THERE was only one of the party at Hildick who noticed any change in Dr. Forester, and that one was Doris Somerville; perhaps it was because she watched him most. His look of utter despondency when she first saw him had affected her strangely; she was sure he had had some great sorrow, but what it was she did not know. She was also convinced, as she saw more of him, that this was not all, but that he was restless at heart, trying to forget a painful past, and having nothing to lean on in the present or to hope for in the future. The two lines he had quoted, and had applied to himself, had shown her that. She knew that he was right when he said that they described him. His soul did not know what happiness —true happiness—was.
But, as the days went by, Doris noticed that all this seemed to be changed. It was not because he was merry and full of jokes, for he had always been that; but in his quieter moments, at those times when, as they were sitting on the shore, the cheerful talk had ceased for a time, she noticed a look of rest and peace and contentment on his face which had not been there before. It seemed to tell her that now the last two lines were true of him as they were of Jack, that he now had One to guide his way who could alone give true heart content.
Doris saw a great deal of Dr. Forester at this time, so she had plenty of opportunities of watching his face and of drawing her own conclusions. She was not only very musical, but she delighted in painting. She had had good lessons at school, and had since attended a School of Art, and had done a good deal of outdoor work. She was anxious to carry away with her from Hildick some picture which would always remind her of the most pleasant holiday she had ever spent.
She set out alone one morning to choose the spot from which she might make her sketch, and after wandering about for some time she fixed upon an opening in the rocks almost underneath the head of the promontory. There she would be able to get the trees above, the masses of rock in all shades of yellow, orange, and red beneath, and then, as a foreground, the sea, with a fringe of white foam on the pebbly shore. This view charmed her immensely. If only she could reproduce it, however feebly and imperfectly, it would be a joy to her for ever.
So she sat down with her sketchbook, and was soon working away at her picture, far removed from the merry party on the shore, and yet so much interested in her work that she did not miss them.
The others were sitting on their favorite rocks just underneath the old church. Joyce was throwing sticks into the water and coaxing her dogs to jump in and bring them back. Don and the Sinclair boys had set up an old tin and were pegging stones at it, Forester was lying on the sand the very picture of idleness.
‘Come along,’ cried Don presently; ‘we’re going to play hockey on the sand; we’ve brought the sticks down.’
Mab and Dolly jumped up at once to join the game.
‘Come along, you lazy fellows,’ Dolly said to Jack and Forester.
‘Where’s Miss Somerville?’ asked Forester. ‘Why don’t you get her to play?’
‘Oh, Doris! She’s off somewhere to paint.’
‘Where has she gone?’
‘Oh, I don’t know — somewhere along the shore. Come on, you two!’
Jack jumped up and followed them, but the doctor declared he was far too tired for hockey, and they were all soon out of sight. How was it then that, in spite of being tired, he jumped up the moment they had disappeared round the corner, and immediately began to walk swiftly along the shore in the opposite direction? Was he looking for anything, or for anybody? Whether he were or not, certain it is that he found Doris seated on a rock and intent upon her picture.
‘You here, Miss Somerville!’ he said when he came up to her, as though she was the very last person that he expected to see.
Of course, having come upon her in this unexpected manner, it would not have been polite to pass swiftly on without looking at her picture and making a few remarks about it, and, upon this, the feeling of weariness apparently returned, and he found it necessary to sit down upon the rock and watch her as she painted.
Whether he helped or hindered the picture it would be hard to say, but he certainly made the time pass so pleasantly that Doris would hardly believe him when he took out his watch and told her that it was nearly one o’clock. They had talked on almost every subject under the sun, and had learnt more about each other in those two hours than many people do in as many years.
It was after this pleasant morning on the rocks that the doctor made a very curious discovery. He found that the shortest way from his tent to the rocks by the church was to go to the end of the promontory, climb down the steep cliffs, and then work backwards along the rocky shore.
