The Wooden Horse Part 18

"Well," continued Robin desperately, "that's really all--" knowing, however, that he had not yet arrived at the point of the story.

"She--and her mother--came down to live here--and then, somehow, I didn't like her quite so much. It seemed different down here, and her mother was horrid. I began to see it differently, and at last, one night, I told her so. Of course, I thought, naturally, that she would understand. But she didn't--her mother was horrid--and she made a scene--it was all very unpleasant." Robin was dragging his handkerchief between his fingers, and looking imploringly at the fire.

"Then I went and saw her again and asked her for--my letters--she said she'd keep them--and I'm afraid she may use them--and--well, that's all," he finished lamely.

He thought that hours of terrible silence followed his speech. He sat motionless in his chair waiting for their words. He was rather glad now that he had spoken. It had been a relief to unburden himself; for so many days he had only had his own thoughts and suggestions to apply to the situation. But he was afraid to look at his aunt.

"You young fool," at last from Garrett. "Who is the girl?"

"A Miss Feverel--she lives with her mother at Sea view Terrace--there is no father."

"Miss Feverel? What! That girl! You wrote to her! You----"

At last his aunt had spoken. He had never heard her speak like that before--the "You!" was a cry of horror. She suddenly got up and went over to him. She bent over him where he sat, with head lowered, and shook him by the shoulder.

"Robin! It can't be true--you haven't written to that girl! Not love-letters! It is incredible!"

"It is true--" he said, looking up. "Don't look at me like that, Aunt Clare. It isn't so bad--other fellows----" but then he was ashamed and stopped. He would leave his defence alone.

"Is that all?" said Garrett. "All you have done, I mean? You haven't injured the girl?"

"I swear that's all," Robin said eagerly. "I meant no harm by it. I wrote the letters without thinking I----"

Clare stood leaning on the mantelpiece, her head between her hands.

"I can't understand it. I can't understand it," she said. "It isn't like you--not a bit. That girl and you--why, it's incredible!"

"That's only because you had your fancy idea of him, Clare," said Garrett. "We'd better pa.s.s the lamentation stage and decide what's to be done."

For once Garrett seemed practical; he was pleased with himself for being so. It had suddenly occurred to him that he was the only person who could really deal with the situation. Clare was a woman, Harry was out of the question, Robin was a boy.

"Have you spoken to your father?" he asked.

"No. Of course not!" Robin answered, rather fiercely. "How could I?"

Clare went back to her chair. "That girl! But, Robin, she's plain--quite--and her manners, her mother--everything impossible!"

It was still incredible that Robin, the work of her hands as it were, into whom she had poured all things that were lovely and of good report, could have made love to an ordinary girl of the middle cla.s.ses--a vulgar girl with a still more vulgar mother.

But in spite of her vulgarity she was jealous of her. "You don't care for her any longer, Robin?"

"Now?--oh no--not for a long time--I don't think I ever did really. I can't think how I was ever such a fool."

"She still threatens Breach of Promise," said Garrett, whose mind was slowly working as to the best means of proving his practical utility.

"That's the point, of course. That the letters are there and that we have got to get them back. What kind of letters were they? Did you actually give her hopes?"

Robin blushed. "Yes, I'm afraid I did--as well as I can remember, and judging by her answers. I said the usual sort of things----" He paused. It was best, he felt, to leave it vague.

But Clare had scarcely arrived at the danger of it yet--the danger to the House. Her present thought was of Robin; that she must alter her feelings about him, take him from his pedestal--a Trojan who could make love to any kind of girl!

"I can't think of it now," she said; "it's confusing. We must see what's to be done. We'll talk about it some other time. It's hard to see just at present."

Garrett looked puzzled. "It's a bit of a mess," he said. "But we'll see----" and left the room with an air of importance.

Robin turned to go, and then walked over to his aunt, and put his hand on her sleeve.

