Part 14 (1/2)

”Of course I--I never knew--I never thought--Of course, somebody must--Oh, do forgive me, Mr. Hayes!”

Harry raised his brows in humorous astonishment. ”All this is a secret to me.”

”I--I told Mr. Hayes I didn't like--well--places where they sold meat--raw meat, Harry.”

”What do you think really, Harry?” Andy asked.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. ”Your choice, old man,” he said. ”You've looked at all sides of it, of course. It's getting latish, Vivien.”

Andy would almost rather have had the verdict which he feared. ”Your choice, old man”--and a shrug of the shoulders. Yet his loyalty intervened to tell him that Harry was right. It was his choice, and must be. He found Vivien's eyes on him--those distant, considering eyes.

”I suppose you couldn't give me an opinion, Miss Wellgood?” he asked, mustering a smile with some difficulty.

Vivien's lips drooped; her eyes grew rather sad and distinctly remote.

She gave no judgment; she merely uttered a regret--a regret in which social and personal prejudice (it could not be acquitted of that) struggled with kindliness for Andy.

”Oh, I thought you were going to be a friend of ours,” she murmured sadly. She gave Andy a mournful little nod of farewell--of final farewell, as it seemed to his agitated mind--and walked off with Harry, who was still looking decidedly amused.

That our great crises can have an amusing side even in the eyes of those who wish us well is one of life's painful discoveries. Andy had expected to be told that he must accept Jack Rock's offer, but he had not thought that Harry would chaff him about it. He tried, in justice to Harry and in anxiety not to feel sore with his hero, to see the humorous side for himself. He admitted that he could not. A butcher was no more ridiculous than any other tradesman. Well, the comic papers were rather fond of putting in butchers, for some inscrutable reason. Perhaps Harry happened to think of some funny picture. Could that idea give Andy a rag of comfort to wrap about his wound? The comfort was of indifferent quality; the dressing made the wound smart.

He was alone in the road again, gay Harry and dainty Vivien gone, thinking little of him by now, no doubt. Yes, the choice must be his own. On one side lay safety for him and joy for old Jack; on the other a sore blow to Jack, and for himself the risk of looking a sad fool if he came to grief in London. So far the choice appeared easy.

But that statement of the case left out everything that really tugged at Andy's heart. For the first time in his existence he was, vaguely and dimly, trying to conceive and to consider his life as a whole, and asking what he meant to do with it. Acutest self-reproach a.s.sailed him; he accused himself inwardly of many faults and follies--of ingrat.i.tude, of sn.o.bbishness, of a ridiculous self-conceit. Wasn't it enough for a chap like him to earn a good living honestly? Oughtn't he to be thankful for the chance? What did he expect anyhow? He was very scornful with himself, fiercely reproving all the new stirrings in him, yet at the same time trying to see what they came to; trying to make out what they, in their turn, asked, what they meant, what would content them. He could not satisfy himself what the stirrings meant nor whence they came. When he asked what would content them he could get only a negative answer; keeping the shop in Meriton would not. In regard neither to what it entailed nor to what it abandoned could the stirrings find contentment in that.

He had been walking along slowly and moodily. Suddenly he quickened his pace; his steps became purposeful. He was going to Jack Rock's. Jack would be just having his tea, or smoking the pipe that always followed it.

Jack sat in his armchair. Tea was finished, and his pipe already alight.

When he saw Andy's face he chuckled.

”Ah, that's how I like to see you look, lad!” he exclaimed joyfully.

”Not as you did when you went away last night.”

”Why, how do I look?” asked Andy, amazed at this greeting.

”As if you'd just picked up a thousand pound; and so you have, and better than that.”

All unknown to himself, Andy's face had answered to his feelings--to the sense of escape from bondage, of liberty restored, of possibilities once more within his reach. The renewed lightness of his heart had made his face happy and triumphant. But it fell with a vengeance now.

”Well?” asked Jack, to whom the change of expression was bewildering.

”I'm sorry--I've never been so sorry in my life--but I--I can't do it, Jack.”

Jack sat smoking silently for a while. ”That was what you were lookin'

so happy about, was it?” he asked at last, with a wry smile. ”I've never afore seen a man so happy over chuckin' away five hundred a year. Where does the fun come in, Andy?”

”O lord, Jack, I can't--I can't tell you about it. I--”

”But if it does do you all that good, I suppose you've got to do it.”

Andy came up to him, holding out his hand. Jack took it and gave it a squeeze.