would lose his opportunity, so he had been told. He +must write by this evening's post, or telegraph in the morning. + +There was a late post from Apthorne to London. After an hour's +thinking, he resolved to run the risk, to pay away nearly all that +remained in the Bank, belonging to George Kennedy. Four hundred was out +of the question, but he wrote a cheque for three hundred, enclosed the +cheque in a letter to his adviser, and with his own hands he posted it. + +Dulcie wondered to see him go out again, but she knew from his face +that she must ask no questions. + +When the letter was gone, he realized what he had done. And all the +night following, he tossed and turned in one long agony of suspense, +haunted by the dread of what it must mean, if failure followed. + +But it could not, must not, should not be, failure. Success this time +was certain; all but absolutely certain, he had been assured. + +That was Friday, and Norman's state of mind next day may be imagined. +As he went about Apthorne, he could think of nothing but his desperate +venture. Little marvel was it that Farmer Jones found him dull, +incapable, with wandering attention, unable to grasp the simplest +business details. + +A weight of unendurable suspense dragged him down. He wondered how he +would ever get through the next few weeks. + +Conscience, long deadened by persistent disregard, woke up and spoke; +and though her tones were muffled, he could not but hear. + +He had been brought up in a strictly honourable atmosphere. Years +earlier, it would have seemed to him a thing beyond the bounds of +possibility that "he," Norman Hurst, should ever become involved in a +transaction which would not stand the light of day. He had been proud +of his father's character and standing; he had cared greatly for what +his mother and sister thought. But with the flight of years, he had +changed. + +Backward sliding is usually a gradual matter: one step at a time. +He allowed himself first to slip out of the habit of daily prayer, +which, however perfunctory, yet acts as a check; he began to look +with indifference upon doubtful modes of money getting; he shirked +attendance at Church. Never too tired for amusement, he constantly +professed to be too tired for Church, and in time, he dropped it +altogether. + +Who shall say how much is involved for a man in this question of +Church-going?—More especially, in the case of those who have been +brought up to it? Many who stay away salve their consciences with the +argument—"It is only an outward form; and I don't hold with 'forms.' +I can serve God just as well if I stop at home." Of such a man it may +well be asked, "Does he serve God at home?" + +In any case, the reasoning is feeble; for the question is not whether +we can or cannot serve God in other ways, but whether it is His Will +that we should join in public worship. And so long as we have bodies +attached to our spirits, outward forms as well as inward graces are an +absolute necessity for us. + +On coming to Apthorne, Norman found himself less free than in London. +The old agent had been a regular Church-goer, and the same was expected +from him as a matter of course. He struggled against it at first, but +he had to yield. Whatever he did or did not do became at once the talk +of the village. + +He would have given a good deal to remain at home on the Sunday +following his rash venture. Darker and darker loomed before him dire +results, should success not crown his venture. And while he dreaded +thought, he yet craved to be alone that he might think. But he knew +that of late he had given serious offence to Mr. Kennedy's tenants +by his neglect of their concerns, and he did not wish to add to the +offence, or to draw attention to himself. So he made up his mind to +accompany his sister. + +[Illustration: "Work!" was the short text given out.] + +Throughout the Prayers, his mind was bent upon his own affairs. He +heard nothing, joined in nothing. When the sermon began, abstraction of +mind became less easy; for there was about the Vicar an intensity of +earnestness which compelled attention. + +"WORK!" was the short "text" given out. + +"We are all working-men and working-women," the Vicar said. "Whatever +our position in life, that may be truly said of us. If we do not work, +we ought to work. If we are idle, it is not because we have no work to +do, but because we neglect it. 'To every man his work!' is the Divine +ordinance. To each living man, his own particular task is given; and +that man is free, not only to do or not to do, but also as to 'how' he +does it." + +Dulcie wondered as she listened,—had the words made an impression? +Almost without seeing, she was conscious of a change in her brother's +face. She could only pray for him, fearing she knew not what, sure that +things were not right, yet unknowing what was wrong. + +He made no remark on their way home, and she saw little of him the rest +of the day. But his look of gloom had deepened. + +Somebody else, listening to the Vicar, thought of Norman; and +this was the old agent. Whatever Dewsbury's faults might be, +slackness and indolence could not be counted among them. The sermon +did not especially come home to himself; but he did think as he +listened—"That's uncommonly good for Hurst!" + +He had no reason to suspect anything dishonourable in his successor, +knowing nothing of Hurst's private life; but he did clearly recognize +that, as agent, Norman was a failure. + +Complaints on the estate were rife, and he became early a recipient of +them. Nothing was done as it should be done; promises were forgotten, +interviews were put aside, repairs were delayed, accounts were not +properly kept. The new Agent was as slippery as an eel, always off +somewhere on his own business or pleasure, and nobody could get hold of +him. Though Dewsbury in the past had been hardly a popular man, he was +growing popular now, from his contrast with Hurst; and he knew it with +a sense of gratification. + +That he should be still keenly alive to the interests of the estate +which he had managed so long was only to be expected; and that he +should not be disposed to minimize the faults of his successor was +also, doubtless, natural. The recollection of his own summary dismissal +certainly embittered his judgment; and when growlings reached him, he +was disposed to make the worst, not the best, of them. But at the best, +there was much cause for blame. + +He would not at first interfere; and for a while looked on silently. +After much cogitation, and consultation with old friends, however, he +had taken action. Some six weeks before this date, he had written to +the new owner of the property, apologizing for so doing, and plainly +telling him that neglect was the order of the day at Apthorne, and that +matters wanted looking into. + +Sometimes since, he had wondered was that letter right? Was it really +called for? Had he gone beyond his duty in thus interfering? The very +fact that it gratified his outraged feelings to write ought perhaps to +have withheld him from so doing; and there were days when he realized +this. Somebody else, not he, should have spoken the warning word. + +But it was done, and could not be undone. And it so happened that on +the very day of this sermon, not many hours earlier, the letter reached +its destination, and was opened and read by George Kennedy. + +At first, he laughed. + +"Poor old Dewsbury is jealous," he said. "A case of the green-eyed +monster. Can't resist meddling. As if I didn't know Hurst!" + +But on reading the letter a second time, he felt not quite so sure. +Dewsbury's business-like statements carried weight. After all, he had +seen nothing of Norman Hurst for many years; and as a young fellow, +certainly he had not been too fond of steady work. Kennedy had reposed +his confidence, half-unconsciously, not in the brother but in the +sister. He woke up now to the fact that Norman, not Dulcie, was +responsible. + +"I'll go home and see to things myself," he said; and with the sudden +resolution came sudden joy. "Why didn't I go sooner? I shall see Dulcie +again!" + + + +CHAPTER VII. Brought upon Himself. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER VIII. Confessions. + +ALL day, Dulcie had seen scarcely anything of Norman. He seemed unable +to settle to his work, but came and went, walked in and walked out, +and was perpetually on the go, in a purposeless fashion. His face was +stamped with lines of misery, which no forced smiles could hide. + +Her heart ached for him, yet she was powerless to give help, for he +evaded inquiries, and refused to admit that aught was wrong. + +In less than twenty-four hours, George Kennedy would arrive; and she +hoped much from his kindness, his friendship. If Norman had acted +foolishly and wrongly, in some manner unknown to herself, George would +make excuses and would put things right. + +[Illustration: "Speculated—and—lost!"] + +She could hardly think of herself in connection with Kennedy, so full +was her mind of Norman; yet the knowledge that he would soon be there +brought a sense of rest. + +Late in the evening, as she sat over her mending, in the belief that +Norman had gone early to bed, tired out with worry, a movement made her +look up, and he was beside her; his face colourless and twitching, and +a carpet bag in his hand. + +"Good-bye!" he said huskily. "I couldn't go without a word, but you +mustn't hinder me." + +She stood up, and quietly faced him. In a moment, she seemed to +understand everything. It hardly even took her by surprise; and she was +perfectly controlled. + +"Where are you going?" + +"Never mind. I'm off. Just come to say good-bye! You've been the best +of sisters." + +"And you have been a dear brother! But you will not leave me like +this. Sit down. There's plenty of time. Mr. Kennedy does not come till +to-morrow afternoon." + +"I can't. No use. It's all up with me. I'm off." + +"Sit down, dear Norman." + +And he yielded to voice and touch, though repeating— + +"It's no good! No good!" + +She knelt beside him, with her face on the level of his, studying +gravely his haggard features. + +He hardly knew how to endure the gaze. "Don't!" he muttered. + +"What does it mean, Norman?" + +He groaned and hid his face. + +"You must tell me . . . Dear—do you want to break my heart? . . . I +must hear everything! . . . I shall not let you go till I know all. And +if you go. I go too." + +No answer, and she waited; then said, "Tell me!" + +"I 'can't.' Dulcie." + +"You must. It is money trouble of some sort. What is it?" + +She had to urge more strongly, to press again and again. + +And at length came a muffled—"The—five hundred—" + +"Yes; tell me." + +"It is—gone!" + +Her hand closed firmly on his. + +"Gone where, dear?" + +"Some—of course—spent on the estate. But—" + +"And the rest—?" + +"Speculated—and—lost!" + +This was received in silence. The truth went beyond her worst fears. + +"You needn't say anything. I know—and you know—what it means. Now you +understand—and I must go." + +"Yes, I understand," she said very quietly. + +"I didn't mean to tell you, but it is just as well I have. Now you can +tell Kennedy. Say I was mad! I don't know what came over me to do such +a thing!" + +"You will tell Mr. Kennedy yourself—not I." + +"Never! I shall be gone." + +"You will not be gone. You will be here, and you will speak the truth, +like a man!" + +"I tell you, Dulcie, I can't, and won't! Nothing shall make me." + +"I don't see that you have any choice. You have risked money that +was not yours—and lost it. You have to account to him for the money. +Nothing remains but to tell him the truth. He must know it, and he must +know it from you. To run away would be the act of a coward." + +"I knew you would despise me." + +"Dear Norman, indeed I don't. It is not that. But there is only one way +for you now. Never mind the pain. Stay and speak out bravely." + +Her eyes were brimming with tears. + +"Listen!" she urged. "We will tell him together—if that will be any +help—you and I. And we will set ourselves to earn the full amount. +We will give ourselves no rest till it is repaid—every penny of it. +The agency, of course, you cannot keep. We will go away, and get +work elsewhere, and live on as little as possible. We will do it +together—you and I!" + +The generosity of her words struck deep; yet he did not know the cost +to herself. For this was the death-blow to her dearest hopes. She was +putting aside all thought of George Kennedy as a part of her own life. + +"Only, he must be told first. And you yourself must tell him." + +"I can't do it! I can't, do it!" reiterated Norman; and he remained +deaf to her entreaties. "I dare not meet Kennedy!" came at length. + +"You—a man!—Dare not!" + +But still he held out, and she had recourse to her final weapon. + +"Norman, for my sake, you must. I ask it for my sake! I—I tell you +frankly—I love George Kennedy." + +Norman was startled out of his drooping posture. + +"You love him!" + +"He asked me ten years ago to be his wife: and I could not. I was +needed at home. I gave him no reason—and he may have changed; most +likely he will have changed. But still he is the same to me. Now you +see how I have a right to ask that you should speak—that you should not +put that upon me. You must tell him all. Nothing else is possible." + +Norman's hands went to his head. "I don't know what to say—what +to think!" he muttered. "You bewilder me. George—and you! Then I +suppose—it was for your sake that he offered me this." + +"Why should it be? You and he are old friends. I have no reason to +suppose that he ever thinks of me now. But I care for him." She spoke +steadily. + +"I must think. My head is in a whirl. I must go out." + +"Not unless you promise, on your word of honour, to come back to-night." + +"My word of honour!" His laugh was bitter. + +"Yes. Your word of honour. You have fallen; but you are going to stand +upright from to-day. Norman, think of our dear mother! Think of our +dear father! You must do what they would wish. And if you promise to +come back, you will keep your promise. I trust you." + +"You shall not be disappointed." He put down his bag, took out his +purse and laid it on the table. "Now, you see I can't go away." + +She gave him back the purse. "That would not be trust," she said. "You +will keep your promise—not because you cannot go, but because you +'will' not!" + +"You are right. I will not! I promise you, on my word of honour, to +come back to-night." + +She held him fast for an instant. "Dear Norman, I shall be praying for +you. Pray for yourself that you may conquer." + +Then he was gone; and Dulcie, on her knees at home, like Moses with his +uplifted arms, determined by her earnest pleading the course of the +battle. For indeed, it was no easy battle which Norman had to fight. +The lack of fibre in his will, the habitual yielding to countless +lesser temptations, as well as his recent heavy fall, made this contest +infinitely harder for him than it would have been for a man of strong +will and habitual self-control. + + + +CHAPTER IX. A Moonlit Battle. + +NORMAN'S first craving was for fresh air and rapid movement. He went +along the lane, turned on into a side path, and presently emerged on +a wide and lonely common, flooded with silver light. Across it led a +road, and this he followed. Overhead, the moon shone brightly. + +His mind was bent upon the past talk, especially upon Dulcie's +unexpected confession. He realized afresh how devoted a sister she had +been; he saw the heart-break that must have been hers, had he fled as +he purposed. He understood what her position would have been, had she +been left alone to meet her former lover and to bear the brunt of her +brother's wrong-doing. + +That his plain duty was to stay at Apthorne, to encounter the friend +whom he had injured, and to make a clean breast of everything, had +become clear: but—could he do it? That was the question. He had not +been too proud to misuse money left in his charge: but to confess the +same would be a tremendous blow to his pride. + +He pictured himself meeting George Kennedy, trying to explain, +faltering, breaking down overcome with shame—and it seemed impossible. +Again he was gripped by a fierce temptation to flee, even now to make +his escape. + +But—his promise! He had given his word of honour. Dulcie trusted +him. He could not go. Then, he recalled her last words; and in the +moonlight, he fell upon his knees, and his whole soul went up in a +passionate cry for help, that he might be able to stand. Norman learnt +in that hour the true meaning of prayer. + +His pleading and Dulcie's were not in vain. Presently, as he again +hurried on, he found himself no longer hesitating, debating, swayed to +and fro, but coming to a firm resolve. Things were as Dulcie had said. +He had no choice. Nothing remained to be done but to stick to his post, +and to speak out like a man. He would not be a selfish coward, thinking +only of what he himself had to bear, and shirking the just results of +his wrong-doing. He would tell Kennedy everything, and would patiently +accept the consequences. + +As he so resolved, peace settled down upon his tempest-tossed spirit. +If in very truth he repented, forgiveness would be his—so much he knew +from early training—forgiveness for the evil he had done, strength for +the present trouble, power for keeping to straight paths in the future. +This hour might, if he willed, become the turning-point in his life. + +Walking rapidly, he had wandered from the roadway, half unconscious of +the fact, stumbling through bracken and undergrowth, away to a wild and +unfrequented part of the common, farther than he had been aware, and +the thought arose that he ought to make his way homeward. Dulcie would +be watching for his return. + +A sound broke in upon his abstraction: a low moaning, which he had +taken for the wind among the branches. Now he heard the same more +clearly, and he peered into the darkness, intently listening. A human +note in it touched him, and he realized that somebody else beside +himself was in distress. + +A strong temptation assailed him to pursue the quest no further, and to +hasten home. It might be only the breeze, or his own imagination. He +did not want to be bothered. Why should he concern himself with other +people's affairs? + +He moved a few steps, then stopped to listen again. Heavy clouds had +gathered, shutting off the moon, but they parted, and a search-light +beam cut an alley through surrounding gloom. + +[Illustration: He saw, as in a vision, a ruined building + rising out of rank vegetation.] + +He saw, as in a vision, a ruined building rising out of rank +vegetation, the walls nearly intact, though the roof had fallen in. +Lending a spectral appearance to the whole, was a central chimney, +oddly placed, and high for such a ruin in such a situation. + +In a flash, he recalled the existence and the history of Marston +Grange, an old haunted house, grim tales connected with which rose +swiftly to mind. + +With one brief exception, it had not been inhabited during a century +past. It belonged to the Apthorne property, but so long had it been a +ruin, and so widespread was the impression of its being haunted, that +neither Dewsbury nor previous agents had