Part 30 (1/2)

Philip had changed more than seemed possible in two months' time. He was brown with the sun and much more manly-looking. He even seemed to David to have grown taller in these two months.

”I have improved, haven't I? I can't say as much for you. What is the trouble, Davie?”

Philip laid his hand on his shoulder again, and brought his laughing brown face close to David's. But David drew himself away. He hated himself for the feeling of anger and envy that rose in his heart as he looked at Philip. Why should life be so easy to him? Why should the summer have pa.s.sed so differently to them? At the moment he was very miserable, tired of his trouble and of his laborious life, faithless and afraid. So he withdrew from the young man's touch, and turned away saying nothing.

”Is it as bad as that? Can't I help you? Frank seemed to think I might, though I could not make out from his letter what was the trouble or how I could help you out of it. Is it about money, Davie? Have you got into a sc.r.a.pe at last?”

”A sc.r.a.pe!” repeated David. ”No you cannot help me, I am afraid. I should be sorry to trouble you.”

”Trouble! Nonsense! I have come a fortnight sooner than I wanted to come, because of Frank's letter. He seemed to think I could put you through. What has my father to do with it? Halloo! Here is old Caldwell. Must it be kept dark, Davie?”

David made him no answer. Unconsciously he had been looking forward to the time of Philip's coming home, with hope that in some way or other light might be thrown on the matter that had darkened all the summer to him, but Philip evidently knew nothing of it, and all must be as before.

If he could have got away without being questioned, he would have gone, for he was by no means sure that he might not disgrace himself by breaking into angry words, or even into tears. He certainly must have done one or other if he had tried to speak, but he did not need to answer.

”So you have come home!” said Mr Caldwell, as he came forward. ”You have not been in haste.”

”I beg your pardon. I _have_ been in haste. I did not intend to come home for ten days yet, if I had been allowed to have my own way about it.”

”And what hindered you? Matters of importance, doubtless.”

”You may be sure of that. Has my father gone home? I will just see him a minute, and then I'll go home with you, Davie,” said Philip, turning towards his father's door. ”David has important business with me,”

added he, looking over his shoulder with his hand on the door-handle.

David shook his head.

”Your father will tell you all about it,” said he, hoa.r.s.ely.

Philip whistled and came back again.

”That is the way, is it?”

”Or I will tell you,” said Mr Caldwell, gravely. ”Young man, what did your brother Frank say to you in the letter he wrote to you a while ago?”

Philip looked at him in surprise.

”What is that to you, sir? He said--I don't very well know what he said. It was a mysterious epistle altogether, and so blurred and blotted that I could hardly read it. But I made out that Davie was in trouble, and that I was expected home to bring him through.”

Searching through his many pockets, he at last found his brother's letter and held it out to David. ”Perhaps you can make it out,” said he.

Blurred and blotted it was, and the lines were crooked, and in some places they ran into each other, and David did not wonder that Philip could not read it very well. He saw his own name in it and Violet's, and he knew of course that what Frank had to say was about the lost money, but he could see also that the story was only hinted at, and the letter was altogether so vague and indefinite, that it might well seem mysterious to Philip.

”Can you make it out?” Philip asked.

”I know what he means, though perhaps I should not have found it out from this. Your father will tell you, or Mr Caldwell.”

”All right! Fire away, and the sooner the better, for I am tired. If I can help you out of the sc.r.a.pe, I will.”

”That is to be seen yet,” said Mr Caldwell.

Then he told the story of the lost money, using as few words as possible, as was his way. He only told the facts of the case, how the money had been brought to Mr Oswald and its receipt acknowledged by him, and how a part of it had never been found or accounted for, and how Mr Oswald had first suspected, and then openly accused David Inglis of having taken it. He did not express any opinion as to whether Mr Oswald was right or wrong, nor offer any suggestion as to what might have become of the missing money, and one might not have thought from his way of telling it, that he was particularly interested in the matter. But he never removed his eyes from Mr Philip's face, and his last words were--