CHAPTER X
The semi-conscious moments of waking to a new day were filled with foreboding for the Colonel. Some horrid evil was impending. It took him some moments to clothe the thing with reality. Once realised, however, its potence was immediate and irresistible. It brought the Colonel sitting bolt upright in bed. With a groan he lay down again, determined to obliterate the spectre in that most completely satisfying of sensuous delights, the luxuriating in forty winks stolen from the morning hours rightfully dedicated to the toils of the new day. In vain. Not one wink, much less forty, could he purloin. Paul was in his mind’s eye—Paul now in one pose, now in another: Paul smiling, Paul tensely earnest; Paul astride Joseph and dashing about like a centaur; Paul wide-eyed in wonder, in dismay, in mute, pallid grief, and himself gibbering now in one formula, now in another, the announcement that Paul’s father must be ostracised from the polite circles of the Windermere Valley and that Paul must make choice between his father thus ostracised and the “big white house” and its dwellers.
The thing was a ghastly and cruel outrage, imposed upon him by fate inexorable, in the person of his clear-eyed, clear-headed, resolute wife. She was right, doubtless, though the soft-hearted little Colonel could not properly appraise the full ethical value of her arguments. The boy would be horribly hurt, and during those three years the roots of comradeship had struck deep into the lives of both boy and man, perhaps more deeply in man than in boy. They had ridden the valley for long miles together, they had hunted and fished, they had camped, they had boxed together, and in all these the boy had showed an eager aptitude in acquiring a finish and perfection of attainment that had filled his instructor with affectionate pride. The boy’s high spirit, his courage, his quick, keen perceptive powers, his grace in motion, his artistic passion for finish in everything he did, had knit the Colonel’s very soul to him. It warmed the little Colonel’s fighting heart, for instance, to have the boy in his boxing lessons come back again and again with a spirit that only grew more insatiable with punishment. For the Colonel was no dilettante instructor in the manly art, and every lesson ended in a fight that left the boy on the point of taking the count and the man pumping for wind.
No wonder the Colonel loathed his task. One consideration, and one only, held him to it. Either he must accomplish it or leave it to his wife, and, loyal soul as he was, he shuddered to think how very thoroughly and conscientiously Augusta could do her duty. No, there was nothing else for it. The task was his, and he would see it through. He would lure Paul off for a ride and somewhere in the environment of the open woods offering distraction he would deliver himself of his message.
But fate, in the shape of a young Holstein bull, took a hand, and to some purpose.
“There he is again, Uncle Colonel, among the Sleeman cattle, and you know they roam for ever and ever. Shall I cut him out?” Paul was pointing an indignant finger at the young Holstein bull which had broken through the Pine Croft fence.
“Can’t understand how that fence won’t hold the brute,” replied the Colonel. “It is supposed to be bull tight. Well, he’s got a bunch of your cattle with him. We must quietly edge them along toward the bars. That will be easier than finding the break. Ride ’em quietly, Paul. No hurry. Sing to ’em, boy.”
Easily the pinto cantered round the herd, gradually edging the Holsteins toward the bars, the young bull going quietly enough with them. It was very easily accomplished, and after half an hour’s cutting out the straying cattle, bull and all, were within their own “policies,” as the Colonel said.
“Hadn’t we better run young Braeside into the bull field while we are here?” suggested the Colonel. “I don’t like him wandering off all over the place.”
“All right, Uncle Colonel, I’ll just cut him out,” replied Paul, proud of his cowboy attainments.
But the bull had a mind of his own, and with a bellow and flourish of heels was away in a wild race toward the stables and corrals, Paul dashing madly at his heels. The race brought up at the cattle corral, into which Paul steered the surprised and winded animal, where he was made safe for the time being.
“Now, young fellow, you can stay there for a bit,” said the boy triumphantly, swinging his pony into a lope in the direction of the bungalow. A hundred yards, and the boy jerked his pony to his haunches and sat rigid, breathless, listening. Out of the bush rode the Colonel.
“You’ve got him, Paul,” he cried, catching sight of the boy.
