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.

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.