The Wharf by the Docks | Page 6

was wrong. Much too high-spirited and too
happy in her temperament and surroundings to brood over her lover's
late negligence, she was perhaps too vain to believe that she had lost
her hold upon his heart. At any rate, she liked him too well to give him
up in this off-hand fashion without making an effort to discover the
reason of his present mysterious conduct.
That letter which he had used as an excuse for his sudden departure had
arrived at The Beeches by the afternoon post. Doreen had seen it with
her own eyes; had noted with some natural curiosity that the direction
was ill-spelled, ill-written; that the chirography was that of an almost
illiterate female correspondent; and that the post-mark showed that it
came from the East End of London. Rather a strange letter for the smart
young barrister to receive, perhaps. And the thought of it made Doreen
pause when she had got outside the door on the broad drive between the
lawns.
Only for the moment. The next she was flying across the rougher grass
outside the garden among the oaks and the beeches of the park. She
saw no one in front of her, and for a few seconds her heart beat very
fast. She thought she had missed him.
There was no lodge at the park entrance; only a modest wooden gate in
the middle of the fence. Doreen was hesitating whether to go through or
to go back, when she saw the figure of Dudley Horne coming toward
the gate from the stables.
So she waited.
As he came nearer, she, hidden from his sight by the trunk of an old
oak-tree, grew uneasy and shy. Dark though it was, dimly as she could
see him, Doreen felt convinced, from the rapid, steady pace at which he
walked, that he was intent upon some set purpose, that he was not
driven by pique at her father's words.
He came quite close to her, so that she saw his face. A
dark-complexioned, strong face it was, clean-shaven, not handsome at
all. But, on the other hand, it was just such a face as women admire;

full of character, of ambition, of virility. Doreen had been debating
with herself whether she dared speak to him; but the moment she got a
full look at his face, her courage died away.
It was plain to her that, whatever might be the subject of the thoughts
which were agitating his mind, she had no share in them.
So she let him pass out, and then crept back, downcast, shocked,
ashamed, up the slope to the house.
She got in by the billiard-room, at the window of which she knocked.
Max, her brother, who was playing a game with Queenie, his younger
sister, let her in, and cried out at sight of her white face:
"Hello! Doreen, what's up? Had a row with Dudley? Or what?"
"I have had no 'row' with any one," answered the girl, very quietly.
"But--you must all know all about it presently, so you may as well hear
it at once--Dudley has gone away."
"What?"
Max stopped in the act of trying for a carom, and stared at his sister.
"Why, he only came when I did, ten minutes ago!"
"He's gone, I tell you!" repeated Doreen, stamping her foot. "And--and
listen, Max, I'm frightened about him! He's got something on his mind.
When he went away, I saw him; I was standing by the gate; he looked
so--so dreadful that I didn't dare to speak to him. _I!_ Think of that!"
"Had papa been speaking to him?" put in the shrewd younger sister,
who was chalking her cue at the other end of the room.
The younger sister always sees most of the game.
"Ye--es, but--I don't know--I hardly think it was that," answered
Doreen quickly. "At any rate, Max, I want you to do this for me; I want
you to go up to town to-morrow and see him. I shan't rest until I know

he's--he's all right--after what I saw of his face and the look on it. Now,
you will do this, won't you, won't you? Without saying anything to
anybody, mind. Queenie, you can hold your tongue, too. Now, Max,
there's a dear, you'll do it, won't you?"
Max told her that she was "off her head," that he could do no good, and
so on. But he ended in giving way to the will of his handsome sister,
whom he adored.
Max Wedmore was a good-looking fellow of five-and-twenty, with a
reputation as a ne'er-do-weel, which, perhaps, he hardly deserved. His
father had a great idea of bringing the young man up to some useful
calling to keep him out of mischief. Not very terrible mischief, for the
most