Val and Billy strongly contested this discovery, and maintained that the road which led past the Castle would take him to the shore in less than half the time, and they told him that, if he came the old way, he would also have the pleasure of their delightful company all the way down. But Forester most obstinately stuck to his own opinion, although the new way he had found sometimes took him so long that he did not arrive at the general rendezvous until it was almost time to return home for dinner, and then he appeared in company with Doris, and carrying her camp stool and sketchbook. Many were the jeering remarks from the boys when he arrived, watches were brought out, and an exact calculation made of the precise length of time that this short cut had taken him; and he was also asked to explain how it was that, at 7 a.m., when he went to bathe, he always found the road by the Castle the shorter one, whilst later in the morning he carefully avoided taking it because of its length.
The doctor bore their teasing very good-humoredly; perhaps he thought that the pleasant mornings on the shore well repaid him for it all. They had that quiet part of the beach almost to themselves. Sometimes Maxie appeared on his way to his lobster pots, and greeted Forester with a broad grin of pleasure and a friendly nod, but they seldom saw anyone else.
One day, however, they spied a man coming round the point, and picking his way over the seaweed-covered rocks.
‘I do believe it’s that antiquarian,’ said Doris.
‘I am so glad you’re here. I can’t bear that man.’
It was Clegg, and the next moment he caught sight of them and came up to them.
‘Good morning, doctor,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen you for a long time—not since we had that pleasant meal together in old Norris’ kitchen.’
But as soon as the man spoke Forester knew that he lied. That was not the last time they had met. He had spoken to this man last at the door of the cottage by the sea. His was the voice he had heard when in the middle of the night he had opened the door and looked forth into the darkness. He knew it, and he was persuaded that Clegg knew it also. He had distrusted the man before; now he felt convinced that his unfavorable opinion of him was absolutely correct.
What the antiquarian wanted at that cottage, for what purpose he took that midnight walk on such a night of storm, Forester was not prepared to state; but that his object was one which would not bear investigation he felt thoroughly certain. Did Clegg suspect that he had recognized him? Or did he hope that he had been able to throw him off the scent? Forester could not tell.
Whatever his feelings were, the man had the impudence to endeavor to continue the conversation, and even to lean over Doris whilst he passed remarks on her picture.
‘Pretty view that, miss! And very well done too. I’m a bit of an artist myself, so I know a good picture when I see one.’
Doris made no reply, but began hastily to put up her drawing materials. The doctor looked at his watch, and, taking no notice of the unpleasant intruder, said: ‘Miss Somerville, we ought to be going now.’ And then, without even wishing him good morning, they walked on together in the direction of the church.
Clegg stood still, looking after them till they were out of sight. Then he shook his fist in the direction in which they had gone, and muttered words which had better not be inserted here.
The next event of importance was another birthday—that of little Joyce Sinclair.
‘I’m going to be eight tomorrow,’ she announced to Forester; ‘and we’re going to have a picnic, and everybody is coming to it, and you’re coming too.’
The invitation, given in this curious fashion, was gladly accepted by the doctor, and he looked forward to it with very pleasant anticipation.
The place chosen was a small bay lying about four miles nearer to Llantrug, and close to which was another ancient castle even more in ruins than that of Hildick, but which formed a very picturesque object on the hillside, standing as it did in the midst of a grassy valley running down to the sea.
They decided to go early in the morning whilst the tide was low, so that they might be able to walk across the firm sand, and thus, skirting Hildick Bay, and passing the point beyond, they would reach the sheltered cove, which was to be found at the entrance to the green valley in which Minton Castle stood. Maxie’s donkey and cart were requisitioned to carry their provisions, and it was settled that the large party should start not later than nine o’clock.
Long before that hour, however, the doctor was up, and was walking across the moorland, and away from the Castle and the place of rendezvous. Why was he so anxious to add to his walk by taking exercise so early in the morning? And why did he stoop from time to time to look under the furze bushes? What did he expect to find? Whatever it may have been, he seemed to have discovered it after a time, for he returned to his tent, found his kettle boiling, and after a hasty breakfast hurried down to the Castle.
