Second String. Hope Anthony

offer, be to court ridicule from equals and unequals all alike, and most of all from his admitted inferiors. Surely Harry would never send him to the butcher's shop? That would mean that Harry thought of him (for all his kindness) as of Chinks or of the Bird. Could he risk discovering that, after all, Harry – and Harry's friends – thought of him like that? A sore pang struck him. Had he been at Nutley – at Halton – only on sufferance? He had an idea that Harry would send him to the butcher's shop – would do the thing ever so kindly, ever so considerately, but all the same would do it. "Well, it's the safe thing, isn't it, old chap?" he fancied Harry saying; and then returning to his own high ambitions, and being thereafter very friendly – whenever he chanced to pass the shop. Andy never deceived himself as to the quality of Harry's friendship: it lay, at the most, in appreciative acceptance of unbounded affection. It was not like Jonathan's for David. Andy was content. And must not acceptance, after all, breed some return? For whatever return came he was grateful. In this sphere there was no room even for theories of equality, let alone for its practice.

      For some little time back Andy had been surprised to observe a certain attribute of his own – that of pretty often turning out right. He accounted for it by saying that an average man, judging of average men and things, would fairly often be right – on an average; men would do what he expected, things would go as he expected – on an average. Such discernment as was implied in this Andy felt as no endowment, no clairvoyance; rather it was that his limitations qualified him to appreciate other people's. He would have liked to feel able to except Harry Belfield who should have no limitations – only he felt terribly sure of what Harry Belfield would say: Safety, and the shop!

      By this time the church service was ended, the cold beef eaten, most of the long walk achieved. For while these things went straight on to an end, Andy's thoughts rolled round and round, like a squirrel in a cage.

      "A man's only got one life," Andy was thinking to himself for the hundredth time as, having done his fifteen miles, he came opposite the entry to Nutley on his way home after his walk. What a lot of thoughts and memories there had been on that walk! Walking alone, a man is the victim – or the beneficiary – of any number of stray recollections, ideas, or fancies. He had even thought of – and smiled over – sardonic Miss Dutton's sardonic remark that he was worth ten of either Billy Foot or – Harry Belfield! Well, the poor girl had come one cropper; allowances must be made.

      Cool, serene, with what might appear to the eyes of less happy people an almost insolently secure possession of fortune's favour, Harry Belfield stood at Nutley gate. Andy, hot and dusty, winced at being seen by him; Harry was so remote from any disarray. Andy's heart leapt at the sight of his friend – and seemed to stand still in the presence of his judge. Because the thing – the problem – must come out directly. There was no more possibility of shirking it.

      Vivien was flitting – her touch of the ground seemed so light – down the drive, past the deep dark water, to join Harry for a stroll. His invitation to a stroll on that fine still Sunday afternoon had not been given without significance nor received without a thousand tremblings. So it would appear that it was Andy's ill-fortune to interrupt.

      Harry was smoking. He took his cigar out of his mouth to greet Andy.

      "Treadmill again, old boy? Getting the fat off?"

      "You're the one man I wanted to see." Then Andy's face fell; it was an awful moment. "I want to ask your advice."

      "Look sharp!" said Harry, smiling. "I've an appointment. She'll be here any minute."

      "Jack Rock's offered to turn the shop over to me, as soon as I learn the business. I say, I – I suppose I ought to accept? He says it's worth hard on five hundred a year. I say, keep that dark; he told me not to tell anybody."

      "Gad, is it?" said Harry, and whistled softly.

      Vivien came in sight of him, and walked more slowly, dallying with anticipation.

      "Splendid of him, isn't it? I say, I suppose I ought to – to think it over?" He had been doing nothing else for what seemed eternity.

      Harry laughed – that merry irresponsible laugh of his. "Blue suits your complexion, Andy. It seems damned funny – but five hundred a year! Worth that, is it now, really? And he'd probably leave you anything else he has."

      Silently-flitting Vivien was just behind Harry now. Andy saw her, Harry was unaware of her presence. She laid her finger on her lips, making a confidant of Andy, in her joy at a trick on her lover.

      "Of course it – well, it sort of defines matters – ties you down, eh?" Harry's laugh broke out again. "Andy, old boy, you'll look infernally funny, pricing joints to old Dove or Miss Pink! Oh, I say, I don't think you can do it, Andy!"

      "Don't you, Harry?" Andy's tone was eager, beseeching, full of hope.

      "But I suppose you ought." Harry tried to be grave, and chuckled again. "You'd look it uncommon well, you know. You'd soon develop the figure. Old Jack never has – doesn't look as if his own steaks did him any good. But you – we'd send you to Smithfield in no time!"

      "What are you two talking about?" asked Vivien suddenly.

      "Oh, there you are at last! Why, the funniest thing! Old Andy here wants to be a butcher."

      "I don't want – " Andy began.

      "A butcher! What nonsense you do talk sometimes, Harry!" She stood by Harry's side, so happy in him, so friendly to Andy.

      "Fact!" said Harry, and acquainted her with the situation.

      Vivien blushed red. "I – I'm very sorry I said what – what I did to you. You remember?"

      "Oh yes, I remember," said Andy.

      "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.