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.

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.