Joyce ran to meet him, full of excitement, her two dogs bounding after her.
‘Come and look at my presents,’ she said, as she dragged him into the Castle. ‘I never had such lovely ones before.’
They were all set out on a little table in the window, and he duly admired them one by one.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘you haven’t got my present; can you guess what it is?’
‘Yes, I know,’ said the child; ‘it’s that sweet little bit of white heather in your button hole!’
‘No, it isn’t that. Feel in my pockets and see if you can find anything.’
She found a large box of chocolates which Forester had sent for by the ‘bus the day before, and she ran off to exhibit it to her mother.
‘What sharp eyes that little puss has,’ said Forester to himself.
The day was one of those rarely fine days in this country in which we have actually no fear of rain, and when we do not dream of taking waterproofs or umbrellas, even as a precautionary measure,
Everyone was in high spirits, and a merrier party probably never crossed the sands of Hildick Bay. The only one who seemed a little less lively than usual was Jack. As Forester watched him he appeared to him at times to be lost in thought. It was not that he was depressed or unhappy, but his thoughts seemed to be far away, and sometimes he did not appear even to hear the lively conversation going on around him.
About half way to Minton Bay a stream came running down towards the sea, and they had to take off their shoes and stockings, and to wade across. On the other side the party became somewhat broken up. Joyce had driven across the stream in the donkey cart, and continued to drive on the other side as the walk was rather a long one for her. She very much resented old Maxie’s walking by the donkey’s head.
‘He thinks I can’t drive,’ she whispered to Forester.
He walked beside her for a little way, and then looked round to see what had become of Doris. She and Jack had lingered behind, and he noticed that Jack had slipped his arm through hers, and that they were evidently in earnest conversation. Not liking to interrupt their talk, Forester ran on ahead, and soon overtook the rest of the party.
They had chosen a place for dinner, laid the cloth, unpacked the baskets, gathered sticks for a fire, and had in various ways taken possession of the shore for the day, before Jack and Doris appeared. Everyone was very hungry after the walk, and did full justice to the farmhouse fare which Mrs. Norris had packed up for them. Forester sat on a rock between Mab and Dolly, and they laughed so much all the time that Joyce told them that if they were not quiet she should turn them out of her birthday party.
When dinner was over everyone helped to pack up and to clear away. Old Maxie, who had been eating sandwiches by the dozen behind a rock close by, undertook to light the fire, and to have the kettle boiling in time for tea. The girls had found a brook on the hillside, where they were washing the cups and mugs which had been used for lemonade, that they might be ready for the next meal. Forester followed them there, and leaning over Doris said:
‘Miss Somerville, shall we go and see Minton Castle? It’s only a mile away.’
‘Thank you,’ said Doris, blushing; ‘Jack has asked me to go with him.’
She did not even say, ‘Will you come too?’
So Forester could only answer, ‘Oh, all right!’ and he hurried away to help old Maxie to make up the fire.
Then the older members of the party brought out books and newspapers and prepared for a quiet afternoon, whilst the younger ones hurried away to explore the Castle.
As they were walking there the doctor asked Dick how the ghost was going on, and he told him that he had not heard it for several nights; he thought it was getting tired of going up and down stairs.
‘However,’ said he, ‘I’ll catch it yet; just you see if I don’t!’
‘And find it to be the old mare kicking her heels in the stable,’ said Val.
‘A regular mare’s nest, that,’ said Don.
‘Wait a bit,’ answered Dick. ‘Don’t you fellows laugh till I’ve given you something to laugh about, I’m on the scent, I tell you.’
‘Tell us what the scent is,’ said Forester.
But Dick only laughed, and told them he was not going to let them into all his secrets.
‘My idea is that Clegg and his friend are up to something at the Castle,’ suggested Forester; ‘else why are they always prowling about there? Antiquarian or no antiquarian, one comes to the end of exploring any old ruin after a time.’
But Dick would not reveal what his suspicions were, and kept repeating that they would see presently.