even thought of letting it. + +One day, some ten years before this date, an old and shabby man tramped +into Apthorne, seeking shelter. He declared his fixed intention of +remaining there, scouted the notion of a neighbouring workhouse, and +offered to take up his residence in the ruin for a nominal rent. He +confided to the agent that, though very poor, he was not absolutely +penniless. + +Nervous people held up their hands in horror when his wish became +known, but he was not to be baulked. He liked the quiet of the old +Grange, and its apartness from talkative human beings. An old lean-to +hut would give him all the shelter he needed; and he begged permission +to make it his home. + +Mainly out of compassion, Dewsbury yielded. Thring installed himself +there, and settled down. He seldom came to Apthorne, and spent so +little in the way of food, that people wondered how he kept body and +soul together. In point of fact, he did not long succeed in so doing. +Before winter, he had passed away. + +During those few months, Dewsbury was kind to the old man, sometimes +looking in for a chat, sometimes taking him a present of food. Towards +the end, Thring's reserve yielded slightly. He told the agent that he +had no friends, no relatives. + +"All are dead before me," he said. "You're the only chap that has shown +me kindness for many a year, and I'm leaving my goods and chattels and +all I'm possessed of to you." + +Dewsbury went home, laughing to himself. The old man's "goods and +chattels" would hardly be worth the trouble of carrying away. + +Then Timing died, silently, alone, untended; and Dewsbury, happening to +come in next day, found him thus. He also found a will, properly signed +and witnessed, leaving everything to himself, and, to his surprise, a +purse containing twenty-five pounds. + +This tale sprang to Norman's mind, as he found himself confronting +the old ruin. He had been here once in broad daylight, but to be here +alone at night was another matter. Whether or not he put any real faith +in ghost-stories connected with the place, he was not free from a +superstitious side, and involuntarily, he recoiled. A chill ran through +him. Who could say what the moaning might mean? A haunted ruin, an old +man dying his lonely death within, friendless and forsaken! What if the +sound were from the inhabitant of another world? The unresting spirit +of old Thring himself? + +The moaning stopped, only to begin anew, broken by speech. He could +distinguish no words, but somebody seemed to be protesting. + +Norman was not by nature a courageous man. There are men, happily not +few, who at the first sign of another in need will dash headlong to the +rescue, but he was not of that type. His first impulse was to think of +self, to shrink from trouble and danger. + +Something withheld him from the instant flight to which he was urged by +impulse. Was it a dim consciousness that he might sink lower yet than +he had already sunk?—That here was an opportunity for a good deed? He +stood suspended, hesitating, doubting, shifting uneasily from foot to +foot, unable to make up his mind. Why needed he to do anything? Why +not at once decamp? The whole might be a delusion? And he had troubles +enough of his own. + +He had been backing slowly, but a hollow laugh pulled him up. It seemed +to rattle on his brain. The sound recurred, and was followed by a rush +of words, excited and vehement, yet still muffled, as if proceeding +from a box or a tube. + +He longed to take to his heels, but sober thought and earnest resolve, +born in him that night, were already working towards his salvation. +Though he still thought first of self, he did not think of self only. + +"I've been calling myself a miserable wretch, and a spendthrift of +God's mercy! I've been hoping to be forgiven and set on my feet again! +And now, at the first chance of doing something for somebody, I'm ready +to act the coward and to let things go. I'll not do it. I'll not be +beaten. Man or spirit, things are wrong yonder, and I'll see if they +can't be put right." Such thoughts, half shaped into words, stirred him +to action. + +He picked his way over the rough ground, among stones and bracken, +climbed the nearer broken-down wall, and found himself within the +ruin, knee-deep in grass and weeds. The moon still shone, though less +brightly, and he could dimly see what lay around. No voice or sound now +broke the stillness. + +"Anybody here?" he called. "Eh! Hallo! Who are you? Where are you? What +are you doing?" + +Another minute of this profound hush, and the utmost effort of will +would hardly have kept him longer within the ruin, pallid and ghostly +as it looked. But the voice he had heard broke out afresh, with a +torrent of words. There was a delirious sound in the rush of utterance. + +"Ho, ho! So it's you, Mr. Hurst! A better man than I, say you? Well, +well, we'll see! We'll see pretty soon, I reckon. There's going to be +trouble, I can tell you. The new Squire doesn't know what's been going +on, but he'll know soon. 'I've' taken care of that. Shouldn't have been +me, you say! Why not? I say, why not? . . . What! What did you say? +Treasure somewhere—hidden away! Shouldn't wonder! He couldn't have +found a safer place. Old Thring was uncommon sharp! Nobody comes to a +haunted house! But keep it close—keep it close! Mind you, I've got the +right. If folks knew, they'd come digging here, and have the old place +down, before one can say 'Jack Robinson!'" + +Then a break, but as Norman debated what to say, the voice started anew. + +"No, I'm not an avaricious man, nobody can say that of me. But it's +worth a bit of trouble—worth the search, eh? You'd do it in my place. +Hold hard—slowly!—Slowly! There's a lot of rubble above; and this +old chimney is queerly built . . . Not easy to get up. My word! It's +narrow! Shouldn't wonder if there wasn't a ledge beyond the bend, if +once I get there. Sort of place a miser 'd be likely enough to choose! +Though how old Thring ever could have managed to climb it, beats my +understanding! I say! It's melting work, and no mistake. What's that?—" +And the voice rose to a startled shout. "Help! Help!—I'm stuck—stuck +fast! Can't stir!—" And the hoarse utterances died into renewed moaning. + +Norman had listened spell-bound, unable to make out whence the sounds +came. He thought he recognised Dewsbury's voice, yet could not be sure. +The hut suggested itself, and he went thither, stooped to make his +way in, and felt tremblingly around, but could discover no presence +except his own. A ray of moonlight filtering through the open door, as +a cloudlet rolled away, confirmed this fact. With the exception of a +broken table and infirm chair, neither worth carrying away, the hut was +empty. + +Terror overcame Norman. The whole thing was eerie, uncanny, unnatural. +He stumbled blindly to the entrance, and rushed out, drops bedewing +his forehead. If the ex-agent were anywhere near, at least he was not +in the hut. And if it were not Dewsbury himself, but something else, +something ghostly, something terrible— + +He started away, full speed, mastered by a nameless dread, and was +brought up by the ruined wall, with a concussion which sent him +staggering backward. That might not have stopped his flight, but the +voice again broke out, piteously imploring help, still with a note of +wildness, as of one "off his head." Now too it seemed closer, less +muffled. Norman was beside the tall chimney; and a sudden instinct +made him bend down, with his face to the opening, where once a great +mediæval hearth had been. + +"It's somebody up the chimney," he exclaimed aloud, with instant +relief; for at all events, ghosts do not climb chimneys. "Hallo! Who's +there? Dewsbury!—Is it you?" + +A feeble answer drifted slowly down. "Here! I'm here! Help! Help! I'm +stuck! Can't stir an inch." + +"Are you hurt?" + +"Yes! Yes!" Then—"Have a care. Don't bring it all down. There's been +a—a—" + +"A fall of bricks, eh?" + +"I don't know. Something—something—jammed me in . . . Ever so long ago!" + +"Never mind! Don't be afraid. I'll get you down, all right. I declare, +I took you for a ghost." + +[Illustration: Dewsbury seemed stupefied, and in the midst + of these operations fell fast asleep.] + +The moaning was resumed, and when he shouted further questions, he had +no reply. He doubted if the ex-agent were conscious, though aroused +momentarily by his voice. + +"Nothing for it but to climb up, I suppose. I don't like the job!" +muttered Norman, surveying as best he could in the dim light the +chimney's outlines. Within of course, all would be pitch darkness. He +would have to feel his way; and since there had been one fall of loose +material, there might be another. At any moment, while making the +ascent, he too might be hopelessly jammed in, and unable to escape. + +No; he did not like the job! It meant danger, difficulty, discomfort, +perhaps serious injury to himself. + + + +CHAPTER X. No Easy Matter. + +HE did not like the job; but it had to be undertaken. That came home to +Norman. + +True, an alternative plan existed as a possibility. He might go for +additional help. Two men, or three, would find the work of rescue +easier and safer than one acting alone. For himself, undoubtedly, this +would be the pleasanter line to follow. + +But—to leave the unhappy Dewsbury here alone, to leave him for at least +another hour and a half, unaided, suffering, delirious! The thing +seemed scarcely possible, at least in Norman's present softened mood. +What if the ex-agent should die before his return? He would never +forgive himself for having made no attempt to set him free. + +He knew what he would feel in Dewsbury's position. It would be awfully +hard to bear, if the other man should go away, leaving him alone in +his misery. "I've been a coward already to-night! I'll not show the +white-feather again," he said resolutely. "I'll do what I can, and let +consequences take care of themselves." + +Then he realized a better mode—to leave consequences in the Hands of +God, while simply doing his duty. + +He was silent, and a short fervent prayer went up for help: not the +first prayer that he had prayed within the last three hours, following +upon many a prayerless year. + +The moaning in the chimney went on monotonously. It acted as a +continuous call to Norman for help. + +"I say, man! Wake up and tell me, is there room for me beside you?" he +shouted, putting his face to the opening. + +Moans only came in reply: and without further parley, he began his +ascent. + +The chimney had been built in old style, and there was room enough +within for a boy or slenderly made man to mount, but in its present +half-ruined condition, the feat was not easy. Bracing himself firmly +across from side to side, his feet against one wall, his back and +shoulders against that opposite, he raised himself inch by inch, moving +with extreme caution, listening with intense anxiety. At any moment, +a further fall of bricks or rubbish might put an end to his exertions +on behalf of Dewsbury—might indeed put an end to his own life. He knew +this and he was afraid, yet he went steadily on. + +"I'm coming. Keep quiet. Don't stir," he called repeatedly. + +And Dewsbury seemed to understand. The moaning ceased. + +Still inch by inch upward, feeling, not seeing; and the way in darkness +and uncertainty seemed long, though really short. Sooner than he knew, +he reached the awkward bend where Dewsbury was wedged in with the fall +of rubble. Norman, setting himself resolutely, could touch the other +man, and the touch brought no response. Had Dewsbury fainted? Was he +dying—or dead? Norman's heart stood still at the suggestion. It would +be a weird position, alone in this chimney with a dead man. + +"Anyhow, I've got to clear a way and get him down," he muttered and he +began cautiously pulling away the débris. + +Stone after stone, and loose masses of material, went rattling down. +Further loosening proved necessary, before he could feel that it +was possible to move Dewsbury. Then he did his best to rouse the +unconscious man, spoke to him, chafed his hands, and at length, when he +had begun almost to despair, success came. Dewsbury groaned, sighed, +and tried to move. + +"Wake up, man. Pull yourself together. We can't stay here all night. +I've got to get you down." + +"I—I—how did I come here?" The voice showed confusion. "I—oh, ah—I +know—climbing the cliff—had a fall—" + +"Not a cliff, but a chimney. You must have got a blow on the head, I +suspect. Better now, eh? Yes—a chimney!" as the word was repeated. + +"Yes, yes,—I—remember—" with an effort. "But—but—you—you're not—Hurst!" + +"Yes, I am. A mercy I happened to come too. All right. I'll soon have +you down." + +"Hurst! The last man I'd have looked for—" Norman just caught the +murmured words. + +"Never mind that. You're better now—eh?" + +"I'm pretty well done for and my own fault, too!" + +"Nut a bit of it. You're no more done for than I am. You're free now. +It's only a matter of a dozen feet." + +"But—but—the stones up above—" + +"I've cleared away all I can reach, and I don't believe there's more to +come. You'll have to move cautiously. Now—ready? Hold fast, and don't +hurry. I'll have you down in no time." + +He was almost as good as his word. A few anxious seconds, and the older +man had reached firm ground below. Norman dropped easily after, to find +him lying in a heap, barely conscious. + +A slight search in the ex-agent's pockets resulted to Norman's delight, +and as he had hoped—in the discovery of a box of matches. Now he knew +what to be at. Finding tokens of a heavy blow on the old man's head, he +bathed it with a handkerchief soaked in dew, then carefully bound it up. + +Dewsbury seemed stupefied, and in the midst of these operations fell +fast asleep. Norman decided to let him sleep, and sat patiently by his +side, troubled only by the thought of Dulcie's anxiety at his long +absence. But nothing could be done. He had to stay. + +Soon after daybreak, he again bathed and dressed the hurt, and Dewsbury +awoke to full consciousness. At first, he asked no questions, but +watched the other steadily, remorsefully, it might be. + +"Come, you're getting on now," Norman remarked. "You'll be able to move +soon." + +"Yes: I'm better. I didn't think it would be 'you' that would have +saved my life, Mr. Hurst!" + +"O come!—Not so bad as that. Though you had a bad time of it, I'm sure." + +"It was quite as bad as that. I've been awake longer than you know. +I've been thinking! And I know what I owe to you. If you hadn't come, I +should have died there, like a rat in a hole. I couldn't have held out +many hours longer. I know what I'm saying. And you saved me at risk to +yourself too! I know that." + +"I'm glad to have been able to help you. And if you're well enough now +to be alone for a bit, I'll go and get help. You can't walk." + +"Yes, I can. If you'll lend me an arm. I shall do well enough. But I've +got to get something off my mind first. I've done you a wrong, and I'm +sorry. I'd give a good deal if I could undo it." + +"Have you? O well, it can't be helped." Norman had never fell so +strangely at peace with all the world as he did this hour. + +"I've done you a wrong. I've misjudged you!" + +"No. Things have not gone as they should." + +"It was no business of mine to meddle. I'll tell you the truth. I wrote +to Mr. Kennedy, and said to him that the place was being mismanaged. +That's why he is coming home." + +"It 'has' been mismanaged." + +"I wasn't the one to write. I ought to have let it alone. You're +heaping coals of fire on my head, doing this for me. You are new to the +work, and I might have made excuses." + +"No." Norman looked towards the east, where a glow was creeping into +the grey dawn. "No. Things have been worse than you thought." + +"It'll all come right. You'll do better now." + +"I shall not keep the agency. You will have it again." He thought of +what the old man had said in delirium. + +"Why, Mr. Hurst! That's nonsense. You'll keep it, of course. And if +you'd just let me help you now and then, I'd do it and welcome." + +"If I'd had any sense, I should have gone to you before. Dulcie, my +sister, wished it, and I wouldn't. But that is not all, not nearly all. +There is much worse." In a scarcely audible voice, he told his sad tale. + +"I meant to go away last night: never to be seen again. It was Dulcie +who stopped me. And now I shall stay and tell Kennedy everything. Then +I shall leave Apthorne, and you—he will give you back the agency." + +"No, he won't. I shall not take it. And you are not going. You've done +wrong, Hurst, but you won't go any farther that way. It'll be once and +for all! You'll pull up sharp, and take warning, and get straight. Now, +look here. I'm a solitary man, without wife or child, and I've got more +than I need. I'll get an advance to-morrow morning from my bank for +the full amount—four hundred odd, is it?—and you shall pay it in to +Mr. Kennedy's account. See? It will mean selling out for me, and I'm +willing, so you needn't say another word. You shall give me an I.O.U. +and when you can pay me back, you shall; and I'll wait till then. + +"You've done wrongly, it's true—very wrongly!—but you are going to +live another sort of life. And you've been my friend this night, and +most likely saved 'my' life, which I shall never forget, for I'm not +one of the forgetting sort. I'm sorry for that nice sister of yours, +to whom I've been none too polite in the past. I don't say it wasn't +right of somebody to give Mr. Kennedy a word of warning, as things have +been, but that somebody shouldn't have been me. However, this will +make everything fair and square between us, eh? And I don't doubt Mr. +Kennedy will consent to overlook it, if you can square up the account, +and promise you'll never speculate again." + +[Illustration: "I have something of importance to say to you."] + +Norman tried to speak, and produced only a wordless sound. + +"All right! All right! Thanks will keep. I've got more thanks for you +first after this night. And now I've got to think about walking home. +I'm shaky still." + +Norman found his voice. "I can't thank you enough. It's a noble offer. +But I feel I mustn't avail myself of it. Kennedy must know everything. +I couldn't stay here under any sort of false pretences. I shall tell +him the whole, from first to last, let what may come of it. God bless +you for your kind thought, Dewsbury. It can do no harm if I tell +Kennedy that you wanted to lend me the money. But I'd rather—do you +mind?