Things were at their very darkest along this line about four or five months after Harold went away. And it was just then something happened that showed conclusively which way the ruling passion of Gordon's heart was turned.
I was almost weeping over my accounts that night. These I kept in a ridiculously large scribbling book, marking down the smallest item of expenditure; for Gordon entrusted our finances to my hands, if so elaborate a term may be devoted to so scanty an exchequer. Generally I brought the account out pretty even at the close of every week—"sundries" were a great help towards this happy end. But this particular night everything seemed all "through other," to quote a favourite phrase of grandfather's. Nothing was clear except that there was a deficit—and that was dreadfully evident; but even the all-adjusting sundries could not show just how or whence it came.
So there we sat, I with the big scribbling book before me, a freshly sharpened pencil in my hand, a cloud of perplexity on my brow, gazing, a little moistly I'm afraid, at the plaintive statement of receipts and expenditure.
"Never mind, Helen," Gordon said, "you've done the best you can—and I know you've made every dollar go as far as any woman in the world could do. Don't bother any more about it—charge that deficit up to profit and loss and call it square."
"But it's nothing to laugh about," I answered gloomily; "we're going behind, Gordon—just as sure as anything, we're going behind."
"Only financially," he said lightly; "we're going ahead other ways, my dear."
"But that's a lot," I protested.
"It doesn't seem much to me," Gordon replied, the lightness all vanished now.
"What do you mean?" I said, looking up a little testily, I fear.
"Oh, only this; when anybody has a sorrow so much greater—like ours—financial troubles don't amount to much. I want Harold—oh, Helen, I want our boy back again," with which he broke out, strong man though he was, into such a storm of crying as would have done credit to the tearfullest of women.