But, heedless of him, Paul sat his pony as if turned into stone. From the bungalow came a rushing flood of weird harmonies. A look of uncertainty, almost of terror, was on the boy’s face.
“What’s that—who’s that?” he whispered. “It’s like——Is it my Daddy? Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” His voice rang out in a shrill, quavering cry. He shook the pinto into a gallop, flung himself headlong from the saddle and disappeared within the bungalow.
The Colonel waited, listening, fearful. There was the crashing of an unearthly chord, then silence.
“Well!” ejaculated the Colonel. “They don’t need me just at present.” He rode up quietly toward the bungalow, dismounted, tied his horse and, pulling out his pipe, threw himself down upon the grass near the door and waited. He finished his second pipeful, then, mounting his horse, he rode quietly homeward.
One part of his task at least was done. There was no need to break gently to the boy the news of his father’s homecoming. But the bite in the announcement still remained. He would have given something to have seen Paul meet his father and to know the reaction upon the boy of Gaspard’smenage, to employ his wife’s designation. Meantime he rode slowly home to his wife, sorely distressed for the boy who had become to him as his own son. The day would doubtless bring its own revelations, and he was philosopher enough to resolve that he would await developments. Later events justified the wisdom of this resolve.
The dinner hour brought Gaspard to the big white house in the proud convoy of his son, to be at first shyly, then warmly welcomed by Peg, an ardent admirer in the old days. During the dinner there was something pathetic in the eager, wistful anxiety of the father to appear quite at his ease and to carry off the situation with his old time aplomb, and equally pathetic in the boy’s apologetic pride in his father, whose whole manner somehow did not ring true.
Gaspard was obviously excited and overstrained, eager to please, too eager indeed, and yet insolently defiant, ready to fight. He seemed to be continuously conscious of an air of disapproval, if not contempt, on the part of his hostess. For, do her best, Augusta could not get out of her mind’s eye the little cavalcade which had accompanied Gaspard to the bungalow. Hence her disapproving contempt. Why did he bring them back with him? This was the question which, with irritating insistence, kept inserting itself among Gaspard’s efforts at brilliant conversation. Not the existence of that doubtful appanage of his, but his stupid effrontery in daring to flaunt the whole thing in the face of his friends and forcing them all to cut him. Augusta had no patience with such stupidity; indeed, she could not conceive how a man of the world could be guilty of any such ridiculous proceeding. It was a crime, not so much against the ethical standards of the valley, but against good form and common sense. In spite of herself, however, she began to be conscious of Gaspard’s old time charm. A brilliant conversationalist when he cared, a man of quite unusual intellectual culture, an art critic with a sure touch and true feeling, as the dinner advanced and as the Colonel’s generous old port began to warm the courage of his guest, Gaspard’s apologetic and wistful air began to evaporate and to give place to one of confident and complaisant ease. He was talking of “art,” with a very large capital A, to which he had been led by an appreciative reference to two new Raeburns which had recently arrived from England. He knew the artist’s work and his school. Once launched, he was off on a very even keel and with a steady breeze, over somewhat troubled waters, stretching from the pre-Raphaelites to the Cubists. From that to student days in theQuartier Latin, thence to his struggles with the hanging committee of the Academy, he roamed with ever increasing confidence and charm. Even the children were fascinated, while the Colonel was jubilantly delighted, for with all her resolution to preserve a coldly courteous attitude toward her visitor, Augusta, herself an enthusiast in art, found herself engaged in a vigorous discussion with the artist over the merits of the modern impressionists, whom she detested, eagerly challenging, agreeing, appealing, with all her old time enthusiasm.
Suddenly Gaspard paused in the full tide of his discussion, caught by the starry eyes of the fascinated Peggy opposite him at table.
“Mrs. Pelham,” he exclaimed eagerly, “there’s a picture for you. Why not let me do her? I’d love to!”
A grey curtain fell over the animated face of his hostess.
“Portraits are not really my strong suit. But I believe I could do Peg. I know I could. Eh, Peggy?” The little girl flashed a radiant smile at him.
“Come over in the morning with Paul, and I shall have a go at you, eh, what?”