—I'd rather you said nothing about this night's adventure. It's +nothing really—nothing to talk about; and I don't want any little help +I've given you to be used as a set-off to what I've been guilty of! You +see what I mean." + +To Norman's relief, perhaps also a little to his surprise, the other +promptly agreed. + +"Well, yes, I've a reason too for not talking just now about this," the +ex-agent said rather hesitatingly. "By-and-by, it may be different. But +just now, to tell the truth, I'd rather it shouldn't be known. I shall +say I've had a slight accident, a stone falling on my head. You see!" + +"You may trust me to say nothing." + +"Yes, yes. I'm sure I may. I've a reason." Then, after a pause—"And you +haven't asked what it was that took me up the chimney." + +"You were wandering in your head when I first heard you, and you said +one or two things which gave me a notion. I thought perhaps you'd gone +up in hopes of finding—something." + +Norman spoke with deliberation, and the other looked keenly at him. + +"That was all?" + +"Not quite all. You spoke as if you thought there might be money hidden +away." + +"If you'd left me there to die, nobody would have known it but +yourself. There 'may' be!" + +Norman laughed. "I'm bad enough, but I'm not that sort!" + +"No, you're not. Well, I don't mind saying to you that I've reason to +think there is—perhaps. I met a chap the other day who'd known Thring, +and he told me he was a miser, and had a hoard somewhere, and it's as +likely as not it may be here. But nobody else knows. If it's there, +it's mine by right." + +"Thank you for trusting me, Mr. Dewsbury. It won't go any farther, you +may be sure of that." + +Dewsbury looked straight at him. "Yes. I'm sure. You and I will have +another hunt, some day, perhaps." + +"Do you think you could make a start soon? We ought to get home. I'll +give you my arm." + +And the walk, though difficult, was accomplished. + + + +CHAPTER XI. Adjusted. + +"YES; I see!" Kennedy stood gravely facing his friend and agent, as +with a sorrowful air Norman stumbled through his tale. + +They were at Ivy Cottage. "I have something of importance to say to +you," Norman had stated on first meeting the owner of Apthorne; and +Kennedy's reply was—"Pray keep it, my dear fellow, till I come round +after tea to see you and your sister." + +When he arrived, Dulcie was not visible. He had fully counted on her +presence, and he augured badly for himself from the fact. She indeed, +had offered, for her brother's sake, to be present and to share in his +confession. But she was very thankful when he refused to let her do so. + +"Your sister not in?" + +"Yes. She will see you presently. I've got to tell you something first." + +"Better have it out at once, then." Kennedy expected to hear some +particulars of slack management, and he prepared to listen, at first, +with wavering attention, which soon became concentrated. He made no +interruption, no comment; and his lips were firmly set. + +"Yes, I see!" when Norman came to a pause. "I understand." + +He walked up and down the little room. + +"It wasn't easy work for you to tell me this." He looked at the bowed +head. "It must have been hard." + +"I couldn't do otherwise. A friend, I may as well tell you his +name—Dewsbury—offered to advance the money. But you have a right to +know all. Not to explain would mean going on under false pretences; and +I'll have nothing more of that sort. Dulcie would never have consented +either. In fact, it was she who persuaded me. I'd made up my mind to +run away; and but for her, you would never have seen me again." + +"That would have been a fatal step!" + +"Yes I see now it would have been!" + +"But the temptation must have been great, having so much money in your +hands. I blame myself." + +"The money ought to have been safe!" + +"You had had no previous training. It was all new to you." + +"That's no excuse. I've done very wrongly." + +Kennedy took two more turns. + +"Yes; wrong it was! It might have wrecked your life's happiness—yours +and hers!" + +"Dulcie has been an angel of goodness to me." + +"She 'is' an angel." He said the words with fervour. + +"But of course I must go. That is inevitable. You will find Dewsbury +infinitely more efficient—letting alone this!" + +"That's a matter for consideration. I should like to see your sister +before coming to any decision." + +"She's there," with a gesture towards the room on the other side of the +passage. "I said I would call her." + +"No. Stop! I'll go. You can wait here." + +Norman obeyed, and kept his seat with spiritless patience. At last +he woke to the lapse of time, and glanced at the clock, in wonder at +Kennedy's prolonged absence. Some instinct kept him from venturing to +intrude. + +When the door opened to admit Kennedy and Dulcie, his first glimpse of +the two brought fresh wonder. Only once, during ten years past, had he +seen in her that glow of girlish beauty and joy; while Kennedy was an +embodiment of smiles. + +[Illustration: "I have decided to keep you on in your post."] + +"Dulcie and I have been discussing the situation," observed the latter, +and Norman vaguely noticed the use of her Christian name. "We think +that you must have another chance. I have decided to keep you on your +post." + +"It's not right. I ought to retrieve my character first." + +"You shall retrieve it here." + +"I think not. You cannot feel any confidence in me." + +"Dulcie does. She says I may. Things will be different in the future. +Frankly, it's not for your sake that I ask this. But there are other +considerations, and I wish you to stay. Besides, I'm not going back to +Australia." + +"No, you would not feel enough confidence—" + +"That's not it. Dulcie has settled matters. I went because she would +not have me; and if she would not now, I should go again. But she will! +Thank God, I've got at last what all these years I have hungered after +hopelessly—never dreaming that she might be mine." + +Norman muttered a word of congratulation, as he glanced from one bright +face to the other. + +"Yes, Dulcie has promised to be my wife, my own dear wife. But she +declares positively that if you leave Apthorne, she must go with you +for a time. And that is out of the question, for I can't possibly live +any longer without her. So there is nothing for it, but for you to stay +here as my agent. You see, I am risking it for my own sake. You will +not refuse?" + +Under the circumstances, Norman could not refuse. He might feel, he did +feel, that he deserved no such leniency. But the request, put thus, had +to be granted. + +He remained at Apthorne, and during the next twelve months, he had to +live a life of wholesome self-denial. The least that he could do, in +gratitude was to save every possible penny towards the repayment of his +debt, and to use every means in his power for the improvement of his +own defective business capabilities. + +It was doubtless well for him that Dewsbury's illness deferred any +further successful search for the hidden treasure. He had been a spoilt +boy, a too much petted and shielded brother. Now he had what was good +for him, a year of standing alone, of having to refuse himself many a +thing that he wanted. At the year's end, he was the better for it, he +had gained "backbone" and was stronger. + +Then something unexpected happened. + +Dewsbury had begun to speak again to Norman about the possible +"treasure." He went to the place himself, walking feebly, and discussed +with his successor what steps should be taken. He planned telling +Kennedy. + +Two days later, a terrific storm broke over the place, and the old +chimney was struck. It came down, a heap of ruin, and amid the ruin, +carefully examined by Norman and one or two trustworthy assistants, was +found a mildewed leathern packet, containing some eight hundred pounds +in gold and notes, and the name of "Thring" within. + +Dewsbury made a present of half this sum to Norman, in token of his +gratitude for, as he expressed it, "a life saved." Norman, though not +without demur, accepted the gift, and was once more out of debt—a free +man! + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78931 *** diff --git a/78931-h/78931-h.htm b/78931-h/78931-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f1a33c3 --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/78931-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3211 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Her Brother's Keeper | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/image001.jpg" type="image/cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + font-size:12.0pt; + font-family:"Verdana"; +} + +p {text-indent: 2em;} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +h2 {font-size: 1.17em;} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} + +.w100 { + width: auto + } + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +p.t1 {text-indent: 0%; + font-size: 125%; + text-align: center + } + +p.t2 { + text-indent: 0%; + font-size: 150%; + text-align: center + } + +p.t3 { + text-indent: 0%; + font-size: 100%; + text-align: center + } + +p.t3b { + text-indent: 0%; + font-size: 100%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center + } + +p.t4 { + text-indent: 0%; + font-size: 80%; + text-align: center + } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + + </style> +</head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78931 ***</div> + + +<p>Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.</p> + +<p>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the +public domain.</p> +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image001" style="max-width: 33.8125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image001.jpg" alt="image001"> +</figure> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image002" style="max-width: 30.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image002.jpg" alt="image002"> +</figure> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h1>HER BROTHER'S KEEPER.</h1> +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> +BY<br> +</p> + +<p class="t1"> +AGNES GIBERNE<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +Author of<br> +</p> + +<p class="t4"> +"The Nameless Shadow," etc.<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> +HOME WORDS<br> +FOR<br> +HEART AND HEARTH<br> +<br> +1906<br> +</p> + +<p class="t4"> +"HOME WORDS" PUBLISHING OFFICE<br> +11, LUDGATE SQUARE, LUDGATE HILL, E.C.<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3b"> +CONTENTS.<br> +</p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image003" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image003.jpg" alt="image003"> +</figure> + +<p><br></p> + +<p><a href="#Chapter_1">I. Will He Come Home?</a></p> + +<p><a href="#Chapter_2">II. A Letter from Australia</a></p> + +<p><a href="#Chapter_3">III. Fresh Prospects</a></p> + +<p><a href="#Chapter_4">IV. The Time of Harvest</a></p> + +<p><a href="#Chapter_5">V. Life in Ivy Cottage</a></p> + +<p><a href="#Chapter_6">VI. A Downward Path</a></p> + +<p><a href="#Chapter_7">VII. Brought upon Himself</a></p> + +<p><a href="#Chapter_8">VIII. Confessions</a></p> + +<p><a href="#Chapter_9">IX. A Moonlit Battle</a></p> + +<p><a href="#Chapter_10">X. No Easy Matter</a></p> + +<p><a href="#Chapter_11">XI. Adjusted</a></p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p class="t2"> +<b>HER BROTHER'S KEEPER.</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<h2><a id="Chapter_1">CHAPTER I. Will He Come Home?</a></h2> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>IN a motor-bus, making its vociferous way along one of the noisiest of +main City thoroughfares, sat Dulcie Hurst.</p> + +<p>She was used to London clamour, and it hardly disturbed the even +current of her thoughts. Omnibuses lumbered by in the opposite +direction; cabs went this way and that; private motors, reluctantly +compelled to creep, gave forth their asthmatic coughs of warning; yells +of "Evening pi-per" pierced the din; but she neither turned her head +nor varied her steadfast gaze.</p> + +<p>She was close to the door, and one seat at the further end remained +empty. All others were occupied.</p> + +<p>Two distinct trains of ideas were working behind that strong pale face, +at which few looked once without looking a second time.</p> + +<p>"Will he be there?" she was asking, as she kept continuous watch for a +certain side-street, at the corner of which her brother Norman, clerk +in a house of business, was wont to joint the bus which took her back +from her day in a city typing-office. Punctuality was not a prime +virtue with Norman Hurst, and he often failed to arrive in time.</p> + +<p>This returning together from their respective occupations meant a good +deal to Dulcie. They were orphans, practically alone in the world; and +he, in a sense, was everything to her. She was much to him, but not +quite in the same sense.</p> + +<p>"Would he be in time?" again she questioned. And below this upper +current of her cogitations flowed another. She was saying also—</p> + +<p>"'Will he come?'"</p> + +<p>But the subject of the second query was a different "he,"—was one who +might have been far more to her than even her brother, one whom for ten +long years she had not seen, yet never could forget.</p> + +<p>During three months past, she had been asking the question and finding +no satisfactory reply. But as his face arose in her mind, her own +gained a great softness, which made more than one opposite passenger +examine her wonderingly.</p> + +<p>She was a woman of rather large build, tall, well-proportioned, not +stout, but sufficiently substantial for her height; and she looked +fully her twenty-eight years. Ten years earlier, she had been nothing +less than lovely, regular-featured with radiant colouring and hair of +pale gold, a vision that had taken captive the heart of George Kennedy. +Her complexion now was uniformly pale, having lost all brilliance, and +her hair had darkened into ordinary brown, and she was no longer a +"girl," though many keep their girlhood well into the thirties. But she +was an attractive woman.</p> + +<p>Kennedy had wooed her with all the vehemence of which he was capable, +and had failed to win. Then in despair, he had fled from the country, +giving dire offence by so doing to his only near relative, the Squire +of Apthorne, and apparently sacrificing his own prospects by the act. +He told no one the true reason, not even his friend, Norman Hurst; but +go he did, despite all opposition.</p> + +<p>Dulcie kept his secret, and her own too. Her girlish heart had been +won by him from the first, but she would not marry. She had an invalid +and suffering mother, dependent on her for constant care, dependent +partly on her exertions for daily support; and she also had a brother +who needed her at every turn. It might be years before she could count +herself free. Hers was a self-sacrificing nature; and she allowed +no hint of her real feelings to escape. She would not risk binding +Kennedy down to years of waiting, and she received his advances coldly, +repelling them with decision.</p> + +<p>Whether she would have acted more kindly by speaking out is a question +on which judges may differ, but in any case, she acted from high and +unselfish motives. If she did make a mistake, which is very doubtful, +she made it nobly and unselfishly. Most people's mistakes lie in the +other direction.</p> + +<p>The Squire of Apthorne, Kennedy's uncle, whom he so direfully offended +by his apparently capricious flight to Australia, was believed to have +disinherited him in consequence. But when, three months before this +date, he died, it was found that he had left everything without reserve +to the nephew with whom for ten years he had held no intercourse. The +reading of the will took everybody by surprise.</p> + +<p>George Kennedy was now a rich man: a land-owner. He would surely return +at once to his possessions.</p> + +<p>Would he? That was the question. Dulcie was aware that he had declared +he never would again set foot in his native land. Would circumstances +alter this resolution? And if he did come home, would he remember the +past?—Would he still care for her? And if he did care—what then?</p> + +<p>Her lips moved with a noiseless "No!" She was tied yet. There was +Norman, her only brother, "his" friend. But the "No" was not very +emphatic.</p> + +<p>Norman was different altogether from herself; a pleasant fellow enough; +kind-hearted and generous, when personal comfort was not involved: very +much of a favourite generally, but—Dulcie's mind flashed back to her +mother's dying injunction—"You will look after Norman, darling—keep him +out of mischief—keep him straight. He is so dear—so affectionate—but +you know!—you know—!"</p> + +<p>Yes, she knew. There had been no need to finish that pathetic little +murmur, which had died away into a sigh. She knew only too well. Norman +was very affectionate, very loveable, but he had not backbone. He was +not staunch. He could be easily turned this way or that. He was a man +and she was a woman: he was eight years the elder; but hers was the +stronger nature, the firmer will. She had been, to the best of her +ability, his guardian angel through years of City life; yet she could +not feel that she had altogether succeeded. She was always trying to +veil his weaknesses from others; but she was always seeing them herself.</p> + +<p>Of late, he had been a greater care than ever. He had not been his +usual self. He was worried, moody, fretful, uneasy: less sweet-tempered +than of old, more inclined to neglect his work, and to indulge in +restless desires for more money, less drudgery. She recognized the +presence of some new element in his life, but she could discover +nothing definite.</p> + +<p>With her mind thus bent upon other matters, it was hardly surprising +that she should forget the noise and bustle around.</p> + +<p>In the corner opposite, an elderly man sat upright, resting his +sunburnt hands upon a stick, and scanning the busy world around with +interested eyes—sharp yet not unkindly eyes. He was grey-haired, with +an alert, purposeful face; and in age, he perhaps bordered on the +sixties. Now and again his glance wandered to Dulcie. For a while she +did not notice him, but at length her attention was drawn, and she +found herself wondering when and where had she met him before?</p> + +<p>He was speaking to another man by his side, and she overheard what +passed.</p> + +<p>"Can't conceive how any human being can live by choice in this +hurly-burly."</p> + +<p>"You prefer the country?" the other asked, with a Londoner's polite +pity.</p> + +<p>"Prefer it! I couldn't exist here! It would land me in a lunatic +asylum. I've spent most of my life in the country and hope to end my +days there."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" the other remarked, with a slight glance at the country cut of +the speaker's clothes. "Tastes differ. I'm never happy long out of +London."</p> + +<p>"One man's meat is another man's poison."</p> + +<p>"That's it, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Well, all I say is, give 'me' pure air, let who will live in this +choking atmosphere! Give me green fields and country quiet, not this +deafening roar."</p> + +<p>"Get used to it in time."</p> + +<p>"Not I! I wouldn't set up my tent in London, if I was paid to do it."</p> + +<p>"Don't you think there is a word to be said on both sides?" asked +Dulcie. "One gets the best of some things in London, and the best of +other things in the country."</p> + +<p>"I'll give up my share of town good things to anybody who likes to take +them. Nothing can make up for this!"—And he scanned with a face of +disgust the slimy pavements, the thronging foot-passengers, the grimy +walls, the ceaseless streams of vehicles. "Plenty of room, and not too +many folks for comfort—that's what I'm used to."</p> + +<p>They were stopping at the corner where Dulcie's brother should have +been, and she lent forward, to meet with disappointment. He had not +come.