The Obstacle Race by Ethel May Dell (chromebook ebook reader TXT) 📖

Vera.
"Oh, not really. Not since he grew up. I believe he was very giddy in his youth, and then a girl he really cared for disappointed him. So the story runs. I can't vouch for the truth of it, or even whether he ever seriously cared for her. But he has certainly never been in earnest since."
"What about Lady Joanna Farringmore?" said Vera suddenly.
Juliet was standing before the fire. She bent slightly, the warm glow softly tinging her white neck. "I should have thought that old fable might have died a natural death by this time," she said.
Vera gave her a sharp look. There was not actual distaste in Juliet's tone, yet in some fashion it conveyed the impression that the subject was one which she had no desire to discuss.
Vera abandoned it forthwith. "Suppose we go downstairs," she said.
They went down to find Dick and Columbus patiently waiting in the hall. Vera's greeting was brief but not lacking in warmth. The thought of Juliet married to the schoolmaster had ceased to provoke her indignation. She even admitted to herself that in different surroundings Dick might have proved himself to possess a certain attraction. She believed he was clever in an intellectual sense, and she believed it was by this quality that he had captivated Juliet. The fiery force of the man, his almost fierce enthusiasms, she had never even seen.
But she was immediately aware of a subtle and secret link between the two as they all met together in the genial glow of the fire. Dick's eyes that flashed for a second to Juliet and instantly left her, told her very clearly that no words were needed to establish communion between them. They were in close sympathy.
She gave Dick a warmer welcome than she had ever extended to him before, and found in the instant response of his smile some reason for wonder at her previous dislike. Perhaps contact with Juliet had helped to banish the satire to which in the old days she had so strongly objected. Or perhaps--but this possibility did not occur to her--he sensed a cordiality in the atmosphere which had never been present before.
When the squire came down they were all chatting amicably round the fire, and he smiled swift approval upon his wife ere he turned to greet his guests.
"Hullo, Dick!" he said, as their hands met. "Still running the same old show?"
"For the present, sir," said Dick.
They had not met since the occasion of Dick's and Juliet's marriage when the squire had come over immediately before the sailing of the _Night Moth_ to be present, and to give her away. He had been very kind to them both during the brief hour that he had spent with them, and the memory of it still lingered warmly in Juliet's heart. She had grown very fond of the squire.
There were no awkward moments during that dinner which was more like a family gathering than Juliet had thought possible. The change in Vera amazed her. She was like a traveller who after long and weary journeying in shady places had come suddenly into bright sunshine. And she was younger, more ardent, more alive, than Juliet had ever seen her.
The same change was visible, though not so noticeable, in the squire. He too had come into the sun, but he trod more warily as one who--though content with the present--was by no means certain that the fair weather would last. His manner to his wife displayed a charming blend of tenderness and self-restraint; yet in some fashion he held his own with her, and once, meeting Juliet's eyes, he smiled in a way that reminded her of the day on which she had dared to give him advice as to the best means of securing happiness.
Dick was apparently in good spirits that night, and he was plainly at his ease. Having taken his cue from his hostess, he devoted himself in a large measure to her entertainment, and all went smoothly between them. When she and Juliet left the table she gave him a smiling invitation to come and play to them.
"I haven't brought the old banjo," he said, "but I'll make my wife sing. She is going to help me this winter at the Club concerts."
"Brave Juliet!" said Vera, as she went out. "I wouldn't face that crowd of roughs for a king's ransom."
"She has nothing to be afraid of," said Dick with quick confidence. "I wouldn't let her do it if there were any danger."
"They seem to be in an ugly mood just now," said the squire.
"Yes, I know." Dick turned back to him, closing the door. "But, taken the right way, they are still manageable. There is just a chance that we may keep them in hand if that fellow Ivor Yardley can be induced to see reason. The rest of the Wilchester crew don't care a damn, but he has more brains. I'm counting on him."
"How are you going to get hold of him?" questioned Fielding.
"I suppose I must go up to town some week-end. I haven't told Juliet yet. Unlike the average woman, she seems to have a holy hatred of London and all its ways. So I presume she will stay behind."
"Perhaps we could get him down here," suggested the squire.
Dick gave him a swift look. "I've thought of that," he said.
"Well?" said Fielding.
Dick hesitated for a moment. "I'm not sure that I want him," he said. "He and Saltash are friends for one thing. And there are besides--various reasons."
"You don't like Saltash?" said the squire.
Dick laughed a little. "I don't hate him--though I feel as if I ought to. He's a queer fish. I don't trust him."
"You're jealous!" said Fielding.
Dick nodded. "Very likely. He has an uncanny attraction for women. I wanted to kick him the last time we met."
"And what did Juliet say?"
"Oh, Juliet read me a lecture and told me I wasn't to. But I think the less we see of each other the better--if I am to keep on my best behaviour, that is."
"It's a good thing someone can manage you," remarked Fielding. "Juliet is a wonderful peacemaker. But even she couldn't keep you from coming to loggerheads with Jack apparently. What was that fight about?"
Dirk's brows contracted. "It wasn't a fight, sir," he said shortly. "I've never fought Jack in my life. He did an infernal thing, and I made him quit, that's all."
"What did he do?" asked the squire. Then as Dick made a gesture of refusal: "Damn it, man, he was in my employment anyway! I've a right to know why he cleared out."
Dick pushed back his chair abruptly and rose. He turned his back on the squire while he poked the blazing logs with his foot. Then: "Yes, you've a perfect right to know," he said, speaking jerkily, his head bent. "And of course I always meant to tell you. It won't appeal to you in the least. But Juliet understands--at least in part. He was responsible for--my boy's death. That's why I made him go."
It was the first time that he had voluntarily spoken of Robin since the day that he and Juliet had followed him to his grave. He brought out the words now with tremendous effort, and having spoken he ceased to kick at the fire and became absolutely still.
The squire sat at the table, staring at him. For some seconds the silence continued, then irritably he broke it.
"Well? Go on, man! That isn't the whole of the story. What do you mean by--responsible? He didn't shove him over the cliff, I suppose?"
"No," Dick 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 Dick, still frowning, and laid an impulsive arm across his shoulders.
"I'm sorry, my lad," he said.
Dick 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 space 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 God!" said Fielding. "But the boy was mad! He never was normal. You can't say--"
"Oh, no, sir." With grim bitterness Dick interrupted. "He just took the shortest way out, that's all. He wasn't mad."
"Committed suicide!" ejaculated the squire.
Dick'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 Dick remained standing before a bookcase in heavy silence, he spoke, his tone an odd mixture of peremptoriness and persuasion.
"Dick!"
Dick jerked his head without turning or speaking.
"Are you blaming me for this?" the squire asked.
Dick 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, Dick, 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 Dick 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, Dick," 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 God!" Dick 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, Dick?" he said.
Dick 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