The Obstacle Race Part 58

"No," d.i.c.k said. "He didn't do that. I almost wish he had. It would have been somehow--more endurable."

Again he became silent, and suddenly to the squire sitting frowning at the table there came a flash of intuition that told him he could not continue. He got up sharply, went to d.i.c.k, still frowning, and laid an impulsive arm across his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, my lad," he said.

d.i.c.k made a slight movement as if the caress were not wholly welcome, but after a moment he reached up and grasped the squire's hand.

"It hit me pretty hard," he said in a low voice, not lifting his hand.

"Juliet just made it bearable. I shall get over it, of course. But--I never want to see Jack again."

Again for a s.p.a.ce he stopped, then with a sudden fierce impatience jerked on.

"You may remember saying to me once--no; a hundred times over--that I should never get anywhere so long as I kept my boy with me--never find success--or happiness--never marry--all that sort of rot. It was rot. I always knew it was. I've proved it. She would have come to me in any case. And as for success--it doesn't depend on things of that sort. I've proved that too. But he--Jack--got hold of the same infernal parrot-cry.

Oh, I'm sorry, sir," he glanced upwards for a second with working lips.

"I can't dress this up in polite language. Jack said to my boy Robin what you had said to me. And he--believed it--and so--made an end."

He drew his breath hard between his teeth and straightened himself, putting Fielding's arm quietly from his.

"Good G.o.d!" said Fielding. "But the boy was mad! He never was normal. You can't say--"

"Oh, no, sir." With grim bitterness d.i.c.k interrupted. "He just took the shortest way out, that's all. He wasn't mad."

"Committed suicide!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the squire.

d.i.c.k's hands were clenched. "Do you call it that," he said, "when a man lays down his life for his friends?"

He turned away with the words as if he could endure no more, and walked to the end of the room.

Fielding stood and watched him dumbly, more moved than he cared to show.

At length, as d.i.c.k remained standing before a bookcase in heavy silence, he spoke, his tone an odd mixture of peremptoriness and persuasion.

"d.i.c.k!"

d.i.c.k jerked his head without turning or speaking.

"Are you blaming me for this?" the squire asked.

d.i.c.k turned. His face was pale, his eyes fiercely bright. "You, sir! Do you think I'd have sat at your table if I did?"

"I don't know," the squire said sombrely. "You're fond of telling me I have no claim on you, but I have--for all that. There is a bond between us that you can't get away from, however hard you try. You think I can't understand your feelings in this matter, that I'm too sordid in my views to realize how hard you've been hit. You think I'm only pleased to know that you're free from your burden, at last, eh, d.i.c.k, and that your trouble doesn't count with me? Think I've never had any of my own perhaps?"

He spoke with a half-smile, but there was that in his voice that made d.i.c.k come swiftly back to him down the long room; nor did he pause when he reached him. His hand went through the squire's arm and gripped it hard.

"I'm--awfully sorry, sir," he said. "If you understand--you'll forgive me."

"I do understand, d.i.c.k," the squire said with great kindness. "I know I've been hard on you about that poor boy. I'm infernally sorry for the whole wretched business. But--as you say--you'll get over it. You've got Juliet."

"Yes, thank G.o.d!" d.i.c.k said. "I don't know how I should endure life without her. She's all I have."

The squire's face contracted a little. "No one else, d.i.c.k?" he said.

d.i.c.k glanced up. "And you, sir," he amended with a smile. "I'm afraid I'm rather apt to take you for granted. I suppose that's the bond you spoke of. I haven't--you know I haven't--the least desire to get away from it."

"Thank you," Fielding said, and stifled a sigh. "Life has been pretty d.a.m.nable to us both, d.i.c.k. We might have been--we ought to have been--much more to each other."

"There's no tie more enduring than friendship," said d.i.c.k quickly. "You and I are friends--always will be."

Fielding's eyes had a misty look. "The best of friends, d.i.c.k lad," he said. "But will--friendship--give me the right to offer you help without putting up your pride? I don't want to order your life for you, but you can't go on with this village _domini_ business much longer. You were made for better things."

"Oh, that!" d.i.c.k said, and laughed. "Yes, I'm going to chuck that--but not just at once. Listen, sir! I have a reason. I'll tell you what it is, but not now, not yet. As to accepting help from you, I'd do that to-morrow if I needed it, but I don't. I've no pride left where you are concerned. You're much too good to me and I'm much too grateful. Is that quite clear?"

He gave the squire a straight and very friendly look, then wheeled round swiftly at the opening of the door.

They were standing side by side as Vera threw it impatiently wide. She stood a second on the threshold staring at them. Then: "Are you never coming in?" she said. "I thought--I thought--" she stammered suddenly and turned white. "Edward!" she said, and went back a step as if something had frightened her.

d.i.c.k instantly went forward to her. "Yes, Mrs. Fielding. We're coming now," he said. "Awfully sorry to have kept you waiting. We've had things to talk about, but we've just about done. You're coming, aren't you, sir?

Take my arm, I say! You look tired."

He offered and she accepted almost instinctively. Her hand trembled on his arm as they left the room, and he suddenly and very impulsively laid his own upon it.

It was a protective impulse that moved him, but a moment later he adjusted the position by asking a favour of her--for the first time in the whole of their acquaintance.

"Mrs. Fielding, please, after to-day--give me the privilege of numbering myself among your friends!"

She looked at him oddly, seeking to cover her agitation with a quivering a.s.sumption of her old arrogance. But something in his face deterred her.

It was not this man's way to solicit favours, and somehow, since he had humbled himself to ask, she had it not in her to refuse.

"Very well, d.i.c.k," she said, faintly smiling. "I grant you that."

"Thank you," he said, and gently released her hand.

It was the swiftest and one of the most complete victories of his life.

CHAPTER III

CONFESSION

It was nearly two hours later that Vera sitting alone before her fire turned with a slight start at the sound of her husband's step in the room beyond. She was wearing a pale silk dressing-gown and her hair hung in a single plait over her shoulder, giving her a curiously girlish look. The slimness of her figure as she leaned among the cushions accentuated the fragility which her recent illness had stamped upon her. Her eyes were ringed with purple, and they had a startled expression that the sound of the squire's step served to intensify. At the soft turning of the handle she made a movement that was almost of shrinking. And when he entered she looked up at him with a small pinched smile from which all pleasure was wholly absent.

He was still in evening dress, and the subdued light falling upon him gave him the look of a man still scarcely past his prime. He stood for a moment, erect and handsome, before he quietly closed the door behind him and moved forward.

"Still up?" he said.

Again at his approach she made a more p.r.o.nounced movement of shrinking.