</p> + +<p>One passenger jumped out, another stepped in. Still, a vacant seat.</p> + +<p>Changing the tone of its racket, the motor-bus went on; and Norman +appeared. Though not a very energetic character, he could be active on +occasions; and he thought nothing of racing after a motor-bus, to board +it when going at high speed. He set off instantly, and Dulcie watched +his movements. He had often done the same before.</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image004" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image004.jpg" alt="image004"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>He missed his aim . . . and fell heavily in the roadway.</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>But, the streets were clothed in a thick film of sticky mud, and he was +perhaps over-confident. At the moment of making his spring, his foot +slid. He missed his aim, and, instead of landing on the board, fell +heavily in the roadway, striking his face against the "tail" of the +bus, and crashing with his whole weight upon a doubled right arm.</p> + +<p>Shouts on all sides and desperate efforts to draw up saved him from +being run over. Before the motor-bus could fully slacken its speed, +Dulcie had sprung out, and rushed to his side. With hardly less +celerity, the grey-haired man followed, and others came quickly round. +They helped him up, but he was dazed, half-stunned, evidently much +hurt. Blood poured from a cut in his forehead, and the right arm hung +helplessly. When the grey-haired man touched it, he all but swooned.</p> + +<p>"Not to a hospital! Take me home," he muttered, over-hearing what was +said.</p> + +<p>By this time, they had him on the pavement, and the motor-bus was +gone on, but the grey-haired man remained behind. A crowd of gazers, +inevitable on such occasions, stood around, five or six deep.</p> + +<p>"No, I'm not a doctor," the elderly man said, meeting Dulcie's look of +appeal. "But I might have been—I went through half the training." Then +in a lower voice—"Yes, it's broken. You must have a cab. Where do you +live? Stop—I'll tie up his head."</p> + +<p>He used a clean handkerchief, supplied by Dulcie, doing the business +not ineffectually. Then he helped the injured man into a cab, showing +her how to support the arm, and advising her to send at once for a +surgeon.</p> + +<p>"If you'd like me to come with you—" he added.</p> + +<p>"Thank you very much, but I could not think of troubling you. We shall +manage quite well," she said cheerfully.</p> + +<p>He did not further press his help, but stood looking after the cab as +it drove away.</p> + +<p>Where had he seen that face before? Not Norman's, but Dulcie's.</p> + +<p>He could find no answer to this question. Presently, he dismissed it +from his mind, and stepped into the next bus, going the same way.</p> + +<p>A second question, often in his mind of late, rose to the surface; and, +strangely, it was the same as that of Dulcie, bearing reference to the +identical person.</p> + +<p>"'Will he come home?'"</p> + +<p>And if he—George Kennedy—did come home—"Shall I be allowed to keep my +work?" the grey-haired man wanted to know.</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h2><a id="Chapter_2">CHAPTER II. A Letter from Australia.</a></h2> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"No," she said firmly. "That won't do, dear. It might mean a useless +arm for life."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Can't you put that darning away, and give me your attention for once?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear, certainly." The mending would have to be done if not by +day, then by night.</p> + +<p>But she did as he asked, and drew her chair nearer. "Is the pain still +so bad?"</p> + +<p>"More than I know how to put up with, Dulcie, I'll tell you what this +means. They keep my post open for me."</p> + +<p>The suggestion startled her. "I hope they will. They could not be so +unkind."</p> + +<p>"I know better. No end of fusses and grumblings lately. They'll catch +at the first chance to get rid of me."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Norman was the first to speak. "Mr. Harcourt is always at me—the old +cad!"</p> + +<p>"I don't think it is quite right to speak so of him. He has been good +to you."</p> + +<p>"Can't help it. He is that."</p> + +<p>"Why should he have been 'at you' lately?"</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't it be better to give him no loophole at all?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"What work do you like?" she involuntarily said.</p> + +<p>He moved impatiently. "Not that sort."</p> + +<p>"Don't you think we are 'made' for any kind of life that is given to us +to live?"</p> + +<p>"You don't understand! A woman never minds how she pegs away at one +thing. A man must have variety."</p> + +<p>"'That' is the spirit that is doing its best to ruin British trade," +she answered.</p> + +<p>"You needn't lecture. I've enough to bear, without being scolded as +well."</p> + +<p>"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—</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>Would she not? Dulcie silently dissented. Whatever her faults might be, +laziness and self-indulgence did not rank among them.</p> + +<p>He moved restlessly again, and groaned. "Can't see why I should have +all this pain. Other fellows don't with a broken arm."</p> + +<p>"It is your muscles being so strained and torn, dear. I'm afraid that +means time."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>She made no reply. Her heavy eyelids were dropping, her head bending +forward as if weighted with lead.</p> + +<p>And he reverted to what he had been saying:</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>She tried to arouse herself. "God will care for us still," she said.</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image005" style="max-width: 30.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image005.jpg" alt="image005"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>"I say! It's from Australia—from George Kennedy himself."</b><br> +<b>"Is it?" she said, and she took up her work.</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>Norman in his turn was silent. The utterance awoke no response.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He muttered something to himself.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Then came a sharp double-rap at the front door, and she opened her eyes.</p> + +<p>"How stupid of me! I'm sorry," she said.</p> + +<p>"Were you dreaming?"</p> + +<p>"Yes." She smiled again at the recollection.</p> + +<p>"What about?" His curiosity was aroused.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I say! What on earth has happened?"</p> + +<p>She laughed in a low tone, and her eyes shone. "Nothing. Here are some +letters."</p> + +<p>He took them from her, but stared still.</p> + +<p>"Something has come to you. What is it? Dulcie—what have you been +dreaming about?"</p> + +<p>How could she tell him that her dream had been of George Kennedy, a +letter from whom now lay in his hand?</p> + +<p>"I think my nice sleep has rested me. I was so stupidly tired."</p> + +<p>"Not tired now?"</p> + +<p>"Not nearly so much. It was a very sound sleep."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I say! It's from Australia—from George Kennedy himself. A long letter, +too."</p> + +<p>"Is it?" she said, and she took up her work.</p> + +<p>As his eyes travelled down the first page, he uttered a vigorous +"Hurrah!"</p> + +<p>"What does he say, Norman?"</p> + +<p>"Splendid! O don't bother! Let me read to the end in peace."</p> + +<p>She waited with silent but tried patience.</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image006" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image006.jpg" alt="image006"> +</figure> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h2><a id="Chapter_3">CHAPTER III. Fresh Prospects.</a></h2> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"What does he say?"</p> + +<p>"Wants me to manage his property for him." Her colour lessened fast. +"Then he does not mean to come home!"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Tell me more, please." She was thirsting for fuller information.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>She knew that he could not, and her heart warmed in response to the +affectionate utterance.</p> + +<p>"How about the old agent, Norman?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>He drummed on the little table at his side, with thoughtful fingers.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"How are you to meet expenses?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"How much?" she asked.</p> + +<p>He had not meant to state the amount, and hesitated; but she was +waiting. He never found it easy to evade Dulcie.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>She said nothing, but her heart beat fast.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image007" style="max-width: 30.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image007.jpg" alt="image007"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>"Old George is a brick, and no mistake.</b><br> +<b>Wants me to manage his property for him."</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Well?" he said at length.</p> + +<p>"Dear Norman, I am very glad! But it will be a responsibility."</p> + +<p>"I've no objection to that. It will be something worth doing, at last."</p> + +<p>"Harder work than you have been accustomed to!"</p> + +<p>"Are 'you' becoming a croaker? As if I minded work!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>To her surprise, he said: "Do you want to go to Church?"</p> + +<p>"I have been so much away from you."</p> + +<p>"It only means half-an-hour. I don't mind."</p> + +<p>She bent over him gratefully. "Thank you very much. How kind!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image008" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image008.jpg" alt="image008"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>Here for years she had been wont</b><br> +<b>to come for comfort.</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It was all so real to Dulcie!</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h2><a id="Chapter_4">CHAPTER IV. The Time of Harvest.</a></h2> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image009" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image009.jpg" alt="image009"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>He stood near a half-laden waggon,</b><br> +<b>watching the men as they toiled.</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>This new agent would be a city man, inexperienced, doubtless ready to +adopt all the newest fads. He loathed the thought.</p> + +<p>But he allowed no regrets to hamper him in his duty. Till the last +moment he would attend to the smallest matter.</p> + +<p>No chance of anything getting out of order while Dewsbury had the +management. That was a figment of Kennedy's imagination.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Hello! Who's that?" queried the Vicar, whom nothing escaped.</p> + +<p>"Who's what?" asked his little echo.</p> + +<p>"Somebody I have never seen before, Bobbie."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"What's the moon got so big for?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Bobbie nodded a wise head. "Mother said there was a new moon comed last +week—lots of time ago."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Bobbie smiled broadly, willing to accept whatever the Vicar chose to +say.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"You an' me an' all 'll go to heaven," Bobbie asserted conclusively.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Come, we won't meddle with other folks' business."</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>"Could you kindly tell me where I can find Mr. Dewsbury?"</p> + +<p>"That's my name," came a trifle gruffly.</p> + +<p>"I am Dulcie Hurst," she said. "I have come to arrange about my +brother."</p> + +<p>Then her face changed, lighted up, showed astonishment.</p> + +<p>"Why—!" she said. "I believe—It 'is!'"—And she put out so cordial a +hand to be shaken that he had no choice.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She was the sister of Hurst, his supplanter; and, as already explained, +he had earlier met the sister.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Then that was—Mr. Hurst!" he said awkwardly.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image010" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image010.jpg" alt="image010"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>"I'm busy now. See you another time,"</b><br> +<b>the agent replied gruffly.</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I'm busy now. See you another time," the agent replied gruffly.</p> + +<p>"Then I must write. I have to catch my train."</p> + +<p>"Can I do anything?" the Vicar asked, coming near.</p> + +<p>He introduced himself, and she explained her object in being there, +while Mr. Dewsbury moved on.</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"It seems a nice little house. Should we find it healthy?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"Have you been living in London?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Is that likely? He has held the post for nearly twenty-four years."</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid it is hard upon him. Mr. Kennedy seems to think him too old +for the work but—"</p> + +<p>"He is young for his years. No doubt, he will feel the change. But you +cannot help that."</p> + +<p>"No." Dulcie looked up gravely. "It is my brother not I! And Mr. +Kennedy has the right to choose his own agent."</p> + +<p>"He has absolute right; but one wishes he had been a degree less +drastic."</p> + +<p>"You mean—"</p> + +<p>"He might have let the old fellow go on for a quarter of a year."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Yes, indeed," she said earnestly. "If I can do anything to make it +easier for him, I shall be glad."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>"Did you see Mr. Dewsbury?"</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"Must be pretty active still, if he can jump out of a motor-bus in +motion. Not decrepid yet, at all events!"</p> + +<p>"Rather sad for him to have to give it all up! I'm afraid he minds it."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>"We shall manage all right. Bills must just stand over."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"People will not value us for our chairs and tables, but for +ourselves," she said cheerfully.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h2><a id="Chapter_5">CHAPTER V. Life In Ivy Cottage.</a></h2> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>A DULL February day, clouds level and low, mist lying in hollows, mud +thick upon the ground, trees bare; but upon the hedges and bushes a +faint suggestion of new life dawning.</p> + +<p>Winter in the country may have a forlornness of its own, but for those +who can see, it has its own loveliness. And Dulcie, as she stood in the +small porch of Ivy Cottage, realized this to the full.</p> + +<p>Grey the day was, but how soft and mild the air, clean-washed by +recent rain; how different from the dank penetrating wet of such a day +in London! Cloudy—yes, but she contrasted the gentle mistiness with +a yellow City fog. Bare boughs—yes, but she studied with admiration +a tree opposite, its solid trunk spreading into huge arms, the arms +sub-divided into strong boughs, and the boughs into branches great and +small, with countless ramifications which ended in twigs innumerable, +the whole forming a delicate and finished tracery, the wonderful +complexity of which enchained her eyes; while she pictured how in a few +weeks each bough and branch and twig would be laden with young green +leaves, and how she would joyously watch their daily growth.</p> + +<p>She was waiting for Norman, who usually returned to early dinner. It +was nearly an hour past the time; and still she waited, and still he +remained absent.</p> + +<p>As she stood, a man strode past, and in a moment, she recognized the +ex-agent Dewsbury. He walked steadily and fast, looking straight ahead, +declining to vouchsafe a single glance towards the cottage, but Dulcie +went to the garden-gate, and said cheerfully, "How do you do, Mr. +Dewsbury?"</p> + +<p>He wheeled half round, and responded curtly in the same phrase.</p> + +<p>"You don't happen to have come across my brother this morning?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"He is late. I don't know what can have kept him."</p> + +<p>"Sorry I can't help you." The ex-agent strode on.</p> + +<p>"If only Norman had taken some trouble in that quarter!" she thought +regretfully.</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image011" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image011.jpg" alt="image011"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>"You don't happen to have come across</b><br> +<b>my brother this morning?"</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>She had done her best to bring about a different state of things. On +their first arrival, she had hoped to transmute the retiring agent +into their friend, for she was grateful to him for his kindness at the +time of the accident, and she felt that he had been rather hardly used +by the new owner of the property, even though that owner was George +Kennedy. It would have been good policy also, apart from worthier +reasons, since Dewsbury, though not a man beloved, was a man highly +respected, and he ranked as a power in the place.</p> + +<p>But Norman saw matters from another point of view. "Nothing of the +sort," he replied, when she suggested taking advice from the former +agent on a knotty point. "If once I begin going to 'him,' I shall have +no freedom. He will meddle whenever he gets a chance."</p> + +<p>This happened early in their Apthorne experience. And though Dulcie did +not give in with one attempt, she failed.</p> + +<p>"I tell you, I'm not going to do it," he said with unusual roughness, +when she pressed the point. "Dewsbury is out of the concern now, and +I mean to keep him out. Kennedy made a mistake in letting him stay on +in the Agent's house; and I've got to hold my own. I'm not going to +be a mere cipher. And I won't have you consulting the man either. You +understand?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I understand," she said in her quietest tone. "I think it is you +who are making a mistake now. Still, of course it must be as you wish."</p> + +<p>So Norman lost his opportunity of conciliating the man whom he had +displaced; a disappointed and hurt man, who yet could have been won; +for at first sight he had liked Dulcie, in spite of himself, and she +would have made him like her more.</p> + +<p>She was loyal to her brother, and would not oppose him; nevertheless +she was sensible of his lack of wisdom, when Mr. Dewsbury strode grimly +away, refusing to be agreeable.