By this time they had reached the Castle, which they found far less interesting than the one at Hildick. They raced all over it, looked into every cranny and corner of the ruins, but nowhere could they see Jack and Doris. They had noticed them in front of them walking in the direction of the Castle, but no one had seen them since, and now they seemed to have utterly disappeared from sight.
‘What are those two after?’ said Val. ‘They seem very keen on each other’s company today.’
‘I think they always are,’ said Don. ‘Jack and Doris have been chums ever since they were in petticoats. We have got a photo of them at home; you should see it—two little babies sitting side by side in a pram, with their arms round each other, and looking at each other with the most sentimental grin.’
‘Who took it?’
‘Uncle Dick—he used to photograph every holiday time. He hasn’t taken a single one this year; getting too old, he says. I do wish we had it here. There they are, those two, smirking at each other like two little idiots! We call it “The Young Lovers.”’
‘Is that what they’re after this afternoon?’ asked Val.
‘I shouldn’t wonder. I don’t mind if it is. She’s a jolly girl is Doris—always the same, you know, and she’s just the one for Jack. He always tells her about his work and that sort of thing, and she knows how to look after old women and sick people, and all the rest of it.’
‘I think Jack’s just splendid!’ said Billy.
‘So he is, “though I says it as shouldn’t,” as Jack’s old landlady would say. He’s a regular brick in the pulpit and out of it. But he’s not a bit too good for Doris, I’ll say that!’
‘She seems pretty fond of him too,’ said Val.
‘I should just think she is,’ replied Don. ‘If you want Jack’s praises sung, go to Doris. She’ll let you have them right enough. I run him down sometimes, just to fetch her, and don’t I catch it finely!’
Forester never spoke a word, but he was listening, most attentively to the whole of this conversation; not a single word of it was lost upon him. How blind he had been not to have noticed this before! Everyone else had seen it, and of course they were right in the conclusions they had drawn. Of course that would be the trend of events. He ought to have known it all along. Could anything be more natural? They were exactly suited to each other in every way. How foolish he had been! He had fancied that Doris liked to be with him, and that she had enjoyed those quiet mornings on the shore as much as he had done; but now he felt that all the time she must have thought him a terrible bore, and must have been longing for Jack to come and take his place. If there was one thing that the doctor held in abhorrence more than another, it was going anywhere where he was not wanted. His acutely sensitive nature recoiled from it as from an adder; and the feeling that he had been guilty of committing an act so utterly foreign to his nature was as wormwood and gall to him.
Jack and Doris did not appear until teatime, and then gave a very lame account of their proceedings.
Oh yes, they went to the Castle; but there was not much to see there after all, and so they went on the hill beyond, and lost their way in the wood.
Val winked at Don. ‘What a pity you found it again,’ he said. ‘We might have had no end of fun looking for you; and might have found you covered with leaves, like the babes in the wood.’
Doris laughed, such a merry, lighthearted laugh, Forester thought, as she told them that she and Jack had had a very pleasant afternoon in spite of being lost.
Tea was a welcome meal, and everyone did full justice to it, and to the large birthday cake, covered with icing and sugar plums, with a broad inner stratum of almond paste, and which bore the motto in pink sugar on the top of it—Many happy returns of the day.
Then came the walk home along the shore, during which no one appeared to be in better spirits than the doctor. He never flagged the whole way, and there seemed to be no end to his jokes, his amusing stories, and his power of repartee.
It was not until he had said goodnight to them all, and had pinned his bit of white heather into Joyce’s dress as he gave her a kiss, and had told her to be sure to ask him to her birthday party next year, for it was the nicest he had ever been to in his life; it was not until he had left the Castle behind, and found himself out on the lonely moorland, with only the quiet stars shining above him, those stars which watch us with their bright eyes, but which have no tongues to tell what they see; it was not until then that the doctor dared to pause and to look into his own heart.