"Don't think me such a rotter," he said. "I am awfully sorry--it's about you that I care most--but I've learnt a lesson; I'll never do anything like that again."

She smiled up at him, and took his hand in hers.

"Why, old boy, no. Of course I was a little surprised. But I don't mind very much if you care for me in the same way. That's all I have, Robin--your caring; and I don't think it matters very much what you do, if I still have that."

"Of course you have," he said, and bent down and kissed her. Then he left the room.

CHAPTER IX

"I'm worse to-day," said Sir Jeremy, looking at Harry, "and I'll be off under a month."

He seemed rather pathetic--the brave look had gone from his eyes, and his face and hands were more shrivelled than ever. He gave the impression of cowering in bed as though wishing to avoid a blow. Harry was with him continually now, and the old man was never happy if his son was not there. He rambled at times and fancied himself back in his youth again. Harry had found his father's room a refuge from the family, and he sat, hour after hour, watching the old man asleep, thinking of his own succession and puzzling over the hopeless tangle that seemed to surround him. How to get out of it! He had no longer any thought of turning his back; he had gone too far for that, and they would think it cowardice, but things couldn't remain as they were.

What would come out of it?

He had, as Robin had said, changed. The effect of the explosion had been to reveal in him qualities whose very existence he had formerly never expected. He even found, strangely enough, a kind of joy in the affair. It was like playing a game. He had made, he felt, the right move and was in the stronger position. In earlier days he had never been able to quarrel with any one. Whenever such a thing had happened, he had been the first to make overtures; he hated the idea of an enemy, his happiness depended on his friends, and sometimes now, when he saw his own people's hostility, he was near surrender. But the memory of his sister's words had held him firm, and now he was beginning to feel in tune with the situation.

He watched Robin furtively at times and wondered how he was taking it all. Sometimes he fancied that he caught glances that pointed to Robin's own desire to see how _he_ was taking it. Once they had pa.s.sed on the stairs, and for a moment they had both paused as though they would speak. It had been all Harry could do to restrain himself from flinging his arms on to his son's shoulders and shaking him for a fool and then forcing him into surrender, but he had held himself back, and they had pa.s.sed on without a word.

After all, what children they all were! That's what it came to--children playing a game that they did not understand!

"I wish it would end," said Sir Jeremy; "I'm getting d.a.m.ned sick of it.

Why can't he take you out straight away, and be done with it? Do you know, Harry, my boy, I think I'm frightened. It's lying here thinking of it. I never had much imagination--it isn't a Trojan habit, but it grows on one. I fancy--well, what's the use o' talking?" and he sank back into his pillows again.

The room was dark save for the leaping light of the fire. It was almost time to dress for dinner, but Harry sat there, forgetting time and place in the unchanging question, How would it all work out?

"By Gad, it's Tom! Hullo, old man, I was just thinking of you. Comin'

round to Horrocks' to-night for a game? Supper at Galiani's--but it's d.a.m.ned cold. I don't know where that sun's got to. I've been wandering up and down the street all day and I can't find the place.

I've forgotten the number--I can't remember whether it was 23 or 33, and I keep getting into that pa.s.sage. There I am again! Bring a light, old man--it's so dark. What's that? Who's there? Can't you answer? Darn you, come out, you----" He sat up in bed, quivering all over. Harry put his hand on his arm.

"It's all right, father," he said. "No one's here--only myself."

"Ugh! I was dreaming--" he answered, lying down again. "Let's have some light--not that electric glare. Candles!"

Harry was sitting in the corner by the bed away from the fire. He was about to rise and move the candles into a clump on the mantelpiece when there was a tap on the door and some one came in. It was Robin.

"Grandfather, are you awake? Aunt Clare told me to look in on my way up to dress and see if you wanted anything?"

The firelight was on his face. He looked very young as he stood there by the bed. His face was flushed in the light of the fire. Harry's heart beat furiously, but he made no movement and said no word.

Robin bent over the bed to catch his grandfather's answer, and he saw his father.