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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
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JUST back from the war after four years on active service, David Landale walked slowly up the wide, tree- lined street, very silent and somnolent in the warm October afternoon. In spite of his long absence he seemed in no hurry to get home, for when at length he reached the gate of his father's house he paused before opening it and then entered slowly and reluctantly as though he dreaded what lay before him.
His thin, worn face softened a little as he looked at the old garden, radiant with roses, the fountain with the statue of Diana in the centre of the lawn, and the groves of chestnut and orange trees in full bloom, the scent, of the orange blossom almost overpoweringly sweet in the blaze of the hot sun at the side of the house, where the grass grew thick and long, was an old gum tree with a rustic seat beneath it. He had built this long ago for his mother; it had been his first essay in carpentering, and she had been absurdly proud of it, and so, privately, had he.
As David remembered her, his eyes darkened. Well, she was dead, thank God! What horrible things life could bring to one! He had never thought the day would come when he would be thankful for his mother's death.
The house seemed very silent, but the long French windows were open, and looking through David saw his father sitting in his study. The old mans grey head bent over his writing, and his hand moved, very slowly, over the paper.
For a moment or two, as David watched him unseen, he was conscious of a little stab of pain at his heart. For the first time he realised that his father was an old man.
Noiselessly he stepped through the open window and stood in the quiet room. Still the old man did not hear him, but as though something troubled him, he sighed heavily.
That sigh went to David's heart.
"Father," he said in a muffled voice, "I've come back, you see."
At that the old man looked up. His faced, lined and haggard, was quite impassive, but the hand that held the pen trembled a little. That was the only sign of emotion he gave. He might have been greeting his son after an absence of a few hours instead of one lasting over four years.
"Father!" David's voice faltered into silence; there was a mist before his eyes. Though he had not expected, a tumultuous welcome, this could silence almost overwhelmed him.
"You've not forgiven me, then?" he asked at last, when he had in some measure recovered his composure.
"Forgiven you?" The old man's firm mouth set in hard lines. "Have you come to say you repent?"
"No." The two faces, alike in every feature, were now both set and obstinate.
"Very well." The old man leant back in his chair, as though dismissing the matter from his mind. "Till you say that I cannot forgive you."
David came forward to the table. His grey eyes, honest and unflinching, met those of his father in a direct challenge.
"My four years out there meant nothing to you, then?" he asked.
"They did. For four years I have been afraid that you would go to meet your God with your sin unconfessed and unforgiven."
David smiled a little. His father's attitude struck him as strange and archaic, yet he respected him for it.
"I suppose," he said in an impersonal voice, as though he were speaking of something that was no concern of his, "that some people would call you hard." He paused and seemed to be following out a train of thought. "I always said you were just, you know," he added, "yet you weren't really just to me. You had no proof that it was I who took the money."
"Boy," said he old man harshly, "don't try to lie to me. Proof? What proof did I need? There was only you or John could have taken it, and you were reckless and extravagant. You did not deny it when I charged you with it. Are you now trying to throw suspicion on John?"
David flushed darkly. "No," he answered shortly. There was a silence, then he asked with an evident effort, "John. How is he?"
His father did not answer at once. He seemed troubled at the question. "He looks older," he said at last. "There has been a great change in John. I have sometimes thought," he went on, "that he felt your disgrace more than you did yourself." David bit his lip and lowered his eyes so that his father might not see their contemptuous expression. "He has persuaded me," the old man continued, "to trust you again."
"Trust me?" repented David, not fully understanding'.
"Yes," replied his father. "I am going to trust you. I am going to reinstate you in your old position."
All the hatred and bitterness which David had felt against his brother during those four years were as no thing to the flame of bitter anger that sprang up in his heart as he heard that he owed his father's trust to his brother's influence. The violence of his anger was so great that he was afraid to speak lest, he should over whelm his father with the truth. He had kept silence, for John, but he was going to accept no favours from him. John could not pay his debt that way.
As though she had been sent to ease the situation and save it from becoming tragic, a girl drifted into the room. She came by way of the window and carried a bunch of roses in her hand. A slim slip of a girl she was, with dark blue eyes, set in a pale face, and a wide, irregular mouth. David, staring at her, and wondering who she was, thought he had never seen anyone who gave the impression beauty without being in the least beautiful.
"Why, who are you?" then answering. "But I think I know."
Having won David's heart with her smile, she turned to the old man who had risen at her entrance.
"Pauline," he said, and there seemed a slight trace of embarrassment in his manner, "This is my son, David. David," he continued, frowning a little, "this is Pauline, John's wife."
"John's wife," repeated David. He felt as though he had been struck. When he had seen her, so friendly, so sweet, smiling at him from the window, he had a sudden wild hope, but—John's wife!