During the last few weeks he had simply enjoyed himself, from day to day, in a way in which he had never done before. He had delighted in Doris’ society; he had interested himself in finding out what were her thoughts and ideas on various subjects; he had contrasted her with someone else whom he had known, and had marveled at the difference—and thus he had gone on from day to day in a kind of happy dream, never asking himself to what all this was leading him, never stopping to call his feelings by the right name, never looking into the future at all; but just enjoying to the full the happy present in which he was living.
But since he had left his tent that morning his eyes had been opened, and as he threw himself down on the heather that warm, still August night he had no difficulty in reading his own heart. He loved her—oh, how he loved her! He had thought once that he knew what love was; but now he discovered that he had never really loved before. The feeling, which he had called love in the past, seemed to him tonight to be a sentiment so utterly wanting in intensity, life, or warmth that, when contrasted with what he now experienced, it was like ice compared with the red-hot glow of a fire. He had had a certain amount of affection, admiration for a pretty face and charming manner, a great sense of the fitness of things, and a longing to escape from the solitude of bachelor life, and to settle down to the quiet home life which was his idea of bliss. He had had all this, and he had thought that the kind of love he had read about in story books was not a reality. He had imagined that his ideal (for he had an ideal) did not exist, that she was not to be found in this faulty world, and that therefore he must be content with the nearest approach to that ideal that he could discover.
But he had never known what real love was, never! He knew tonight. Yes, he had found his ideal; she was all of which he had ever dreamt; she was more than he had ever pictured to himself. Yes, he had found her, but she was not for him. She was Jack’s ideal too. Jack loved her, and had probably loved her long, long before he came on the scenes; dear old Jack, so thoroughly worthy of her—such a contrast to himself. Jack, who was always the same, utterly free from the moods to which he knew that he himself was liable—Jack, so good, so manly, so true.
Surely he would not even wish to stand in Jack’s way, after all Jack had done for him, even if it had been possible for him to do so. Dear old Jack, he deserved her, and he was the very one to make her happy. Who was he that he should complain? He would wish them Godspeed in the bright future that lay before them. He would rejoice in their joy, even though it meant his own loss.
But not tonight, no; just for tonight he must think of himself, and of the sorrow that had come upon him. He had not cried since he was a boy, he had not shed a single tear on that day, not long ago, when he discovered how he had been deceived. He had, been angry then—disappointed, annoyed, depressed; but he had never cried. Yet now the hot, scalding tears would come, in spite of all his efforts to keep them back.
There was no sleep for Norman Forester that night. He was a man of very strong feelings, and his whole nature was stirred. He did not even attempt to go to bed; he paced about the moorland; he even climbed down to the rocks, and sat for the last time on the spot where they had sat so often together.
Jack would see that picture finished, not he—he must get back to London. Work was the best thing for him now. When he was busy with his patients, or going round the wards in the hospital, and doing what he could to lessen pain, to cure disease, and to bring comfort and help to others, he would feel braver and better.
Yes, he would get back at once; he would write to Mrs. Timmis tomorrow. His old housekeeper was having a holiday in the country, but he would tell her to return at once, and to have all in readiness for him. This was Thursday—at least, yesterday was—it was early morning now. He would write today, Friday; she would get it on Saturday, but not in time to get back that day, for she was in an out-of-the-world place. She would not be able to get off until Monday morning; but he could catch the night train, and be back in his rooms early on Tuesday morning. That would give him time to get his tent down, and to pack it up. He settled it all deliberately, and to the smallest detail, even to the wording of his letter to Mrs. Timmis; anything to occupy his thoughts, and to steady him sufficiently to get through the next three days.
‘ But with my God to guide my way
‘Tis equal joy to go or stay.’
What made those two lines flash into his mind just as he returned to his tent? They seemed to bring a strange untold comfort with them. He was going away on Monday, but he would not go alone. His Guide would go before him, and go with him. And in his busy life, in his toilsome duties, in his weary, constant fight with disease and death, in the quiet hours of his solitary life, he would never again be alone; his Guide would be there. And even though the greatest of earthly joys could never be his, yet he would not be desolate; he would never be deserted, for his Guide would be with him even unto the end.