</p> + +<p>Left in the background, to sit in dudgeon and nurse his wrongs, the +ex-agent naturally kept a sharp look-out over the doings of his +successor, whose inexperience became early manifest. Nor was it a +matter for surprise that, finding himself thus ignored, his advice not +asked, his wisdom never appealed to, Dewsbury should indulge in some +gratification over the new agent's blunders, knowing as he did how much +better he would have managed in Hurst's place.</p> + +<p>Somebody else was trudging along the road; this time a farmer in +gaiters and heavy boots, encrusted with mud. He paused outside the +gate, spoke a civil word or two, and than remarked—</p> + +<p>"Mr. Hurst not back yet, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>"No; I am expecting him every moment."</p> + +<p>The farmer glanced at her, looked round about, examined his +old-fashioned turnip-watch, and deliberated. "No—not likely," he said. +"Couldn't catch that train, without he was most uncommon quick. No—he +wouldn't."</p> + +<p>Dulcie controlled her surprise. She was far too much "all there" to +betray that she knew less of Norman's movements than Farmer Jones +appeared to do. "Can you wait?" she asked pleasantly. "Won't you come +indoors?"</p> + +<p>"No use, thank you all the same, Miss Hurst. Next train don't get in +for two hours and more, even if he catches that. And he promised he'd +give this morning up to 'me.'" There was an under-growl of displeasure. +"Said he'd be with me by eleven, sure, and not a word did he send to +say he couldn't. If my boy hadn't come across him at the station, +starting for London, I'd have been waiting all day. That's the third +time he has failed me."</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry. He ought to have sent you word."</p> + +<p>"Yes, he ought, and that's a fact. P'rhaps you'd tell him from me, +Miss Hurst, that I can't go on shilly-shallying like this much longer. +I've got to know where I stand; and it ain't what I've been used to. +We're used to business-ways here. All the years I've had to do with Mr. +Dewsbury, he's never once forgot if he's made an appointment. Never +once he hasn't. There's no getting Mr. Hurst to the point, begging your +pardon for saying it to you! The third time he's failed me this is."</p> + +<p>"I'll be sure to tell him what you say. I'm so sorry you have been +inconvenienced," she said, with a smile which more than half mollified +the old farmer.</p> + +<p>As he trudged on, she went indoors, and, standing before the fire, +asked aloud—"Now, what is it for? London again! Why did he not tell me?"</p> + +<p>She could guess why. He had been one day the week before, and another +day the week before that; and she had remonstrated. By a quick train, +London could be reached in less than two hours; but the expense of +going so often mounted up considerably, and she failed to see the need.</p> + +<p>They had now been some time in Apthorne, first in rooms, then in this +cottage, which was sufficiently furnished for use; more furnished than +Dulcie had thought right, less than Norman wished. He loved spending, +and he thought a great deal of his own personal comfort.</p> + +<p>Dulcie found him increasingly difficult to deal with. In years long +gone by, he was usually amenable to reason; but things had changed, and +he was now far otherwise.</p> + +<p>For several weeks after entering on his new work, he had been in gay +spirits, pleased with the post, and enjoying the variety. People had +given to the brother and sister a kind welcome. Dulcie could always +make herself liked, and Norman was accepted, not only as Kennedy's +agent, but as being his friend. Indeed, he began to look upon himself +as, for the time, lord of all he surveyed. Although lacking in +experience, he was not lacking in self-confidence, and mistakes in +judgment were by no means few. Still, he was so genial and pleasant in +manner, that for a while, he won golden opinions.</p> + +<p>"He's new to the life, and he'll learn," people said indulgently, as +they contrasted his smiling ways with the grim air of the old agent.</p> + +<p>But the tide was turning. Smiles alone do not manage a large property; +and the close attention needed, the incessant calls upon his time, +the frequent appeals and complaints, the interviews that had to be +arranged, the letters that had to be written, were not to Norman's +liking. At first, his lame arm won sympathy and served as an excuse for +dilatory ways. But the arm now was practically well, and he did not +grow less dilatory. On the contrary, he became more slack, he failed to +keep appointments, he forgot requests, he neglected to answer letters, +he put off attending to matters which required immediate settlement.</p> + +<p>The biggest farmer on the estate, an important person in his own eyes, +arriving one day at Ivy Cottage, for a talk previously arranged, was +irate to find that the agent had calmly taken himself off for a day +in London. Another farmer, second to the above in consequence, having +stayed in all the morning for a call from the agent, promised at ten, +was disgusted to see him walk in at twelve, with a bland confession +that he had "somehow managed to oversleep himself" and was consequently +"rather late."</p> + +<p>The old agent had never overslept himself, had never been behindhand. +Smiles on these occasions carried little weight. The worst of the +matter was that he did not care, did not see that he was wasting +valuable time for others as well as for himself.</p> + +<p>All such incidents reached the ears of Dewsbury; for in a country +village, everybody knows what everybody does.</p> + +<p>Norman had never been a lover of the country. He had no eye for its +beauties, no ear for its harmonies. That which to Dulcie meant joy and +delight, to him meant dull monotony.</p> + +<p>He hated work of all kinds; he hated solitude; he loathed early rising; +he detested being tied; he wanted only to be free to amuse himself. +But opportunities for such amusements as suited his taste were few in +village-life; and he soon began to seize on every possible excuse for +a day in town. This meant expense; and though he often contrived to +include something on behalf of the estate, which made it possible for a +loose conscience to charge the return-ticket to his employer, he could +not always do it.</p> + +<p>Something else, besides the craving for amusement, took him to London.</p> + +<p>He was all agog to make money in haste; and five hundred pounds lay, +or had recently lain, at his command. Some amount of outlay on the +property was inevitable; but less need to spend existed than Kennedy +had anticipated.</p> + +<p>Norman's desire perhaps hardly suited in plain words even to himself +was, not to spend on the estate, but to use the money in making some +for himself.</p> + +<p>He would "borrow" two or three hundred pounds temporarily, would invest +that amount with wisdom, would sell out at the crucial moment of some +sudden rise, and then would devote to further efforts whatever he +succeeded in gaining by this transaction.</p> + +<p>Supposing that he could thus make some three or four hundred pounds, +and in addition should still have the five hundred pounds, less only +such necessary payments as belonged to the care of Apthorne who could +say that he had not a right to retain for his own use the gain of his +speculations? Not even Dulcie need hear a word about it!</p> + +<p>What he would do, if decrease in place of increase should be the result +of his speculations, was a matter on which he did not trouble his head. +He meant to succeed.</p> + +<p>Night and day he dwelt upon these schemes. He studied incessantly the +Money-market; he corresponded perpetually with an acquaintance on the +Stock Exchange; he watched and waited, hoped and feared, exulted and +was depressed. No form of gambling is more exciting, more engrossing, +than that upon which he had entered; and especially it becomes +absorbing, if done with another's money, unknown to that person. He +lived in a fever of expectation. No wonder he had small interest and +little leisure to bestow on the humdrum management of the estate.</p> + +<p>As a beginning, he had invested one hundred pounds; and he really did +sell out at an advantage, making fifteen pounds by the transaction, +which was all the worse for him, since the small success whetted his +appetite for more.</p> + +<p>An acquaintance at that juncture further fired his imagination by +telling him of a "chap" who, to the speaker's knowledge, had recently +"made" a thousand pounds in a fortnight. He did not trouble himself to +explain how large a sum had been utilized for this result, nor did he +expatiate on the losses which had gone before and had followed the said +success.</p> + +<p>But Norman was taken captive by the notion. Wherever he went, he saw +thousands of pounds before him, and conscience had almost ceased to +speak. He no longer reproached himself for the unauthorized use that +he was making of money entrusted to his care for other purposes, money +that was not his own.</p> + +<p>Each of his recent trips to town had been for the purpose of seeing +after investments. The first small success had been followed as such +successes commonly are by a loss at least equal in amount; and for +days, he was worried and low-spirited.</p> + +<p>But he had no thought of stopping. He would win next time. He only had +to try again, to choose his moment more carefully, to make everything +else in life work, duty, what not give way before any sudden call which +might mean a chance of selling out advantageously. His Stock Exchange +acquaintance was indeed ready to act for him, and a journey to London +could not be counted a necessity. But he was in the grip of excitement, +wild to see and know all that was passing without an hour's delay; and +nothing else seemed to be of the smallest consequence by comparison.</p> + +<p>As for telling Dulcie, he would not on any account. Why should he? He +would ask himself, when thinking about the matter. She was a woman, +and women see things differently from men. That hers was a better +business-head than his was put aside as irrelevant. What he did not +say, though conscious of it, was that he could manage to hide from +himself the true issues in a cloud of argument, but that no argument +would shadow Dulcie's clear vision. He would never be able to persuade +"her" that wrong was right; therefore, he said nothing.</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h2><a id="Chapter_6">CHAPTER VI. A Downward Path.</a></h2> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>"AT last!" Dulcie said to herself, as she heard Norman's step in the +garden.</p> + +<p>All the afternoon she had been on the watch for his return, and now it +was dark. She knew before she could see his face that something had +gone wrong. He shut the front door noisily, and tramped heavily in the +passage. And when she went out to greet him, no smile met hers.</p> + +<p>He said shortly—"Horrible weather!"</p> + +<p>"Not raining, is it?"</p> + +<p>"I'd rather have rain any day than this soaking damp."</p> + +<p>"Supper will do you good, dear. Where did you get dinner?"</p> + +<p>"I picked up scrap—somewhere."</p> + +<p>Dulcie reflected that she would have been puzzled, had she not known +more than he supposed. Scraps are not "picked up" in country fields; +and one hardly so describes lunch with a farmer.</p> + +<p>"Couldn't get back sooner, I had too much to do," he said: and then +came an irritable—"I'm dead tired!" as he tried to pull off his +overcoat and failed. The right arm was still weak.</p> + +<p>"Wait. Let me help you, Norman?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, you might help a fellow. I've been at it all day."</p> + +<p>"At it," like his last remark was meant to mislead her.</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image012" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image012.jpg" alt="image012"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>The letter reached its destination,</b><br> +<b>and was opened and read by George Kennedy.</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>Whatever he might have been "at," it was not Apthorne business. But +she would not in haste divulge what she had heard. If she delayed, he +might tell her himself. She had supper brought in with as little delay +as possible, and herself superintended the process. Then, while looking +to his comforts, she chatted on indifferent subjects, doing her best to +cheer him, and meeting with scant response.</p> + +<p>He ate moodily, refused to talk, and seemed plunged in meditation.</p> + +<p>To arouse him, she at length said, "Farmer Jones has been here. He +expected you this morning."</p> + +<p>"What a nuisance! I ought to have remembered."</p> + +<p>"Did you forget?" came involuntarily.</p> + +<p>"Thought of it too late," was an evasive reply.</p> + +<p>"He seems very anxious to see you and to have things settled. Was it +not rather a pity to disappoint him?"</p> + +<p>"Everybody wants everything settled instantaneously here. One might +think the affairs of the Nation were involved."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Jones said that Mr. Dewsbury never forgot an engagement. You don't +want people to make comparisons of that sort, do you, dear?"</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I don't care. Dewsbury spoilt the tenants—always dancing +attendance on them. I'm not going to make myself a slave to all their +whims and fancies."</p> + +<p>"But Norman—" She hesitated. Should she venture? He took ill in these +days any suggestion of rebuke; yet, if she did not speak, nobody else +would. "But, dear, after all, 'this' is duty, and going to London is +only pleasure."</p> + +<p>"Coming back to this out-of-the-way hole for a lecture, certainly isn't +pleasure!"</p> + +<p>"You don't love the country as I do, I'm afraid."</p> + +<p>"I! I hate it." He pushed his plate aside, stood up restlessly, went to +the window, peered into the darkness, sauntered back, and flung himself +into the basket arm-chair, with his arms crossed behind his head.</p> + +<p>"I'd give something for a row of street-lamps."</p> + +<p>"Not likely to come into existence here at present," she said +cheerfully.</p> + +<p>"It's deadly dull. How you can endure such a humdrum existence passes +my comprehension—never getting away from it!"</p> + +<p>"I really don't know what it is to feel dull. If only I could know that +you were happy, I should be perfectly content."</p> + +<p>He changed colour, and she followed up her advantage.</p> + +<p>"You are not happy, and I see it. Won't you tell me what is wrong? +Something is, I am sure."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense, Dulcie. I only don't want to be bothered."</p> + +<p>She waited a space, then said gently, "Why didn't you tell me you were +going to London to-day?"</p> + +<p>There was again an impatient movement. "Why should I? I'm not in +leading-strings."</p> + +<p>"Only, you know what an interest I take in everything that you do."</p> + +<p>"Yes. I dare say; but you worry a fellow so! I had to go, and I knew +you would fuss."</p> + +<p>"Don't you think we ought to consider expenses?"</p> + +<p>"Of course. We always are considering them. Business is business, all +the same, and it has to be seen to."</p> + +<p>He stood up once more, stretched himself, and a second time went to the +window. She recognized signs of mental uneasiness, and she knew that +she must carry her remonstrances no farther. Instead, she went to his +side, slipped her hand under his arm, and said, "Poor Norman! How tired +you are."</p> + +<p>"Oh, all right," he answered in a making-up tone. "I've no end of +writing to do this evening."</p> + +<p>"Can I help?"</p> + +<p>"No; it doesn't matter, thanks. I shall get on better if I'm quiet."</p> + +<p>Which meant that he did not wish for her company. She fell in with +the desire, and did not follow, as he made his way to the small +drawing-room.</p> + +<p>But letter-writing that evening had scant attention. He opened his +desk, indeed, spread papers about, and made believe to be occupied, in +case Dulcie should come in. Then he did nothing.</p> + +<p>Except to think, which often is the hardest work a man can do. He had +much to think about.</p> + +<p>One hundred and fifty pounds of the five hundred he had sunk, in hopes +of gradually doubling the amount. But instead of doubling the amount, +he had lost it. A mistake on his part, a blunder on the part of his +adviser, a sudden drop in prices where a rise had been confidently +looked for, and his venture had come to grief. The hundred and fifty +pounds were wiped out.</p> + +<p>And the money was not his. He could see no way to replace it. The move +to Apthorne, and the furnishing of their new little home, had not only +swallowed up all their ready money, but had largely encroached on the +two next quarters' income. It was as much as he and Dulcie could do to +pay their way. And now—this!</p> + +<p>Something had to be done. Sooner or later, he would have to account to +George Kennedy for every shilling of the five hundred pounds. And he +had robbed his friend of one hundred and fifty.</p> + +<p>His Stock Exchange adviser, who could by no possibility be called his +"friend," had been ready with advice. He must try again. Failure was +sure to be followed by success. He must not be chicken-hearted. There +was a splendid opening, just ready; and if he could manage to send +three or four hundred pounds, he would retrieve all, he would soon have +ample in hand to replace the hundred and fifty pounds, as well as to +recoup himself for weeks of worry. He only had to act promptly.</p> + +<p>Should he risk it?</p> + +<p>That was the question. He did not look at the right and wrong of it? He +did not say—</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<br> + "How can I do this great evil, and sin against God?"<br> +<br> +</p> + +<p>He only reckoned sums of money, tried to calculate "chances," pictured +the impossibility of getting straight unless he should somehow make a +good sum in the course of the next few weeks.</p> + +<p>By putting off, he would lose his opportunity, so he had been told. He +must write by this evening's post, or telegraph in the morning.</p> + +<p>There was a late post from Apthorne to London. After an hour's +thinking, he resolved to run the risk, to pay away nearly all that +remained in the Bank, belonging to George Kennedy. Four hundred was out +of the question, but he wrote a cheque for three hundred, enclosed the +cheque in a letter to his adviser, and with his own hands he posted it.</p> + +<p>Dulcie wondered to see him go out again, but she knew from his face +that she must ask no questions.</p> + +<p>When the letter was gone, he realized what he had done. And all the +night following, he tossed and turned in one long agony of suspense, +haunted by the dread of what it must mean, if failure followed.</p> + +<p>But it could not, must not, should not be, failure. Success this time +was certain; all but absolutely certain, he had been assured.</p> + +<p>That was Friday, and Norman's state of mind next day may be imagined. +As he went about Apthorne, he could think of nothing but his desperate +venture. Little marvel was it that Farmer Jones found him dull, +incapable, with wandering attention, unable to grasp the simplest +business details.