Christopher Hibbault, Roadmaker Part 13

"Did you find it on the floor?"

"No."

"Where then?"

"Dey was all in nice itty rows on the table. I only taken one pitty goldy penny. Mummy gives me goldy pennies always."

"Sovereigns for playthings, Renata. That's very immoral."

"No, only new halfpennies. Charlotte didn't know any better, Aymer."

"And you played with it in the window there and left it there."

"Is I naughty?"

"Not very naughty--if you tell me. Did you leave it there?"

Charlotte's lip trembled. "I putted it to bed in the curtain by a mousehole, and it's all gone, naughty mousie."

"Go and see, Renata, if there's a hole there."

"Please," said Charlotte gravely.

"Please what?"

"Please go and see."

Aymer laughed. "I beg your pardon, Renata. Please will you mind looking for the mousehole?"

"I tan't see the mousehole," put in Charlotte, "I only 'tend it."

But Renata looked all the same. There was no mousehole and no golden penny.

"It is all right," explained Aymer in answer to his sister-in-law's troubled look. "I know all about it. Don't worry your little head. We will give Charlotte another golden penny, or a silver one. Only," he added, regarding his small niece severely, "Charlotte must not touch anyone's pennies again, not mummy's or Uncle Aymer's, or anyone's. It is not dreadfully naughty this time, but it would be next time--_dreadfully_ naughty."

Charlotte opened her eyes very wide.

"Would you be dreffly angry?"

"Yes, and very unhappy. I shouldn't let you come to see me any more."

At that Miss Charlotte flung her arms round his neck, protesting she wasn't naughty and Uncle Aymer must love her. Peace was at last restored and Aymer drew pictures of innumerable mice carrying off golden pennies and only sent the children away when Christopher came in.

He gave no hint to Christopher that he had solved the problem of the lost money and discovered the boy's own compromise between truth and dishonesty. He was anxious to see whether Christopher's moral standard was really satisfied with the same compromise or not. So he treated him as far as he could in his natural manner during the next few days, but found it a little difficult. Fond of Christopher as he was, this was just one of those points where the enormous difference between the child of one's own self,--of self plus the unknown--and the adopted child of others, became visible. The fault was so inexplicable to Aymer, so utterly foreign to his whole understanding, that he had nothing but contempt for it, whereas, had Christopher been his own son, love would have overridden contempt with fear.

Christopher, with his uncanny, quick intuition of Aymer's innermost mind, was not deceived by his ordinary casual manner, and became, to Aymer's secret satisfaction, a little suppressed and thoughtful.

It was at this point the boy had his first introduction to poor little Patricia's temper.

The two children had been riding and returned home by way of the brook over which their ambitious dreams had already built a bridge.

Patricia, who was in rather a petulant mood, reproached Christopher rather sharply for having got rid of his last month's pocket money so prematurely. "Just like a boy," she said, wrinkling her nose contemptuously. She had five whole shillings left of her money and when Christopher could double that they were to go to the brick-yard and bargain.

"Haven't you any at all?" she questioned impatiently.

Christopher, who was examining the proposed site, did not answer at once, and she repeated her question.

"I have some," he confessed unwillingly.

"Well, can't we start with that. You said you hadn't any on Monday.

How much is it?"

But Christopher declined to answer.

Patricia persisted in her point. If Christopher had _any money_ they could begin the bridge next day. Christopher said he'd see about it.

Patricia, much exasperated, said she should go home, and her companion proposed to make the ponies jump the brook. She was too angry to answer him, but she set her pony at it, and the pony, instead of rising to the jump on command, very cautiously stepped into the stream and splashed across. It is to be feared Christopher laughed. Patricia cantered on, having seen, with much satisfaction, the other pony behave in precisely the same way. But the end was not the same.

Christopher wheeled the pony round and tried again, tried eight times and failed and succeeded at the ninth. It was characteristic of him that he did not lose his temper, but had kept on with a sort of dull, monotonous persistence that must have been very boring to the equine mind.

Then he galloped after Patricia, and catching her up at the lodge gates retailed his triumph gleefully. Perhaps he was a shade too triumphant, for he was still in disgrace, and she had not spoken. At all events by the time they had dismounted and were returning to the house through the garden, she was in a fever of irritation, and Christopher, blissfully ignorant of the fact, was just a tiny bit inclined for private reasons of his own, to emphasise his own good spirits. He never noticed the clenching and unclenching of her small hands or saw the whiteness of her tense averted face, and he began teasing her about her pony and her weight. "Nevil must buy you a brand new one, up to your weight," he suggested, "you've broken Folly's spirit evidently."

He was standing on the steps, just one step below her, and he looked back laughing. On a sudden, with no word or sound of warning, she turned and cut at him with her riding whip, her little form quivering with the grip of the possessing demon. The lash caught him across the face and he fell back against the wall gasping, with his hand up.

Luckily it was but a light whip and a girl's hand, but the sting of it blanched him for an instant. The flaming colour died from Patricia's face as suddenly as it had come, and with it the momentary fury. She stood gazing at her companion a moment, and when he looked up half terrified, half angry, she turned quickly and ran down a gra.s.s path, dropping her whip as she went.

Christopher stood still, rubbing his smarting cheek gingerly, wondering vaguely what he would say if it showed. He had heard from others as well as from Patricia herself, of the child's fearful paroxysms of rage and had rather scoffed at it--to her. But at this moment he was far nearer crying, very near it, indeed, to be strictly truthful. He was really concerned for Patricia, and also he was a little--unnecessarily--ashamed of his own collapse under the sudden attack. Probably she thought it worse than it was. He walked slowly down the gra.s.s path between the yew hedges and picked up the whip as he went. Patricia was not on the tennis court nor in the summer-house, nor in the rose-garden, so he turned his steps to the wilderness, as the rough wooded slopes on the northern side of the garden were called. He knew her favourite spots here and presently came on her huddled up on an old moss-grown stone seat, her head in her arms. She was quite still, she was not even crying, and Christopher felt a little frightened. What if she were still angry like that? However, the chances were against it, so he went up and sat down by her.

"Patricia, don't be silly," he commanded. "What did you run off like that for? You didn't hurt--not much," he added truthfully--he had taken to being very exact about the truth of late.

"Go away," said Patricia. "I don't want you. I don't want anyone. You don't understand."

"Well, someone's got to understand," persisted the boy in a high-handed way. "You aren't going to be let get in tempers with me and then sulk about it afterwards. Don't be silly. Sit up." Patricia's golden hair lay about her like a veil. He pushed it aside and tried to pull her hands away from her face, for he was getting really a little frightened at her manner. Some instinct taught him that her misery was as exaggerated and bad for her as her temper, and he was dimly afraid of leaving her alone, as was the custom of her little world after one of her outbreaks.

Patricia suddenly sat up. There were black rims round her great sad eyes already and her face was red and white in patches from the pressure of her hands.

"You said I hadn't hurt you," she gasped, gazing at the dull red mark of which Christopher was already almost unaware.

"Does it show? What a beastly nuisance. I said it didn't hurt much, Patricia. Not at all now. I'm sorry I was such a baby." He put his arm round her and she leant her head against him too exhausted to care whether he thought her a baby or not.

"It must be jolly exciting having a temper like that," he said, thoughtfully. "It wouldn't be half so bad if you meant it."

She sat bolt upright and stared at him.

"Why?" she demanded breathlessly.

"Because if you meant it you could take care _not_ to mean it, silly.

You'd look out. But you don't mean it. You didn't mean to hurt me then till you did it. It's much worse for you."

She drew a long breath.