“Peg has her lessons to do in the morning,” said her mother coldly. Her tone drew Gaspard’s eyes to her face. Had it not been for his state of exhilaration he would have been warned.
“Well, the early afternoon, then. Though I like the morning light better, and one is fresher in the morning.”
“I think we shall not consider a portrait of Peg just now, Mr. Gaspard.” Even in his present condition Gaspard got the full effect of the icy chill in her voice. Indeed, the whole table got it. The children gazed at her with wide eyes, questioning. They knew the tone and all its implications. The Colonel hastened to man the breach.
“Very kind of you, Gaspard, I’m sure. We greatly appreciate the offer. Some time a little later—when—a—things have—a—straightened out—a bit, you know. When you get settled down. You understand?”
“Quite. Or, at least, I think I do. I am not really quite sure.” Gaspard’s tone was a little weary. His voice had gone quite flat. But into his eyes a steely light had come, as he turned them full on the face of his hostess. That lady did not flinch. No one had ever accused her of lack of courage.
“A little thought, a very little thought will show Mr. Gaspard the impropriety of my little girl going to his house for the purpose suggested, or indeed for any purpose whatever.” The cold, incisive, deliberate tone cut like razor-edge steel, clean to the bone.
Gaspard shivered as from a knife thrust. His face went white, his lips blue. For two seconds there was silence, then the Colonel took command of the situation. In a voice of quiet, grave dignity he said, “Mr. Gaspard has made us a very kind and very courteous offer, which I most gladly accept.” The gallant little Colonel was in his best forlorn-hope form. “The arrangements for sittings will be made later. There are, however, matters which must be spoken of, and tonight. Perhaps the children will retire. It is their bed-time, my dear. Good-night, Peg. Paul, say good-night to your father.”
From one to another Peg flitted with a good-night kiss. With a grave and puzzled air Paul followed her example, reserving his father to the last.
“Good-night, Daddy,” he said in a clear, firm voice, putting his arms about his father’s neck. His father threw an arm about the boy and drew him close in a quick, strong embrace, and for a moment or two held him there.
“I’m awful, awfully glad you’re home, Daddy,” said the boy, standing up straight, with a hand on his father’s shoulder. “I’m awfully glad. I’m coming home tomorrow after lessons.” The boy, standing very straight, let his eyes pass from one to the other of the group about the table, as if challenging each to dispute his announcement.
A warm flush rose to Gaspard’s face. “Good-night, boy,” he said in a husky, hurried voice. “Not tomorrow, Paul, if Mrs. Pelham will allow you to remain a day or so—” his eyes were turned in wistful appeal to that lady.
“Oh, surely, Mr. Gaspard,” she hastened to reply. “We shall be glad to keep Paul as long as he can stay.”
“Thank you,” said Gaspard humbly. “Good-night, my boy. You will run over tomorrow afternoon, eh?”
“After lessons tomorrow morning, Daddy,” said Paul firmly.
“Come, Master Paul.” It was old Jinny, who considered it still her nightly duty and privilege to see Master Paul safely tucked away for the night.
“Ah, Jinny! Glad to see you again,” said Gaspard, rising and giving her hand a warm shake. “I hear you have been behaving yourself.”
“Aw, weel, they that asks a bugler needs yin,” said Jinny briskly. “I’m rale glad tae see ye, tho ye’re sair peakit like.”
“Well, I’ve had a bit of a cold, but I’ll soon be fit again. Well, good-night, Jinny. You have taken good care of the boy, I see.”
“An’ why wad I no?” said Jinny stoutly. “I held his mither on my knee. Guid-night, sir. Guid-night, mem.”
Gaspard stood staring after her in silence.
“A faithful and very worthy old soul,” said the Colonel, noting his gaze. “One of the best.”
“Yes, a faithful soul—faithful to the dead and faithful to the living.” He sank into his chair, covered his face with his hands and sat there huddled and silent.
“Brace up, old chap,” said the Colonel, after vigorously clearing his throat. “We understand, and we thoroughly sympathise with your whole position.” As he spoke the Colonel faced his wife boldly.
