Читать книгу A Shadowed Love - Fred M. White - Страница 12

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Dick Stephenson, face to face with Mr. Spencer in the 'Record' office, could say nothing for a time. Surely his new-found friend must recognise him for the man who had done him a single service so short a time ago. But there was absolutely no sign of recognition in Spencer's eyes.

Well, it did not much matter. Dick's plain policy was to be discreet. He would hold the secret of the adventure close, and some day it could be turned to account. He waited now for Spencer to speak.

"Tell me about yourself," the latter said, presently. "Do not be afraid. I, too, have known what it is to be poor."

Dick spoke freely enough. Spencer might have been a mystery, there might be something terribly wrong about his past, but his was a face that most men would trust. And as Dick told his history he felt that his companion was following him with the deepest interest and attention.

"The old story," he said, kindly. "All you want is a start. It is good work that you have done for us, but, unfortunately, there are so many journalists nowadays who can do good general work. I am going to send you into the assistant editor's office, there to make yourself useful. I can give you £300 a year, and as to the rest, why, that is in your hands."

Dick tried to say something and failed. He had not expected anything like this. The realisation of a score of fond dreams was possible now. He could get Molly away from Pant-street without delay. For the present they would rent a furnished cottage. They might even get back to Stanmere again. Manby Junction was only a mile from the village, and there were plenty of trains.

Dick came out of his reveries to the knowledge that his benefactor was speaking. As he looked about the room his eyes caught sight of a large photograph of Stanmere House. Spencer followed the glance.

"Do you know that place?" he asked.

"I was born there," Dick said, with a shaky voice. "My father was rector of the parish for twenty years. Ah, if I could only get back there!"

"Bless my soul," Spencer cried. "You are the son of my old—"

"Then you, too, know Stanmere!" Dick interrupted eagerly.

"I never said so," Spencer responded coldly. There was something furtive in his eyes now, a suggestion of fear, of having said too much. "I—I was nearly buying the place once. You must excuse me, but I am on the verge of one of my forgetful fits again."

He passed his hand across his eyes wearily. The next moment he seemed to be trying to look into Dick's very soul.

"I was trying to recall what I know of Stanmere," he said. "I knew the district well as a boy; in fact, I used to go there in my schooldays and look for white heather on the uplands behind the Warren. An old friend of mine had a cottage there, called 'Shepherd's Spring.'"

Dick gave an exclamation of delight. Just for the moment he had forgotten that he was talking business in a great newspaper office. The beauties of the rolling landscape were before his eyes now, he could see the fertile valley and the great sheets of purple heather with the sombre pines and the no-man's-land beyond.

"I know the country blindfold," Dick said. "I could take you right through those bogs and soft spots at midnight. I could hide there and baffle my pursuers for a month. I could—"

Dick paused, for Spencer's eyes were blazing. His face was working with an excitement that was almost painful.

"Ah, to be sure," he said hoarsely. He was pacing up and down the office now. "One would like to be there, of course. One could double and twist and turn and none be any the wiser. Boy, can I really honestly trust you?"

"I try to be like my father," Dick said, simply.

"And he was a good man. Mind you, I didn't say that I knew him. I dare say that you could manage it. There are plenty of trains and a good road from the junction. I could get Fisher to see that you were not kept late."

All this with more or less incoherent words and excited gestures. Heaven alone knew what strong emotions were passing through the man's mind. Presently he grew more calm and dropped into his seat with the air of one physically exhausted.

"I see what you are longing for," he said. "You want to get away from the miserable street where you are and into the country. I will arrange with Mr. Fisher that you can leave the office pretty early. You shall take your sister away for the summer at any rate, and I will place Shepherd's Spring at your disposal. As a matter of fact, it belongs to me. I bought it for the sake of quietness after a long illness."

Dick said something, he hardly knew what. He seemed suddenly to have blundered into a country of fairy surprises. And yet at the same time he could not rid himself of the feeling that he was playing a part in a drama, he was a subordinate piece on a chessboard where a tremendous game was going on.

"The place is small, but well furnished," Spencer said. He was quite cool and matter-of-fact now. "You will find everything you want there, and should easily manage with one servant. No, you must not thank me, because some day you may be able to repay me."

He glanced at his watch, an indication that the interview was finished and that the man of money had greater interests in hand.

"I will," Dick said, passionately. "Anything I can do for you, sir, I will. You have taken a great weight from my heart, and I will serve you as man was never served before. I can be discreet and silent, I can—"

He paused, a little ashamed of himself. Spencer smiled.

"You can't buy friends," he said. "Yes, I think I can trust you. I will arrange for your duties with my editor, Mr. Fisher. If you go around to Mr. Marlett's, 66 Lincoln's Inn, to-morrow, and say you came from me, he will give you the key of Shepherd's Spring. And now I must ask you to say good-night."

Spencer touched the bell, his face grew keen and alert; he was the rigorous man of business once more before Dick had time to leave the office.