"I am afraid."

"Ah," said Dewes, as he rubbed his chin, "I see."

It was his usual remark when he came against anything which he did not understand.

"You must let me have him for a week or two sometimes, Sybil. Boys will get into trouble, you know. It is their nature to. And sometimes a man may be of use in putting things straight."

The hint of a smile glimmered about Sybil Linforth's mouth, but she repressed it. She would not for worlds have let her friend see it, lest he might be hurt.

"No," she replied, "d.i.c.k is not in any trouble. But--" and she struggled for a moment with a feeling that she ought not to say what she greatly desired to say; that speech would be disloyal. But the need to speak was too strong within her, her heart too heavily charged with fear.

"I will tell you," she said, and, with a glance towards the open windows of the house, she led Colonel Dewes to a corner of the garden where, upon a gra.s.s mound, there was a garden seat. From this seat one overlooked the garden hedge. To the left, the little village of Poynings with its grey church and tall tapering spire, lay at the foot of the gap in the Downs where runs the Brighton road. Behind them the Downs ran like a rampart to right and left, their steep green sides scarred here and there by landslips and showing the white chalk. Far away the high trees of Chanctonbury Ring stood out against the sky.

"d.i.c.k has secrets," Sybil said, "secrets from me. It used not to be so. I have always known how a want of sympathy makes a child hide what he feels and thinks, and drives him in upon himself, to feed his thoughts with imaginings and dreams. I have seen it. I don't believe that anything but harm ever comes of it. It builds up a barrier which will last for life. I did not want that barrier to rise between d.i.c.k and me--I--" and her voice shook a little--"I should be very unhappy if it were to rise. So I have always tried to be his friend and comrade, rather than his mother."

"Yes," said Colonel Dewes, wisely nodding his head. "I have seen you playing cricket with him."

Colonel Dewes had frequently been puzzled by a peculiar change of manner in his friends. When he made a remark which showed how clearly he understood their point of view and how closely he was in agreement with it, they had a way of becoming reticent in the very moment of expansion.

The current of sympathy was broken, and as often as not they turned the conversation altogether into a conventional and less interesting channel.

That change of manner became apparent now. Sybil Linforth leaned back and abruptly ceased to speak.

"Please go on," said Dewes, turning towards her.

She hesitated, and then with a touch of reluctance continued:

"I succeeded until a month or so ago. But a month or so ago the secrets came. Oh, I know him so well. He is trying to hide that there are any secrets lest his reticence should hurt me. But we have been so much together, so much to each other--how should I not know?" And again she leaned forward with her hands clasped tightly together upon her knees and a look of great distress lying like a shadow upon her face. "The first secrets," she continued, and her voice trembled, "I suppose they are always bitter to a mother. But since I have nothing but d.i.c.k they hurt me more deeply than is perhaps reasonable"; and she turned towards her companion with a poor attempt at a smile.

"What sort of secrets?" asked Dewes. "What is he hiding?"

"I don't know," she replied, and she repeated the words, adding to them slowly others. "I don't know--and I am a little afraid to guess. But I know that something is stirring in his mind, something is--" and she paused, and into her eyes there came a look of actual terror--"something is calling him. He goes alone up on to the top of the Downs, and stays there alone for hours. I have seen him. I have come upon him unawares lying on the gra.s.s with his face towards the sea, his lips parted, and his eyes strained, his face absorbed. He has been so lost in dreams that I have come close to him through the gra.s.s and stood beside him and spoken to him before he grew aware that anyone was near."

"Perhaps he wants to be a sailor," suggested Dewes.

"No, I do not think it is that," Sybil answered quietly. "If it were so, he would have told me."

"Yes," Dewes admitted. "Yes, he would have told you. I was wrong."

"You see," Mrs. Linforth continued, as though Dewes had not interrupted, "it is not natural for a boy at his age to want to be alone, is it? I don't think it is good either. It is not natural for a boy of his age to be thoughtful. I am not sure that that is good. I am, to tell you the truth, very troubled."

Dewes looked at her sharply. Something, not so much in her words as in the careful, slow manner of her speech, warned him that she was not telling him all of the trouble which oppressed her. Her fears were more definite than she had given him as yet reason to understand. There was not enough in what she had said to account for the tense clasp of her hands, and the glint of terror in her eyes.