Pauline seemed unaware of any thing strange in his manner. She was smiling with pleasure as she held out her hand. "So you are my new brother," she said. "Welcome home;" she paused and then added, rather shyly and uncertainly, "David."
"Thank you." He took her hand in his smiled into her eves, responding at once to her friendliness. "You are the first to welcome me home, you know."
"The first?" She looked from David to his father, but did not ask his meaning. With quick intuition she saw that something was wrong; indeed, she felt it as soon as she entered the room. David, noticing her expression, saw that she was ignorant of the cloud that hung over him. Well, that was something to thank them for, anyway. He would not have liked this girl to think him a thief.
"I wanted to decorate the house when I heard you were coming home," Pauline went on after an imperceptible pause; "but they told me you would hate it."
"Who told you?"
"Your father and John."
"John. Ah, yes—"
In spite of himself he could not help his voice hardening as he spoke that name. She felt the change, and looked at him with a little puzzled frown. At his table the old man watched them both, and he, too, frowned as he looked at David.
Suddenly there was the sound of a footstep on the gravel path outside. Pauline's face brightened and she ran to the window.
"Here he is at last," she exclaimed. "He said he would be home to welcome you. Oh, why doesn't he hurry? John," she called, "hurry up, do hurry up, David is here."
David felt a moment's repulsion as John entered the room with Pauline at his side. Then, for her sake, he took the initiative, and went forward to greet his brother. John took his outstretched hand mumbled some words of welcome, but he could not meet his brother's eye, and his face was flushed with shame. To any prejudiced person he condemned himself a dozen times as he stood by David's side, silent and unhappy. For the first, time David found it in his heart to be sorry for him. He saw that John, too, had suffered. As Pauline watched the two brothers the delight died out of her face. She looked paler than before, and her eyes were wide and unhappy.
Yet in the days that followed Pauline seemed quite unconscious that there was anything wrong. For her sake the three of them played their parts as well as they could, but there was something unnatural in the strained courtesy with which the two brothers treated each other, and the old man's aloof sternness was accentuated when he spoke to David. David had had no private conversation with John; they had only spoken together on the most indifferent subjects, but he had agreed to return to his father's office, when John, at his father's request, had asked him. In the mean time, it was taken for granted that he should have a rest before starting work.
During those first days Pauline was a gay, happy companion to David. He asked for nothing better than to sit in the garden, lazily content, watching her at her sewing, or else helping in the garden, digging, planting, just as she directed. Her solicitude for his welfare expressed itself in a thousand ways. She seemed to hover about him, passionately eager to make him happy. Yet, sometimes he fancied that she seemed uneasy and troubled, and once, looking up suddenly from the book he was reading, he caught her eyes fixed on him with a strange, intent expression.
"Are you happy, David?" she asked.
"Yes, quite happy," he answered, as indeed he was. He seemed wrapt in a strange peace.
"I am glad you are happy—now," she said; and he wondered vaguely what she meant.
ONE very hot afternoon he was lying on the grass under the gum tree, idly turning over the leaves of a hook of verse. Pauline had been shut up in her room all day, and David had missed her horribly. When he had inquired for her she had sent down message to say that she had a headache, but would see him in the afternoon. He was morosely chewing a blade of grass, and trying to fix his mind on the verses, when he heard the front door slam and the next moment. Pauline came into the garden. He noticed that she was walking very slowly, but that no doubt was on account of the heat. She came closer and he gave a low exclamation of surprise and sprang to his feet.
"What—what is the matter?" he asked.
She looked at him with the tortured expression he had sometimes seen in the eyes of men who had been exposed too long to the shock of shellfire.
"David," she whispered. "I—I," Her voice faltered and her hands went to her throat in a fluttering gesture of pain. "I must tell you. Ever since you came I have been unhappy. I know there was something wrong in there," she nodded towards the house. "I asked John—often—what it meant. Last night he told me."
David was silent. So they had told her after all. She thought him a thief.
"You know I am a thief," he said, at last. He spoke almost indifferently. He could not help thinking: how strange it was that he seemed to have no feeling at all.
"John told me," she repeated, "but I know you are not a thief."
"I am suspected."
"Suspected?" She smiled wearily, then turned her head so that he could not see her face. "I know who did it," she said in a low voice.
This was something that David had not been prepared for. He cursed his brother for being such a fool as to tell her. It did not matter what she thought of him, but she loved John. Ha ought to have spared her.
"He did not tell me," she said, as though reading: his mind, "but I know."
So he had been mistaken and John had not confessed. Then it was not too late to save her.
"It was I who took the money," he said, harshly. "My father knows it, and John knows it."
She shook her head, weeping softly. "No, it was John," she whispered. "Oh, I know it, I know it. That is why he looked so—so guilty that first day. I could not understand it then; now I know."