</p> + +<p>A weight of unendurable suspense dragged him down. He wondered how he +would ever get through the next few weeks.</p> + +<p>Conscience, long deadened by persistent disregard, woke up and spoke; +and though her tones were muffled, he could not but hear.</p> + +<p>He had been brought up in a strictly honourable atmosphere. Years +earlier, it would have seemed to him a thing beyond the bounds of +possibility that "he," Norman Hurst, should ever become involved in a +transaction which would not stand the light of day. He had been proud +of his father's character and standing; he had cared greatly for what +his mother and sister thought. But with the flight of years, he had +changed.</p> + +<p>Backward sliding is usually a gradual matter: one step at a time. +He allowed himself first to slip out of the habit of daily prayer, +which, however perfunctory, yet acts as a check; he began to look +with indifference upon doubtful modes of money getting; he shirked +attendance at Church. Never too tired for amusement, he constantly +professed to be too tired for Church, and in time, he dropped it +altogether.</p> + +<p>Who shall say how much is involved for a man in this question of +Church-going?—More especially, in the case of those who have been +brought up to it? Many who stay away salve their consciences with the +argument—"It is only an outward form; and I don't hold with 'forms.' +I can serve God just as well if I stop at home." Of such a man it may +well be asked, "Does he serve God at home?"</p> + +<p>In any case, the reasoning is feeble; for the question is not whether +we can or cannot serve God in other ways, but whether it is His Will +that we should join in public worship. And so long as we have bodies +attached to our spirits, outward forms as well as inward graces are an +absolute necessity for us.</p> + +<p>On coming to Apthorne, Norman found himself less free than in London. +The old agent had been a regular Church-goer, and the same was expected +from him as a matter of course. He struggled against it at first, but +he had to yield. Whatever he did or did not do became at once the talk +of the village.</p> + +<p>He would have given a good deal to remain at home on the Sunday +following his rash venture. Darker and darker loomed before him dire +results, should success not crown his venture. And while he dreaded +thought, he yet craved to be alone that he might think. But he knew +that of late he had given serious offence to Mr. Kennedy's tenants +by his neglect of their concerns, and he did not wish to add to the +offence, or to draw attention to himself. So he made up his mind to +accompany his sister.</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image013" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image013.jpg" alt="image013"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>"Work!" was the short text given out.</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>Throughout the Prayers, his mind was bent upon his own affairs. He +heard nothing, joined in nothing. When the sermon began, abstraction of +mind became less easy; for there was about the Vicar an intensity of +earnestness which compelled attention.</p> + +<p>"WORK!" was the short "text" given out.</p> + +<p>"We are all working-men and working-women," the Vicar said. "Whatever +our position in life, that may be truly said of us. If we do not work, +we ought to work. If we are idle, it is not because we have no work to +do, but because we neglect it. 'To every man his work!' is the Divine +ordinance. To each living man, his own particular task is given; and +that man is free, not only to do or not to do, but also as to 'how' he +does it."</p> + +<p>Dulcie wondered as she listened,—had the words made an impression? +Almost without seeing, she was conscious of a change in her brother's +face. She could only pray for him, fearing she knew not what, sure that +things were not right, yet unknowing what was wrong.</p> + +<p>He made no remark on their way home, and she saw little of him the rest +of the day. But his look of gloom had deepened.</p> + +<p>Somebody else, listening to the Vicar, thought of Norman; and +this was the old agent. Whatever Dewsbury's faults might be, +slackness and indolence could not be counted among them. The sermon +did not especially come home to himself; but he did think as he +listened—"That's uncommonly good for Hurst!"</p> + +<p>He had no reason to suspect anything dishonourable in his successor, +knowing nothing of Hurst's private life; but he did clearly recognize +that, as agent, Norman was a failure.</p> + +<p>Complaints on the estate were rife, and he became early a recipient of +them. Nothing was done as it should be done; promises were forgotten, +interviews were put aside, repairs were delayed, accounts were not +properly kept. The new Agent was as slippery as an eel, always off +somewhere on his own business or pleasure, and nobody could get hold of +him. Though Dewsbury in the past had been hardly a popular man, he was +growing popular now, from his contrast with Hurst; and he knew it with +a sense of gratification.</p> + +<p>That he should be still keenly alive to the interests of the estate +which he had managed so long was only to be expected; and that he +should not be disposed to minimize the faults of his successor was +also, doubtless, natural. The recollection of his own summary dismissal +certainly embittered his judgment; and when growlings reached him, he +was disposed to make the worst, not the best, of them. But at the best, +there was much cause for blame.</p> + +<p>He would not at first interfere; and for a while looked on silently. +After much cogitation, and consultation with old friends, however, he +had taken action. Some six weeks before this date, he had written to +the new owner of the property, apologizing for so doing, and plainly +telling him that neglect was the order of the day at Apthorne, and that +matters wanted looking into.</p> + +<p>Sometimes since, he had wondered was that letter right? Was it really +called for? Had he gone beyond his duty in thus interfering? The very +fact that it gratified his outraged feelings to write ought perhaps to +have withheld him from so doing; and there were days when he realized +this. Somebody else, not he, should have spoken the warning word.</p> + +<p>But it was done, and could not be undone. And it so happened that on +the very day of this sermon, not many hours earlier, the letter reached +its destination, and was opened and read by George Kennedy.</p> + +<p>At first, he laughed.</p> + +<p>"Poor old Dewsbury is jealous," he said. "A case of the green-eyed +monster. Can't resist meddling. As if I didn't know Hurst!"</p> + +<p>But on reading the letter a second time, he felt not quite so sure. +Dewsbury's business-like statements carried weight. After all, he had +seen nothing of Norman Hurst for many years; and as a young fellow, +certainly he had not been too fond of steady work. Kennedy had reposed +his confidence, half-unconsciously, not in the brother but in the +sister. He woke up now to the fact that Norman, not Dulcie, was +responsible.</p> + +<p>"I'll go home and see to things myself," he said; and with the sudden +resolution came sudden joy. "Why didn't I go sooner? I shall see Dulcie +again!"</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h2><a id="Chapter_7">CHAPTER VII. Brought upon Himself.</a></h2> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Have you come to tea with me?" she asked, and she stooped to kiss the +round cheek.</p> + +<p>Bobbie beamed, and discreetly withheld the fact that already he had had +a substantial tea at home.</p> + +<p>Dulcie led the way indoors. "Come," she said. "I've got a beautiful +cake, Bobbie."</p> + +<p>Bobbie beamed again, for he could always eat, no matter how recent his +last meal.</p> + +<p>Dulcie, perhaps, ought to have inquired further, but in the interest of +that letter from Australia, she forgot to do so.</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>"Seen Mr. Hurst."</p> + +<p>"Where, dear?"</p> + +<p>Bobbie pointed round in a general way with several fingers. "Over +there."</p> + +<p>"But he is in London. You haven't seen Mr. Hurst this afternoon?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Tell me where. Was it at the station?"</p> + +<p>Bobbie's head was energetically shaken. "Seen him in the wood. Mummie +and me."</p> + +<p>"What was Mr. Hurst doing?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!"</p> + +<p>And Bobbie smiled contentedly.</p> + +<p>"Bobbie says that you came across my brother in the wood."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Tell Dulcie! Never! Meet her clear true eyes, and confess that he had +used money not his own! Impossible.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But it was not his way to look far ahead. Anything rather than to speak +out bravely!</p> + +<p>Having reached this point, he half-unconsciously turned his steps +homeward. He was tired and wanted his easy chair,—hungry and needed +food.</p> + +<p>Dulcie, ever on the watch, saw him coming.</p> + +<p>"Why, Norman, dear, how late you are! What have you been doing?"</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image014" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image014.jpg" alt="image014"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>An odd stifled sound broke from him.</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>He would not meet her eyes. It seemed as if they must read him through.</p> + +<p>"I had to go some distance round, after getting in—and I'm about dead +beat."</p> + +<p>He dropped into the chair, hollow-eyed and dull. And she saw that his +trip to London had brought no cheer.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"It came this afternoon."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Is anything wrong?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Does he say what is bringing him?"</p> + +<p>"No,—" roughly. "Why should he?"</p> + +<p>"I thought he had made up his mind to wait for a year or two."</p> + +<p>"People change their minds. He has changed his. Some fancy or other."</p> + +<p>She hardly dared ask more. Norman looked so white and strange. She came +close, stooped down and kissed his forehead.</p> + +<p>He drew himself impatiently away.</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't worry. I tell you, I'm dead beat. I can't be bothered."</p> + +<p>Then he went up to his own room, and she saw little more of him that +evening.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image015" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image015.jpg" alt="image015"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>"Hurst, you've not been looking yourself lately."</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Hurst, you've not been looking yourself lately."</p> + +<p>"Rather seedy," was the careless answer.</p> + +<p>"No doubt you have had worries, settling into the place."</p> + +<p>"Bothers without end," Hurst admitted.</p> + +<p>"Nothing that I can help you in?" The Vicar spoke very kindly.</p> + +<p>"No thanks." But a thought leapt up in Norman's heart,—what if he were +to confess all to the Vicar?</p> + +<p>"Are you sure? I would do my best. For your sister's sake—I think she +is anxious about you."</p> + +<p>Norman's look softened. "She is the best sister a man ever had."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I've been a bit out of sorts. Nothing much. I shall have to get away +for a week's change."</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>That evening brought another letter from Kennedy, fixing the probable +date of his appearance in Apthorne.</p> + +<p>One fortnight off! Only a fortnight!</p> + +<p>"I shall have to leave the country. Nothing else is possible!" Norman +muttered to himself.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h2><a id="Chapter_8">CHAPTER VIII. Confessions.</a></h2> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>ALL day, Dulcie had seen scarcely anything of Norman. He seemed unable +to settle to his work, but came and went, walked in and walked out, +and was perpetually on the go, in a purposeless fashion. His face was +stamped with lines of misery, which no forced smiles could hide.</p> + +<p>Her heart ached for him, yet she was powerless to give help, for he +evaded inquiries, and refused to admit that aught was wrong.</p> + +<p>In less than twenty-four hours, George Kennedy would arrive; and she +hoped much from his kindness, his friendship. If Norman had acted +foolishly and wrongly, in some manner unknown to herself, George would +make excuses and would put things right.</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image016" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image016.jpg" alt="image016"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>"Speculated—and—lost!"</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>She could hardly think of herself in connection with Kennedy, so full +was her mind of Norman; yet the knowledge that he would soon be there +brought a sense of rest.</p> + +<p>Late in the evening, as she sat over her mending, in the belief that +Norman had gone early to bed, tired out with worry, a movement made her +look up, and he was beside her; his face colourless and twitching, and +a carpet bag in his hand.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye!" he said huskily. "I couldn't go without a word, but you +mustn't hinder me."</p> + +<p>She stood up, and quietly faced him. In a moment, she seemed to +understand everything. It hardly even took her by surprise; and she was +perfectly controlled.</p> + +<p>"Where are you going?"</p> + +<p>"Never mind. I'm off. Just come to say good-bye! You've been the best +of sisters."</p> + +<p>"And you have been a dear brother! But you will not leave me like +this. Sit down. There's plenty of time. Mr. Kennedy does not come till +to-morrow afternoon."</p> + +<p>"I can't. No use. It's all up with me. I'm off."</p> + +<p>"Sit down, dear Norman."</p> + +<p>And he yielded to voice and touch, though repeating—</p> + +<p>"It's no good! No good!"</p> + +<p>She knelt beside him, with her face on the level of his, studying +gravely his haggard features.</p> + +<p>He hardly knew how to endure the gaze. "Don't!" he muttered.</p> + +<p>"What does it mean, Norman?"</p> + +<p>He groaned and hid his face.</p> + +<p>"You must tell me . . . Dear—do you want to break my heart? . . . I +must hear everything! . . . I shall not let you go till I know all. And +if you go. I go too."</p> + +<p>No answer, and she waited; then said, "Tell me!"</p> + +<p>"I 'can't.' Dulcie."</p> + +<p>"You must. It is money trouble of some sort. What is it?"</p> + +<p>She had to urge more strongly, to press again and again.</p> + +<p>And at length came a muffled—"The—five hundred—"</p> + +<p>"Yes; tell me."</p> + +<p>"It is—gone!"</p> + +<p>Her hand closed firmly on his.</p> + +<p>"Gone where, dear?"</p> + +<p>"Some—of course—spent on the estate. But—"</p> + +<p>"And the rest—?"</p> + +<p>"Speculated—and—lost!"</p> + +<p>This was received in silence. The truth went beyond her worst fears.</p> + +<p>"You needn't say anything. I know—and you know—what it means. Now you +understand—and I must go."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I understand," she said very quietly.</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean to tell you, but it is just as well I have. Now you can +tell Kennedy. Say I was mad! I don't know what came over me to do such +a thing!"</p> + +<p>"You will tell Mr. Kennedy yourself—not I."</p> + +<p>"Never! I shall be gone."</p> + +<p>"You will not be gone. You will be here, and you will speak the truth, +like a man!"</p> + +<p>"I tell you, Dulcie, I can't, and won't! Nothing shall make me."</p> + +<p>"I don't see that you have any choice. You have risked money that +was not yours—and lost it. You have to account to him for the money. +Nothing remains but to tell him the truth. He must know it, and he must +know it from you. To run away would be the act of a coward."</p> + +<p>"I knew you would despise me."</p> + +<p>"Dear Norman, indeed I don't. It is not that. But there is only one way +for you now. Never mind the pain. Stay and speak out bravely."</p> + +<p>Her eyes were brimming with tears.</p> + +<p>"Listen!" she urged. "We will tell him together—if that will be any +help—you and I. And we will set ourselves to earn the full amount. +We will give ourselves no rest till it is repaid—every penny of it. +The agency, of course, you cannot keep. We will go away, and get +work elsewhere, and live on as little as possible. We will do it +together—you and I!"</p> + +<p>The generosity of her words struck deep; yet he did not know the cost +to herself. For this was the death-blow to her dearest hopes. She was +putting aside all thought of George Kennedy as a part of her own life.</p> + +<p>"Only, he must be told first. And you yourself must tell him."</p> + +<p>"I can't do it! I can't, do it!" reiterated Norman; and he remained +deaf to her entreaties. "I dare not meet Kennedy!" came at length.</p> + +<p>"You—a man!—Dare not!"</p> + +<p>But still he held out, and she had recourse to her final weapon.</p> + +<p>"Norman, for my sake, you must. I ask it for my sake! I—I tell you +frankly—I love George Kennedy."</p> + +<p>Norman was startled out of his drooping posture.</p> + +<p>"You love him!"</p> + +<p>"He asked me ten years ago to be his wife: and I could not. I was +needed at home. I gave him no reason—and he may have changed; most +likely he will have changed. But still he is the same to me. Now you +see how I have a right to ask that you should speak—that you should not +put that upon me. You must tell him all. Nothing else is possible."</p> + +<p>Norman's hands went to his head. "I don't know what to say—what +to think!" he muttered. "You bewilder me. George—and you! Then I +suppose—it was for your sake that he offered me this."</p> + +<p>"Why should it be? You and he are old friends. I have no reason to +suppose that he ever thinks of me now. But I care for him." She spoke +steadily.</p> + +<p>"I must think. My head is in a whirl. I must go out."</p> + +<p>"Not unless you promise, on your word of honour, to come back to-night."</p> + +<p>"My word of honour!" His laugh was bitter.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Your word of honour. You have fallen; but you are going to stand +upright from to-day. Norman, think of our dear mother! Think of our +dear father! You must do what they would wish. And if you promise to +come back, you will keep your promise. I trust you."</p> + +<p>"You shall not be disappointed." He put down his bag, took out his +purse and laid it on the table. "Now, you see I can't go away."</p> + +<p>She gave him back the purse. "That would not be trust," she said. "You +will keep your promise—not because you cannot go, but because you +'will' not!"</p> + +<p>"You are right. I will not! I promise you, on my word of honour, to +come back to-night."</p> + +<p>She held him fast for an instant. "Dear Norman, I shall be praying for +you. Pray for yourself that you may conquer."