"Anyhow, he's going to the big school next term," he said; "that is, if you haven't changed your mind since you last wrote to me, and I hope you haven't changed your mind. All that he wants really," the Colonel added with unconscious cruelty, "is companions of his own age. He pa.s.sed in well, didn't he?"

Sybil Linforth's face lost for the moment all its apprehension. A smile of pride made her face very tender, and as she turned to Dewes he thought to himself that really her eyes were beautiful.

"Yes, he pa.s.sed in very high," she said.

"Eton, isn't it?" said Dewes. "Whose house?"

She mentioned the name and added: "His father was there before him." Then she rose from her seat. "Would you like to see d.i.c.k? I will show you him.

Come quietly."

She led the way across the lawn towards an open window. It was a day of sunshine; the garden was bright with flowers, and about the windows rose-trees climbed the house-walls. It was a house of red brick, darkened by age, and with a roof of tiles. To Dewes' eyes, nestling as it did beneath the great gra.s.s Downs, it had a most homelike look of comfort.

Sybil turned with a finger on her lips.

"Keep this side of the window," she whispered, "or your shadow will fall across the floor."

Standing aside as she bade him, he looked into the room. He saw a boy seated at a table with his head between his hands, immersed in a book which lay before him. He was seated with his side towards the window and his hands concealed his face. But in a moment he removed one hand and turned the page. Colonel Dewes could now see the profile of his face. A firm chin, a beauty of outline not very common, a certain delicacy of feature and colour gave to him a distinction of which Sybil Linforth might well be proud.

"He'll be a dangerous fellow among the girls in a few years' time," said Dewes, turning to the mother. But Sybil did not hear the words. She was standing with her head thrust forward. Her face was white, her whole aspect one of dismay. Dewes could not understand the change in her. A moment ago she had been laughing playfully as she led him towards the window. Now it seemed as though a sudden disaster had turned her to stone. Yet there was nothing visible to suggest disaster. Dewes looked from Sybil to the boy and back again. Then he noticed that her eyes were riveted, not on d.i.c.k's face, but on the book which he was reading.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"Hush!" said Sybil, but at that moment d.i.c.k lifted his head, recognised the visitor, and came forward to the window with a smile of welcome.

There was no embarra.s.sment in his manner, no air of being surprised. He had not the look of one who nurses secrets. A broad open forehead surmounted a pair of steady clear grey eyes.

"Well, d.i.c.k, I hear you have done well in your examination," said the Colonel, as he shook hands. "If you keep it up I will leave you all I save out of my pension."

"Thank you, sir," said d.i.c.k with a laugh. "How long have you been back, Colonel Dewes?"

"I left India a fortnight ago."

"A fortnight ago." d.i.c.k leaned his arms upon the sill and with his eyes on the Colonel's face asked quietly: "How far does the Road reach now?"

At the side of Colonel Dewes Sybil Linforth flinched as though she had been struck. But it did not need that movement to explain to the Colonel the perplexing problem of her fears. He understood now. The Linforths belonged to the Road. The Road had slain her husband. No wonder she lived in terror lest it should claim her son. And apparently it did claim him.

"The road through Chiltistan?" he said slowly.

"Of course," answered d.i.c.k. "Of what other could I be thinking?"

"They have stopped it," said the Colonel, and at his side he was aware that Sybil Linforth drew a deep breath. "The road reaches Kohara. It does not go beyond. It will not go beyond."

d.i.c.k's eyes steadily looked into the Colonel's face; and the Colonel had some trouble to meet their look with the same frankness. He turned aside and Mrs. Linforth said,

"Come and see my roses."

d.i.c.k went back to his book. The man and woman pa.s.sed on round the corner of the house to a little rose-garden with a stone sun-dial in the middle, surrounded by low red brick walls. Here it was very quiet. Only the bees among the flowers filled the air with a pleasant murmur.

"They are doing well--your roses," said Dewes.

"Yes. These Queen Mabs are good. Don't you think so? I am rather proud of them," said Sybil; and then she broke off suddenly and faced him.

"Is it true?" she whispered in a low pa.s.sionate voice. "Is the road stopped? Will it not go beyond Kohara?"

Colonel Dewes attempted no evasion with Mrs. Linforth.

"It is true that it is stopped. It is also true that for the moment there is no intention to carry it further. But--but--"