“Thank you, thank you, Pelham,” said Gaspard brokenly, grasping the Colonel’s hand. “More than I can say I appreciate your sympathy. God knows I need it, though I’m not asking for it.” He lifted his head and faced his hostess. “No, I’m not asking for it. I meant to tell you. It is but just to you—to all—that I should. You, Mrs. Pelham, disapprove of me and—of—of my household; not without reason, as far as I am concerned. As to—my—my household, a word or two is necessary. I married this Indian woman——”
“Married!” exclaimed the Colonel. “Good man!”
“Married!” cried Augusta. “But that’s different!”
“Ah, you thought—well! I don’t wonder you felt like kicking me out. Yes, I married her for two reasons. I knew it was what my dear wife would wish, as an act of justice to the woman and to her child Peter. Also, I wished to do so. She saved me from degradation and despair, and from death by my own hand. Tonight I am saying to you that, while the place in my heart once held by my dear—” he paused a moment with lips quivering—“my dear wife can be filled by no other, yet I can thank God that the woman now in my house is a good, pure-minded, cultured Christian woman.”
“My dear Gaspard, my dear Gaspard,” said Augusta, rising and coming to him with hand outstretched. “I cannot tell you how vastly thankful and relieved I am. The other thing would have made all communication between our families impossible, as you can see.”
“Good heavens! Do you think I——”
“Well, I did think it rather too much, you know. But now I am more relieved than words can express. I shall call—I shall go to see your wife, and shall see that my friends get this thing properly. Of course, you must understand that there will be some difficulty with some of our neighbours.”
“I am expecting nothing, dear Augusta. If you can allow the old relations to be re-established as far as Paul and I are concerned and can show a little kindness to my wife I shall be eternally obliged. Poor girl! She too has given up much. The chieftainship of a great and ancient people is hers, but all that she gave up for me—and her children. Now, as to Paul, I was going to ask——”
“My dear chap,” interrupted the Colonel in an exuberance of delight, “allow Augusta to tell you what we propose before you speak.”
“Well, Gaspard, you know,” said Augusta, “believing as I—as we did, we of course felt that the old relations could not very well be re-established. I mean—for Peg’s sake—for everybody’s sake. There are such things as conventions, and——”
“I know, I know,” agreed Gaspard.
“Well, we thought you would allow Paul to make his home—his headquarters—here with us. He could keep on his lessons with Peg. I look after them myself, and he is doing quite famously and is quite a help to Peg, I mean in the way of example and inspiration. Of course, now there is not the same necessity, but if you think——”
“Oh, thank you, dear Mrs. Pelham. I have thought this out during many dark and terrible nights in the North Country, and I resolved that, whatever duty I owed to Onawata, my present wife, I owed a prior duty to my dear wife now gone and to our boy Paul. I am not going to allow Paul’s future to be entangled or embarrassed by association with the children of mixed blood. No one can tell how they will turn out. While I am here they will be all right, but no one knows how long I shall be with them. Sometimes I have my fears as to myself. But as to Paul, I am resolved that he is not to be handicapped nor his future imperilled by the sins and follies of his father. He is a good boy. So if you could allow him to, as you say, make his headquarters with you, it would lift an immense weight off my shoulders and relieve the situation generally more than I can say.”
“Splendid! Splendid, old man!” exclaimed the delighted Colonel. “You have put it exactly as it should be put. We shall be more than delighted to have Paul stay with us. Indeed, I should feel it terribly to have to give him up completely. Nothing could be more satisfactory to us, eh, Augusta?”
“I am sure it is the best arrangement all round. Paul has his own future, his own life to work out, and—and—well, I am quite sure you have done the right thing. We shall do our best for Paul. He is indeed like our own son, and a really fine fellow.”
“Splendid chap! Wonderful chap! Brilliant chap! Make his mark some day if he lives,” exclaimed the Colonel, yielding to his enthusiasm for Paul, and vastly relieved over the solution of a problem that to him had presented the most painful possibilities.
The Colonel’s faith in a beneficent, over-ruling Providence was appreciably strengthened by the events of the evening.