</p> + +<p>Then he was gone; and Dulcie, on her knees at home, like Moses with his +uplifted arms, determined by her earnest pleading the course of the +battle. For indeed, it was no easy battle which Norman had to fight. +The lack of fibre in his will, the habitual yielding to countless +lesser temptations, as well as his recent heavy fall, made this contest +infinitely harder for him than it would have been for a man of strong +will and habitual self-control.</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h2><a id="Chapter_9">CHAPTER IX. A Moonlit Battle.</a></h2> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>NORMAN'S first craving was for fresh air and rapid movement. He went +along the lane, turned on into a side path, and presently emerged on +a wide and lonely common, flooded with silver light. Across it led a +road, and this he followed. Overhead, the moon shone brightly.</p> + +<p>His mind was bent upon the past talk, especially upon Dulcie's +unexpected confession. He realized afresh how devoted a sister she had +been; he saw the heart-break that must have been hers, had he fled as +he purposed. He understood what her position would have been, had she +been left alone to meet her former lover and to bear the brunt of her +brother's wrong-doing.</p> + +<p>That his plain duty was to stay at Apthorne, to encounter the friend +whom he had injured, and to make a clean breast of everything, had +become clear: but—could he do it? That was the question. He had not +been too proud to misuse money left in his charge: but to confess the +same would be a tremendous blow to his pride.</p> + +<p>He pictured himself meeting George Kennedy, trying to explain, +faltering, breaking down overcome with shame—and it seemed impossible. +Again he was gripped by a fierce temptation to flee, even now to make +his escape.</p> + +<p>But—his promise! He had given his word of honour. Dulcie trusted +him. He could not go. Then, he recalled her last words; and in the +moonlight, he fell upon his knees, and his whole soul went up in a +passionate cry for help, that he might be able to stand. Norman learnt +in that hour the true meaning of prayer.</p> + +<p>His pleading and Dulcie's were not in vain. Presently, as he again +hurried on, he found himself no longer hesitating, debating, swayed to +and fro, but coming to a firm resolve. Things were as Dulcie had said. +He had no choice. Nothing remained to be done but to stick to his post, +and to speak out like a man. He would not be a selfish coward, thinking +only of what he himself had to bear, and shirking the just results of +his wrong-doing. He would tell Kennedy everything, and would patiently +accept the consequences.</p> + +<p>As he so resolved, peace settled down upon his tempest-tossed spirit. +If in very truth he repented, forgiveness would be his—so much he knew +from early training—forgiveness for the evil he had done, strength for +the present trouble, power for keeping to straight paths in the future. +This hour might, if he willed, become the turning-point in his life.</p> + +<p>Walking rapidly, he had wandered from the roadway, half unconscious of +the fact, stumbling through bracken and undergrowth, away to a wild and +unfrequented part of the common, farther than he had been aware, and +the thought arose that he ought to make his way homeward. Dulcie would +be watching for his return.</p> + +<p>A sound broke in upon his abstraction: a low moaning, which he had +taken for the wind among the branches. Now he heard the same more +clearly, and he peered into the darkness, intently listening. A human +note in it touched him, and he realized that somebody else beside +himself was in distress.</p> + +<p>A strong temptation assailed him to pursue the quest no further, and to +hasten home. It might be only the breeze, or his own imagination. He +did not want to be bothered. Why should he concern himself with other +people's affairs?</p> + +<p>He moved a few steps, then stopped to listen again. Heavy clouds had +gathered, shutting off the moon, but they parted, and a search-light +beam cut an alley through surrounding gloom.</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image017" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image017.jpg" alt="image017"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>He saw, as in a vision, a ruined building</b><br> +<b>rising out of rank vegetation.</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>He saw, as in a vision, a ruined building rising out of rank +vegetation, the walls nearly intact, though the roof had fallen in. +Lending a spectral appearance to the whole, was a central chimney, +oddly placed, and high for such a ruin in such a situation.</p> + +<p>In a flash, he recalled the existence and the history of Marston +Grange, an old haunted house, grim tales connected with which rose +swiftly to mind.</p> + +<p>With one brief exception, it had not been inhabited during a century +past. It belonged to the Apthorne property, but so long had it been a +ruin, and so widespread was the impression of its being haunted, that +neither Dewsbury nor previous agents had even thought of letting it.</p> + +<p>One day, some ten years before this date, an old and shabby man tramped +into Apthorne, seeking shelter. He declared his fixed intention of +remaining there, scouted the notion of a neighbouring workhouse, and +offered to take up his residence in the ruin for a nominal rent. He +confided to the agent that, though very poor, he was not absolutely +penniless.</p> + +<p>Nervous people held up their hands in horror when his wish became +known, but he was not to be baulked. He liked the quiet of the old +Grange, and its apartness from talkative human beings. An old lean-to +hut would give him all the shelter he needed; and he begged permission +to make it his home.</p> + +<p>Mainly out of compassion, Dewsbury yielded. Thring installed himself +there, and settled down. He seldom came to Apthorne, and spent so +little in the way of food, that people wondered how he kept body and +soul together. In point of fact, he did not long succeed in so doing. +Before winter, he had passed away.</p> + +<p>During those few months, Dewsbury was kind to the old man, sometimes +looking in for a chat, sometimes taking him a present of food. Towards +the end, Thring's reserve yielded slightly. He told the agent that he +had no friends, no relatives.</p> + +<p>"All are dead before me," he said. "You're the only chap that has shown +me kindness for many a year, and I'm leaving my goods and chattels and +all I'm possessed of to you."</p> + +<p>Dewsbury went home, laughing to himself. The old man's "goods and +chattels" would hardly be worth the trouble of carrying away.</p> + +<p>Then Timing died, silently, alone, untended; and Dewsbury, happening to +come in next day, found him thus. He also found a will, properly signed +and witnessed, leaving everything to himself, and, to his surprise, a +purse containing twenty-five pounds.</p> + +<p>This tale sprang to Norman's mind, as he found himself confronting +the old ruin. He had been here once in broad daylight, but to be here +alone at night was another matter. Whether or not he put any real faith +in ghost-stories connected with the place, he was not free from a +superstitious side, and involuntarily, he recoiled. A chill ran through +him. Who could say what the moaning might mean? A haunted ruin, an old +man dying his lonely death within, friendless and forsaken! What if the +sound were from the inhabitant of another world? The unresting spirit +of old Thring himself?</p> + +<p>The moaning stopped, only to begin anew, broken by speech. He could +distinguish no words, but somebody seemed to be protesting.</p> + +<p>Norman was not by nature a courageous man. There are men, happily not +few, who at the first sign of another in need will dash headlong to the +rescue, but he was not of that type. His first impulse was to think of +self, to shrink from trouble and danger.</p> + +<p>Something withheld him from the instant flight to which he was urged by +impulse. Was it a dim consciousness that he might sink lower yet than +he had already sunk?—That here was an opportunity for a good deed? He +stood suspended, hesitating, doubting, shifting uneasily from foot to +foot, unable to make up his mind. Why needed he to do anything? Why +not at once decamp? The whole might be a delusion? And he had troubles +enough of his own.</p> + +<p>He had been backing slowly, but a hollow laugh pulled him up. It seemed +to rattle on his brain. The sound recurred, and was followed by a rush +of words, excited and vehement, yet still muffled, as if proceeding +from a box or a tube.</p> + +<p>He longed to take to his heels, but sober thought and earnest resolve, +born in him that night, were already working towards his salvation. +Though he still thought first of self, he did not think of self only.</p> + +<p>"I've been calling myself a miserable wretch, and a spendthrift of +God's mercy! I've been hoping to be forgiven and set on my feet again! +And now, at the first chance of doing something for somebody, I'm ready +to act the coward and to let things go. I'll not do it. I'll not be +beaten. Man or spirit, things are wrong yonder, and I'll see if they +can't be put right." Such thoughts, half shaped into words, stirred him +to action.</p> + +<p>He picked his way over the rough ground, among stones and bracken, +climbed the nearer broken-down wall, and found himself within the +ruin, knee-deep in grass and weeds. The moon still shone, though less +brightly, and he could dimly see what lay around. No voice or sound now +broke the stillness.</p> + +<p>"Anybody here?" he called. "Eh! Hallo! Who are you? Where are you? What +are you doing?"</p> + +<p>Another minute of this profound hush, and the utmost effort of will +would hardly have kept him longer within the ruin, pallid and ghostly +as it looked. But the voice he had heard broke out afresh, with a +torrent of words. There was a delirious sound in the rush of utterance.</p> + +<p>"Ho, ho! So it's you, Mr. Hurst! A better man than I, say you? Well, +well, we'll see! We'll see pretty soon, I reckon. There's going to be +trouble, I can tell you. The new Squire doesn't know what's been going +on, but he'll know soon. 'I've' taken care of that. Shouldn't have been +me, you say! Why not? I say, why not? . . . What! What did you say? +Treasure somewhere—hidden away! Shouldn't wonder! He couldn't have +found a safer place. Old Thring was uncommon sharp! Nobody comes to a +haunted house! But keep it close—keep it close! Mind you, I've got the +right. If folks knew, they'd come digging here, and have the old place +down, before one can say 'Jack Robinson!'"</p> + +<p>Then a break, but as Norman debated what to say, the voice started anew.</p> + +<p>"No, I'm not an avaricious man, nobody can say that of me. But it's +worth a bit of trouble—worth the search, eh? You'd do it in my place. +Hold hard—slowly!—Slowly! There's a lot of rubble above; and this +old chimney is queerly built . . . Not easy to get up. My word! It's +narrow! Shouldn't wonder if there wasn't a ledge beyond the bend, if +once I get there. Sort of place a miser 'd be likely enough to choose! +Though how old Thring ever could have managed to climb it, beats my +understanding! I say! It's melting work, and no mistake. What's that?—" +And the voice rose to a startled shout. "Help! Help!—I'm stuck—stuck +fast! Can't stir!—" And the hoarse utterances died into renewed moaning.</p> + +<p>Norman had listened spell-bound, unable to make out whence the sounds +came. He thought he recognised Dewsbury's voice, yet could not be sure. +The hut suggested itself, and he went thither, stooped to make his +way in, and felt tremblingly around, but could discover no presence +except his own. A ray of moonlight filtering through the open door, as +a cloudlet rolled away, confirmed this fact. With the exception of a +broken table and infirm chair, neither worth carrying away, the hut was +empty.</p> + +<p>Terror overcame Norman. The whole thing was eerie, uncanny, unnatural. +He stumbled blindly to the entrance, and rushed out, drops bedewing +his forehead. If the ex-agent were anywhere near, at least he was not +in the hut. And if it were not Dewsbury himself, but something else, +something ghostly, something terrible—</p> + +<p>He started away, full speed, mastered by a nameless dread, and was +brought up by the ruined wall, with a concussion which sent him +staggering backward. That might not have stopped his flight, but the +voice again broke out, piteously imploring help, still with a note of +wildness, as of one "off his head." Now too it seemed closer, less +muffled. Norman was beside the tall chimney; and a sudden instinct +made him bend down, with his face to the opening, where once a great +mediæval hearth had been.</p> + +<p>"It's somebody up the chimney," he exclaimed aloud, with instant +relief; for at all events, ghosts do not climb chimneys. "Hallo! Who's +there? Dewsbury!—Is it you?"</p> + +<p>A feeble answer drifted slowly down. "Here! I'm here! Help! Help! I'm +stuck! Can't stir an inch."</p> + +<p>"Are you hurt?"</p> + +<p>"Yes! Yes!" Then—"Have a care. Don't bring it all down. There's been +a—a—"</p> + +<p>"A fall of bricks, eh?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know. Something—something—jammed me in . . . Ever so long ago!"</p> + +<p>"Never mind! Don't be afraid. I'll get you down, all right. I declare, +I took you for a ghost."</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image018" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image018.jpg" alt="image018"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>Dewsbury seemed stupefied, and in the midst</b><br> +<b>of these operations fell fast asleep.</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>The moaning was resumed, and when he shouted further questions, he had +no reply. He doubted if the ex-agent were conscious, though aroused +momentarily by his voice.</p> + +<p>"Nothing for it but to climb up, I suppose. I don't like the job!" +muttered Norman, surveying as best he could in the dim light the +chimney's outlines. Within of course, all would be pitch darkness. He +would have to feel his way; and since there had been one fall of loose +material, there might be another. At any moment, while making the +ascent, he too might be hopelessly jammed in, and unable to escape.</p> + +<p>No; he did not like the job! It meant danger, difficulty, discomfort, +perhaps serious injury to himself.</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h2><a id="Chapter_10">CHAPTER X. No Easy Matter.</a></h2> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>HE did not like the job; but it had to be undertaken. That came home to +Norman.</p> + +<p>True, an alternative plan existed as a possibility. He might go for +additional help. Two men, or three, would find the work of rescue +easier and safer than one acting alone. For himself, undoubtedly, this +would be the pleasanter line to follow.</p> + +<p>But—to leave the unhappy Dewsbury here alone, to leave him for at least +another hour and a half, unaided, suffering, delirious! The thing +seemed scarcely possible, at least in Norman's present softened mood. +What if the ex-agent should die before his return? He would never +forgive himself for having made no attempt to set him free.</p> + +<p>He knew what he would feel in Dewsbury's position. It would be awfully +hard to bear, if the other man should go away, leaving him alone in +his misery. "I've been a coward already to-night! I'll not show the +white-feather again," he said resolutely. "I'll do what I can, and let +consequences take care of themselves."</p> + +<p>Then he realized a better mode—to leave consequences in the Hands of +God, while simply doing his duty.</p> + +<p>He was silent, and a short fervent prayer went up for help: not the +first prayer that he had prayed within the last three hours, following +upon many a prayerless year.</p> + +<p>The moaning in the chimney went on monotonously. It acted as a +continuous call to Norman for help.</p> + +<p>"I say, man! Wake up and tell me, is there room for me beside you?" he +shouted, putting his face to the opening.</p> + +<p>Moans only came in reply: and without further parley, he began his +ascent.</p> + +<p>The chimney had been built in old style, and there was room enough +within for a boy or slenderly made man to mount, but in its present +half-ruined condition, the feat was not easy. Bracing himself firmly +across from side to side, his feet against one wall, his back and +shoulders against that opposite, he raised himself inch by inch, moving +with extreme caution, listening with intense anxiety. At any moment, +a further fall of bricks or rubbish might put an end to his exertions +on behalf of Dewsbury—might indeed put an end to his own life. He knew +this and he was afraid, yet he went steadily on.</p> + +<p>"I'm coming. Keep quiet. Don't stir," he called repeatedly.</p> + +<p>And Dewsbury seemed to understand. The moaning ceased.</p> + +<p>Still inch by inch upward, feeling, not seeing; and the way in darkness +and uncertainty seemed long, though really short. Sooner than he knew, +he reached the awkward bend where Dewsbury was wedged in with the fall +of rubble. Norman, setting himself resolutely, could touch the other +man, and the touch brought no response. Had Dewsbury fainted? Was he +dying—or dead? Norman's heart stood still at the suggestion. It would +be a weird position, alone in this chimney with a dead man.</p> + +<p>"Anyhow, I've got to clear a way and get him down," he muttered and he +began cautiously pulling away the débris.</p> + +<p>Stone after stone, and loose masses of material, went rattling down. +Further loosening proved necessary, before he could feel that it +was possible to move Dewsbury. Then he did his best to rouse the +unconscious man, spoke to him, chafed his hands, and at length, when he +had begun almost to despair, success came. Dewsbury groaned, sighed, +and tried to move.</p> + +<p>"Wake up, man. Pull yourself together. We can't stay here all night. +I've got to get you down."</p> + +<p>"I—I—how did I come here?" The voice showed confusion. "I—oh, ah—I +know—climbing the cliff—had a fall—"</p> + +<p>"Not a cliff, but a chimney. You must have got a blow on the head, I +suspect. Better now, eh? Yes—a chimney!" as the word was repeated.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes,—I—remember—" with an effort. "But—but—you—you're not—Hurst!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I am. A mercy I happened to come too. All right. I'll soon have +you down."</p> + +<p>"Hurst! The last man I'd have looked for—" Norman just caught the +murmured words.</p> + +<p>"Never mind that. You're better now—eh?"</p> + +<p>"I'm pretty well done for and my own fault, too!"</p> + +<p>"Nut a bit of it. You're no more done for than I am. You're free now. +It's only a matter of a dozen feet."</p> + +<p>"But—but—the stones up above—"</p> + +<p>"I've cleared away all I can reach, and I don't believe there's more to +come. You'll have to move cautiously. Now—ready? Hold fast, and don't +hurry. I'll have you down in no time."