“He is not there! The bed has not been slept in. Oh Phil, what does it mean?”
But she knew what it meant; they all knew. There was no need for explanation. Together they crushed into the little room and looked around with haggard eyes. Theo had a dreary sense of having been through it all before; and indeed it was an old, old story, even to the torn-up papers on the hearth and the letter of farewell on the dressing-table. It was addressed to Philippa, and she read it aloud, with short, gasping breaths:
“‘I have lost my situation, and have got into debt, and lost money betting on races, and the best thing I can do is to take myself off and not trouble you any longer.—I can’t stay here to be a shame and a burden.’—(Oh Barney!)—‘If you and Steve will pay off my bills, you can look upon the money as my share in what was left. I will never trouble you for any more.’”
Here came a great dash as if the writer had intended to end the letter, but at the bottom of the sheet were a few words scribbled in uncertain letters: “Good-bye, Phil. I’ll try to keep straight for your sake.”
Philippa looked up; agony was written on her face, but her first words were of thanksgiving. “Thank God! He is alive and well; he will do himself no harm. My poor boy! We must find him and bring him home again.”
“Betting!” echoed Steve. “Debts! I can’t understand it. We kept him supplied with pocket-money; he had a comfortable home; what more did he want? I don’t wonder he was ashamed to face us, but it is a cowardly thing to run away from the consequences of his wrong-doing and bring fresh anxiety upon us. I wouldn’t have believed it of Barney.”
“It is my fault! Blame me; I drove him to it,” said Madge desperately.
Her sisters stared at her in amazement, while she told the history of the last afternoon and evening, omitting nothing, extenuating nothing, repeating her bitter words with unflinching honesty. Only her face betrayed the inward agony of remorse, but that was eloquent enough, and when she had finished not one of her hearers had the heart to utter a reproach. Philippa looked appealingly at Steve, as if asking what could be done next; but for once the set face refused her comfort in her need. Stephen could be trusted to do what was right, but his search would lack the inspiration which would come from a thorough understanding of the boy’s character.
“And I’m only a woman; I haven’t the knowledge that a man would have,” sighed poor Phil to herself; then she stretched out her hands and cried sharply, “I want to see the Hermit. Barney liked him so much! They used to talk together; he will know best what was in the boy’s mind, and be able to help us.”
“I’ll bring him up,” said Steve, and turned straightway to the door. He, too, was eager for a man’s advice—a calm, masculine judgment—to temper the discussion with these distracted girls. Relief was apparent in his manner when he followed the Hermit into the dining-room five minutes later, and summoned his sisters to meet him.