By the morning Charlie was gone. To do him justice, he carried with him the remembrance of the girl's tear-stained face, and of her broken, dejected figure as she had leaned on the back of the shabby old chair, and whispered the dread that was in her heart. That made him valiant to face his father—to secure something for the future that should mean not only something for himself, but for Moira. He was very indefinite about it in his own mind; he only told himself, again and again, as he had told her, that something must be done, and—that it would be all right.
He strode through the little town of Daisley Cross with his head erect; albeit he was a shabbier figure than he had been in the old days. It was a curious feeling, because he could not remember ever having been shabby in that place before; and yet with that new virtue on him he was not ashamed. In a sense, he felt that he could meet his father, because that father must inevitably recognise that here had been no squandering of money; but that Charlie, though unfortunate, must have lived hard and lived carefully. Which was the impression he desired to create.
The Rev. Temple Purdue walked in his somewhat neglected garden that morning, looking thoughtfully at all the decay and débris of the dead year, and thinking perhaps of the decay of his own hopes. He raised his eyes at the click of the gate—stood still, expectant, with a flushed face, as Charlie advanced towards him. Something of his love for the young man shone in his eyes for a moment, and was in his grasp when he gave a reluctant hand; then in a moment he was the stern father again, waiting to hear what Charlie had to say.
To begin with, Charlie was repentant; he saw now how much he might have done had he been more careful. It must not be understood, according to Charlie's account, that he whined about it; no—he was simply ready to face whatever future might be given him, and to face it boldly. He wanted it to be understood that he had learned his lesson, and learned it well; the Rev. Temple Purdue heard with some astonishment that this remarkable son thanked his father for having given him the opportunity of learning that lesson.
They went to the house together, with a better understanding growing between them than there had been for a very long time. The heart of the old man had ached with longing for some such moment as this, and he had not believed that it could ever arise; yet here was the prodigal, smiling at him, and thanking him, and promising anything and everything. The old man furtively wiped his eyes more than once as he listened to what Charlie had to say. And Charlie, as might have been expected under emotional circumstances, said too much.
"You've got to understand, sir, that I'm a different sort of man from what I was," he said, wagging his head strenuously at that disreputable figure of himself now rapidly vanishing into the background. "I've got responsibilities, and I mean to live up to them. I hope I know my duty to myself, as well as to others. That's why I want to make a start; that's what I mean when I say I'm going to live a different sort of life."
The father caught only one or two words, and clung to them; he looked round quickly at his son. "Responsibilities? To others?"
"Yes," said Charlie, not quite so boldly nor so bravely; "one other, at any rate. There's—there's a woman." He had decided, on the mere impulse of the moment, not to mention that woman's name; it was no use making the case harder against himself than was necessary.
The old man stiffened and set his lips. "A woman?" he asked, in a different tone.
"Yes—someone I'm very fond of—someone who is very fond of me. I want—want to marry her."