</p> + +<p>He was almost as good as his word. A few anxious seconds, and the older +man had reached firm ground below. Norman dropped easily after, to find +him lying in a heap, barely conscious.</p> + +<p>A slight search in the ex-agent's pockets resulted to Norman's delight, +and as he had hoped—in the discovery of a box of matches. Now he knew +what to be at. Finding tokens of a heavy blow on the old man's head, he +bathed it with a handkerchief soaked in dew, then carefully bound it up.</p> + +<p>Dewsbury seemed stupefied, and in the midst of these operations fell +fast asleep. Norman decided to let him sleep, and sat patiently by his +side, troubled only by the thought of Dulcie's anxiety at his long +absence. But nothing could be done. He had to stay.</p> + +<p>Soon after daybreak, he again bathed and dressed the hurt, and Dewsbury +awoke to full consciousness. At first, he asked no questions, but +watched the other steadily, remorsefully, it might be.</p> + +<p>"Come, you're getting on now," Norman remarked. "You'll be able to move +soon."</p> + +<p>"Yes: I'm better. I didn't think it would be 'you' that would have +saved my life, Mr. Hurst!"</p> + +<p>"O come!—Not so bad as that. Though you had a bad time of it, I'm sure."</p> + +<p>"It was quite as bad as that. I've been awake longer than you know. +I've been thinking! And I know what I owe to you. If you hadn't come, I +should have died there, like a rat in a hole. I couldn't have held out +many hours longer. I know what I'm saying. And you saved me at risk to +yourself too! I know that."</p> + +<p>"I'm glad to have been able to help you. And if you're well enough now +to be alone for a bit, I'll go and get help. You can't walk."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I can. If you'll lend me an arm. I shall do well enough. But I've +got to get something off my mind first. I've done you a wrong, and I'm +sorry. I'd give a good deal if I could undo it."</p> + +<p>"Have you? O well, it can't be helped." Norman had never fell so +strangely at peace with all the world as he did this hour.</p> + +<p>"I've done you a wrong. I've misjudged you!"</p> + +<p>"No. Things have not gone as they should."</p> + +<p>"It was no business of mine to meddle. I'll tell you the truth. I wrote +to Mr. Kennedy, and said to him that the place was being mismanaged. +That's why he is coming home."</p> + +<p>"It 'has' been mismanaged."</p> + +<p>"I wasn't the one to write. I ought to have let it alone. You're +heaping coals of fire on my head, doing this for me. You are new to the +work, and I might have made excuses."</p> + +<p>"No." Norman looked towards the east, where a glow was creeping into +the grey dawn. "No. Things have been worse than you thought."</p> + +<p>"It'll all come right. You'll do better now."</p> + +<p>"I shall not keep the agency. You will have it again." He thought of +what the old man had said in delirium.</p> + +<p>"Why, Mr. Hurst! That's nonsense. You'll keep it, of course. And if +you'd just let me help you now and then, I'd do it and welcome."</p> + +<p>"If I'd had any sense, I should have gone to you before. Dulcie, my +sister, wished it, and I wouldn't. But that is not all, not nearly all. +There is much worse." In a scarcely audible voice, he told his sad tale.</p> + +<p>"I meant to go away last night: never to be seen again. It was Dulcie +who stopped me. And now I shall stay and tell Kennedy everything. Then +I shall leave Apthorne, and you—he will give you back the agency."</p> + +<p>"No, he won't. I shall not take it. And you are not going. You've done +wrong, Hurst, but you won't go any farther that way. It'll be once and +for all! You'll pull up sharp, and take warning, and get straight. Now, +look here. I'm a solitary man, without wife or child, and I've got more +than I need. I'll get an advance to-morrow morning from my bank for +the full amount—four hundred odd, is it?—and you shall pay it in to +Mr. Kennedy's account. See? It will mean selling out for me, and I'm +willing, so you needn't say another word. You shall give me an I.O.U. +and when you can pay me back, you shall; and I'll wait till then.</p> + +<p>"You've done wrongly, it's true—very wrongly!—but you are going to +live another sort of life. And you've been my friend this night, and +most likely saved 'my' life, which I shall never forget, for I'm not +one of the forgetting sort. I'm sorry for that nice sister of yours, +to whom I've been none too polite in the past. I don't say it wasn't +right of somebody to give Mr. Kennedy a word of warning, as things have +been, but that somebody shouldn't have been me. However, this will +make everything fair and square between us, eh? And I don't doubt Mr. +Kennedy will consent to overlook it, if you can square up the account, +and promise you'll never speculate again."</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image019" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image019.jpg" alt="image019"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>"I have something of importance to say to you."</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>Norman tried to speak, and produced only a wordless sound.</p> + +<p>"All right! All right! Thanks will keep. I've got more thanks for you +first after this night. And now I've got to think about walking home. +I'm shaky still."</p> + +<p>Norman found his voice. "I can't thank you enough. It's a noble offer. +But I feel I mustn't avail myself of it. Kennedy must know everything. +I couldn't stay here under any sort of false pretences. I shall tell +him the whole, from first to last, let what may come of it. God bless +you for your kind thought, Dewsbury. It can do no harm if I tell +Kennedy that you wanted to lend me the money. But I'd rather—do you +mind?—I'd rather you said nothing about this night's adventure. It's +nothing really—nothing to talk about; and I don't want any little help +I've given you to be used as a set-off to what I've been guilty of! You +see what I mean."</p> + +<p>To Norman's relief, perhaps also a little to his surprise, the other +promptly agreed.</p> + +<p>"Well, yes, I've a reason too for not talking just now about this," the +ex-agent said rather hesitatingly. "By-and-by, it may be different. But +just now, to tell the truth, I'd rather it shouldn't be known. I shall +say I've had a slight accident, a stone falling on my head. You see!"</p> + +<p>"You may trust me to say nothing."</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes. I'm sure I may. I've a reason." Then, after a pause—"And you +haven't asked what it was that took me up the chimney."</p> + +<p>"You were wandering in your head when I first heard you, and you said +one or two things which gave me a notion. I thought perhaps you'd gone +up in hopes of finding—something."</p> + +<p>Norman spoke with deliberation, and the other looked keenly at him.</p> + +<p>"That was all?"</p> + +<p>"Not quite all. You spoke as if you thought there might be money hidden +away."</p> + +<p>"If you'd left me there to die, nobody would have known it but +yourself. There 'may' be!"</p> + +<p>Norman laughed. "I'm bad enough, but I'm not that sort!"</p> + +<p>"No, you're not. Well, I don't mind saying to you that I've reason to +think there is—perhaps. I met a chap the other day who'd known Thring, +and he told me he was a miser, and had a hoard somewhere, and it's as +likely as not it may be here. But nobody else knows. If it's there, +it's mine by right."</p> + +<p>"Thank you for trusting me, Mr. Dewsbury. It won't go any farther, you +may be sure of that."</p> + +<p>Dewsbury looked straight at him. "Yes. I'm sure. You and I will have +another hunt, some day, perhaps."</p> + +<p>"Do you think you could make a start soon? We ought to get home. I'll +give you my arm."</p> + +<p>And the walk, though difficult, was accomplished.</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h2><a id="Chapter_11">CHAPTER XI. Adjusted.</a></h2> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>"YES; I see!" Kennedy stood gravely facing his friend and agent, as +with a sorrowful air Norman stumbled through his tale.</p> + +<p>They were at Ivy Cottage. "I have something of importance to say to +you," Norman had stated on first meeting the owner of Apthorne; and +Kennedy's reply was—"Pray keep it, my dear fellow, till I come round +after tea to see you and your sister."</p> + +<p>When he arrived, Dulcie was not visible. He had fully counted on her +presence, and he augured badly for himself from the fact. She indeed, +had offered, for her brother's sake, to be present and to share in his +confession. But she was very thankful when he refused to let her do so.</p> + +<p>"Your sister not in?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. She will see you presently. I've got to tell you something first."</p> + +<p>"Better have it out at once, then." Kennedy expected to hear some +particulars of slack management, and he prepared to listen, at first, +with wavering attention, which soon became concentrated. He made no +interruption, no comment; and his lips were firmly set.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I see!" when Norman came to a pause. "I understand."</p> + +<p>He walked up and down the little room.</p> + +<p>"It wasn't easy work for you to tell me this." He looked at the bowed +head. "It must have been hard."</p> + +<p>"I couldn't do otherwise. A friend, I may as well tell you his +name—Dewsbury—offered to advance the money. But you have a right to +know all. Not to explain would mean going on under false pretences; and +I'll have nothing more of that sort. Dulcie would never have consented +either. In fact, it was she who persuaded me. I'd made up my mind to +run away; and but for her, you would never have seen me again."</p> + +<p>"That would have been a fatal step!"</p> + +<p>"Yes I see now it would have been!"</p> + +<p>"But the temptation must have been great, having so much money in your +hands. I blame myself."</p> + +<p>"The money ought to have been safe!"</p> + +<p>"You had had no previous training. It was all new to you."</p> + +<p>"That's no excuse. I've done very wrongly."</p> + +<p>Kennedy took two more turns.</p> + +<p>"Yes; wrong it was! It might have wrecked your life's happiness—yours +and hers!"</p> + +<p>"Dulcie has been an angel of goodness to me."</p> + +<p>"She 'is' an angel." He said the words with fervour.</p> + +<p>"But of course I must go. That is inevitable. You will find Dewsbury +infinitely more efficient—letting alone this!"</p> + +<p>"That's a matter for consideration. I should like to see your sister +before coming to any decision."</p> + +<p>"She's there," with a gesture towards the room on the other side of the +passage. "I said I would call her."</p> + +<p>"No. Stop! I'll go. You can wait here."</p> + +<p>Norman obeyed, and kept his seat with spiritless patience. At last +he woke to the lapse of time, and glanced at the clock, in wonder at +Kennedy's prolonged absence. Some instinct kept him from venturing to +intrude.</p> + +<p>When the door opened to admit Kennedy and Dulcie, his first glimpse of +the two brought fresh wonder. Only once, during ten years past, had he +seen in her that glow of girlish beauty and joy; while Kennedy was an +embodiment of smiles.</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<figure class="figcenter" id="image020" style="max-width: 25.3125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/image020.jpg" alt="image020"> +</figure> +<p class="t4"> +<b>"I have decided to keep you on in your post."</b><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p>"Dulcie and I have been discussing the situation," observed the latter, +and Norman vaguely noticed the use of her Christian name. "We think +that you must have another chance. I have decided to keep you on your +post."</p> + +<p>"It's not right. I ought to retrieve my character first."</p> + +<p>"You shall retrieve it here."</p> + +<p>"I think not. You cannot feel any confidence in me."</p> + +<p>"Dulcie does. She says I may. Things will be different in the future. +Frankly, it's not for your sake that I ask this. But there are other +considerations, and I wish you to stay. Besides, I'm not going back to +Australia."</p> + +<p>"No, you would not feel enough confidence—"</p> + +<p>"That's not it. Dulcie has settled matters. I went because she would +not have me; and if she would not now, I should go again. But she will! +Thank God, I've got at last what all these years I have hungered after +hopelessly—never dreaming that she might be mine."</p> + +<p>Norman muttered a word of congratulation, as he glanced from one bright +face to the other.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Dulcie has promised to be my wife, my own dear wife. But she +declares positively that if you leave Apthorne, she must go with you +for a time. And that is out of the question, for I can't possibly live +any longer without her. So there is nothing for it, but for you to stay +here as my agent. You see, I am risking it for my own sake. You will +not refuse?"</p> + +<p>Under the circumstances, Norman could not refuse. He might feel, he did +feel, that he deserved no such leniency. But the request, put thus, had +to be granted.</p> + +<p>He remained at Apthorne, and during the next twelve months, he had to +live a life of wholesome self-denial. The least that he could do, in +gratitude was to save every possible penny towards the repayment of his +debt, and to use every means in his power for the improvement of his +own defective business capabilities.</p> + +<p>It was doubtless well for him that Dewsbury's illness deferred any +further successful search for the hidden treasure. He had been a spoilt +boy, a too much petted and shielded brother. Now he had what was good +for him, a year of standing alone, of having to refuse himself many a +thing that he wanted. At the year's end, he was the better for it, he +had gained "backbone" and was stronger.</p> + +<p>Then something unexpected happened.</p> + +<p>Dewsbury had begun to speak again to Norman about the possible +"treasure." He went to the place himself, walking feebly, and discussed +with his successor what steps should be taken. He planned telling +Kennedy.</p> + +<p>Two days later, a terrific storm broke over the place, and the old +chimney was struck. It came down, a heap of ruin, and amid the ruin, +carefully examined by Norman and one or two trustworthy assistants, was +found a mildewed leathern packet, containing some eight hundred pounds +in gold and notes, and the name of "Thring" within.</p> + +<p>Dewsbury made a present of half this sum to Norman, in token of his +gratitude for, as he expressed it, "a life saved." Norman, though not +without demur, accepted the gift, and was once more out of debt—a free +man!</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78931 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/78931-h/images/image001.jpg b/78931-h/images/image001.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5424d78 --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image001.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image002.jpg b/78931-h/images/image002.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..644d5be --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image002.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image003.jpg b/78931-h/images/image003.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..cc2807b --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image003.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image004.jpg b/78931-h/images/image004.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2bd44e3 --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image004.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image005.jpg b/78931-h/images/image005.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d89948b --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image005.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image006.jpg b/78931-h/images/image006.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..76650e9 --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image006.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image007.jpg b/78931-h/images/image007.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bcf471e --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image007.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image008.jpg b/78931-h/images/image008.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..398f511 --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image008.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image009.jpg b/78931-h/images/image009.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d8a5977 --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image009.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image010.jpg b/78931-h/images/image010.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c29a7ca --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image010.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image011.jpg b/78931-h/images/image011.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5124109 --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image011.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image012.jpg b/78931-h/images/image012.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d0a59d8 --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image012.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image013.jpg b/78931-h/images/image013.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4f54fc6 --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image013.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image014.jpg b/78931-h/images/image014.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..508d8a8 --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image014.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image015.jpg b/78931-h/images/image015.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..392aad3 --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image015.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image016.jpg b/78931-h/images/image016.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bf09f1e --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image016.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image017.jpg b/78931-h/images/image017.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f29b2c8 --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image017.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image018.jpg b/78931-h/images/image018.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1ba5fb0 --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image018.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image019.jpg b/78931-h/images/image019.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8e1d4ae --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image019.jpg diff --git a/78931-h/images/image020.jpg b/78931-h/images/image020.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..992d85d --- /dev/null +++ b/78931-h/images/image020.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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