If ever David prayed for strength in his life he prayed for it now. That the gay, happy Pauline should suffer through him was abominable. If only ho had been killed out there where so many hotter man than he had paid the last price? If only he had known that John was married he would never have come home at all.
"Pauline," he said, putting all the earnestness he was capable of into his voice, "you are making a hideous mistake. It was I who took the money. I—I deliberately robbed my father. I have no excuse to make. He was always generous to me, but I had debts, and I was desperate for money, so I took it."
For a moment his voice seemed to carry conviction to Pauline. She lift ed her eyes and looked at him. A sudden hope lit up her face, then it died away, and she shook her head.
"You lie like a gentleman, David," she said wearily, "but it is no use. You can't hide it from me." Her voice suddenly changed and she looked at him with passionate eagerness. "Oh, tell me the truth, David; tell me the truth. Nothing matters but that—"
"I have told you the truth," he answered. "It was I who took the money."
She gave a little cry and turned away from him, hiding her face against the trunk of the tree, while David looked on helpless to comfort her. It was so that John, coming quietly over the lawn, found them. He took no notice of his brother, but touched Pauline gently on the shoulder.
"Pauline," he said, speaking like a man in a dream, "I have something to say to you."
At the sound of his voice she turn ed quickly. Eagerly she searched his face, and David wondered why her eyes should shine so brightly, and why her lips quivered in a little smile.
"Yes, John," was all she said, however.
"Last night," he went on, "I told you what David was charged with. You did not ask me whether I thought he was guilty or not. You said nothing, and I was content to leave the matter there. Now," his voice changed and faltered a little, "I have come to tell you the truth. It was I who took that money."
David stepped forward quickly. "No," he said hoarsely, but Pauline waved him aside.
"Yes, John," she said softly, and touched his hand gently. "Tell me how it happened."
He looked at her dully. As yet he had not realised her tenderness. "I know this will be the end between us," he went on. "I know how you hate a lie, but I cannot go on any longer. For four years I have not had a happy moment—no, not even when I held you in my arms." Again Pauline touched his hand, gently and tenderly, as though she would help him if she could.
"We used to be friends once, David and I. He was a bit extravagant in those days; chucked money about rather; but that was nothing—nothing. But I gambled in secret. I couldn't keep away from it, although I lost all the time. At last I got into such a mess that I had to have money. I was afraid to ask any father, so I took it and altered the books. David had charge of them, and my father blamed him for it. I just left it at that. I have never spoken of the matter to David. I didn't even know whether he knew I had taken the money, but I guessed he did."
"Is that all, John?" asked Pauline softly.
"Yes," he answered, "except that now I must tell my father the truth."
He turned to go, but David stopped him. "John," he said, "you must not tell him. It doesn't matter about me, because he has got used to the thought of it now. Let the matter rest as it is. You have done enough. Persuade him, Pauline."
Pauline shook her head and John looked at him with sombre eyes. "I've got to tell him," he repeated. "After that I can ask you to forgive me, if you can."
David's heart melted within. All the bitterness and hatred was gone as though it had never been. All the old love for his brother came back.
"John," he pleaded, "don't tell him. He loves you best; don't break his heart."
John shook his head. "I've got to tell him," he insisted. "It is better for him to know the truth."
"But—"
John had turned and was walking towards the house. In silence Pauline and David followed him. David saw that it was useless to try to dissuade him.
The study window was open and they entered. The old man was sitting at the writing-table, his head was leaning on his arm. There seemed to be a great silence in the room.
"He is sleeping," said Pauline softly.
John walked quickly across the room and laid his hand on his father's shoulder. Then he bent closer and listened for a moment.
"No, he is not sleeping," he said at last, lifting a haggard face; "he is dead."
"Dead!" sobbed Pauline, and, running forward, fell on her knees be side the silent figure.
David, too, bent over his father. "Yes, he is dead," he said, and looked at his brother.
"It was his heart," said John dully. "The doctor told me it was weak and that it might go at any time. I—should have remembered that." He paused and a look of deep despair crossed his face. "Now it is too late. I left it too long. He will never know the truth."
"John," said David quietly, both of them had forgotten Pauline, they were so intent on each other, "he does know the truth. See how happy he looks." He held out his hand. "Let us be friends again," he said. "Let us forgive each other."
They shook hands and as they did so all the years of bitterness seemed to slip a way and they were boys again. Then John, overwrought, unnerved by his father's death, ashamed of the tears that came to his eyes, turned away from his brother and covered his face with his hands. Like a flash Pauline was at his side, her arm around his shoulders.
"Thank you, David, dear David," she said softly. "And now will you leave him to me."
As David left the room he turned and looked back. Pauline had drawn John's head on to her breast and her face was close to his. David saw them through a mist of tears. He knew now that he loved them both.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.