Part 27 (2/2)

Her mind went back in a flash to the day, weeks before, when he had half promised to give her his confidence in regard to matters which it was evident were bothering him. But he had not looked then in the least like this. It had been merely business care which was heavy on his shoulders at that time. This was trouble, or she did not know the signs. His set face, upon which her welcome had brought no hint of an answering smile, the lines about his mouth, the suggestion of pallor which was already succeeding to the colour which had been the result of the tramp in the rain, all made her sure of her conclusions.

”I want to hear,” began s.h.i.+rley, very gently, controlling the anxiety in her voice. Then, suddenly, as a startling thought occurred to her, ”Peter, it's not--Murray--or Jane?--or mother?”

”No, no,” said Peter, quickly, turning to her. ”No, it's not your trouble, it's mine--ours. Only the others don't know it yet. They must n't know it till it--comes. That's why I came here. It' s not right to burden you with it, I 'm afraid. But, somehow I----”

s.h.i.+rley impulsively put out her hand, as if to touch his. He did not see it, and she withdrew it again. She longed to give him comfort in some way. Yet, until the story was told, she could not tell what to do.

If only he would tell it quickly. But, plainly, it was hard to tell.

He drew a deep breath; then sat up straight, staring into the fire.

”There has been a long succession of misfortunes,” he began, slowly. ”I don't need to go into those, though I thought them bad enough--until now. Now--if it were nothing worse than those things, if I could just go back to them, I 'd shoulder them all gladly, and not mind. It was property business, all of it--foreclosure of a heavy mortgage threatening Grandfather Bell's farm, loss of the little money father had got together and put into stocks that have gone to pieces--that sort of thing. It was up to me to straighten it all out--and not much to do it with. And father--he seemed not very well--had two or three queer attacks of illness at the factory during the hot weather. I felt I could n't worry him with it. He seemed to be getting old--all at once.

Finally, yesterday----”

Peter paused; then he went on in a lower voice:

”Yesterday he had another of those attacks--much worse than before. A man near him sent for me, and I sent for a doctor. The doctor brought him round, but it took some time. To-day I made him go to another doctor--a specialist. He examined father, and told me what it was.”

s.h.i.+rley, in a breathless silence, waited.

”Any over-exertion, excitement, worry--anything--may end it at any time.

If he would give up and stay quietly at home, he might last a good while. But that's what he won't do. He knows it all--took it as coolly as if it were nothing at all, but won't give up. And he won't have anybody told. Says they 'd never know another happy moment--and that's true enough. He 'll just take his chances. It's brave of him, and I can understand how he feels, but the hard thing for me is--I 've got to keep still, and stand by, and--see it come.”

With the last word Peter's voice almost broke. He turned his head away.

s.h.i.+rley got up and went to him. She laid one hand on his shoulder, standing still beside him, her heart aching with sympathy, but finding not a word to say. In all his unhappiness, Peter recognised the light touch, and putting up his cold hand grasped the warm one. He held it tight for a minute, for the sense of comrades.h.i.+p and comprehension it brought him gave him courage to go on.

s.h.i.+rley understood the warm and close relations which had always existed between Peter and his father. And she realised, with a pang, that which Peter had not mentioned, but which must add its share to the poignancy of his apprehension--the fact that with the loss of the head of the family, the burden of the support of that family must fall upon the son's shoulders. Money problems were not to be mentioned in the same breath with the threatened loss of a dear parent, but the anxiety they were bound to cause would make Peter's trouble immeasurably more serious.

When Peter spoke his voice was steady again.

”Of course I 'm facing nothing harder than other people have to face every day, in one way or another. I mean to stand up to it, like a man, if I can--it would n't be worthy of a chap with a father like mine to be bowled over by what he bears with such courage. But it seemed to me I must tell somebody, and you--something you said weeks ago, when we went riding together, made me sure you would care.”

”I do care, very, very much,” s.h.i.+rley answered. ”I 've wished ever so many times since then that I knew what was the matter. If you had told me that, it would have been easier for you to come to me with this, I think. I 'm so glad you did. I only wish--oh, how I wish--there were something I could do!”

”You can. You 're doing it now. Just knowing you know makes it easier.

If there were anything I could do myself I could bear it better.”

She slipped out of the room. In a few minutes she came back, bearing a tray, upon which was a cup of chocolate with a little mound of whipped cream on top, and beside it a plate of sandwiches. She set her tray at Peter's elbow.

”Father is so fond of this, late in the evening, that Cook keeps a double boiler ready on the back of the range, and the rest of us make use of it,” she explained. ”You may not be hungry, but it will be good for you. Tell me, did you have your supper?”

”No, I haven't been home,” he owned. ”If a fellow could eat at all, he ought to be able to eat this.”

To s.h.i.+rley's satisfaction Peter consumed every one of the six thin sandwiches, and when she suggested a second cup of chocolate, he gratefully accepted it. He had been famis.h.i.+ng, though he had not known it. The interview with the specialist had taken place before lunch time, and Peter had not remembered lunch at all.

Being human, and very weary, creature comforts did their part in strengthening him, in mind as well as body. When he had finished, and had spent another half-hour listening to s.h.i.+rley's account of news from Forrest, who was in the West Indies now, he rose, a very different young man from the one who had come in out of the rain an hour before.

When he had exchanged the velvet house-coat for the rough tweed one, now dried by the fire, he stood before her, hat in hand. He looked down into her friendly uplifted face and something very appreciative showed in his own. He could summon only the suggestion of a smile, but his eyes were less heavy, his colour had come back, and resolution was once more in his bearing.

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