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.

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.

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!"