CHAPTER V

IN WHICH DICKIE IS INTRODUCED TO A LITTLE DANCER WITH BLUSH-ROSES IN

HER HAT

"Her ladyship's inquired for you more than once, sir." This from Winter

meeting the pony-carriage and the returning prodigal at the bottom of

the steps.

The sun was low. Across the square lawn--whereon the Clown had found

death some thirteen years before--peacocks led home their hens and

chicks to roost within the two sexagonal, pepper-pot summer-houses that

fill in the angles of the red-walled enclosure. The pea-fowl stepped

mincingly, high-shouldered, their heads carried low, their long necks

undulating with a self-conscious grace. Dickie's imagination was aglow

like that rose-red sunset sky. The virile sentiment of all just heard

and seen, and the exultation of admitted ownership were upon him. He

felt older, stronger, more secure of himself than ever before. He

proposed to go straight to his mother and confess. In his present mood

he entertained no fear but that she would understand.

"Is Lady Calmady alone?" he asked.

"Mr. and Mrs. Cathcart are with her, Sir Richard." Winter leant down,

loosening the rug. His usual, undemonstrative speech took on a

loftiness of tone. "Mrs. William Ormiston and her daughter have driven

over with Mrs. Cathcart."--The butler was not without remembrance of

that dinner on the day following Dickie's birth. Socially he had never

considered Lady Calmady's sister-in-law quite up to the Brockhurst

level.

Richard leaned back, watching the mincing peacocks. It was so fair here

out of doors. The scent of the may hung in the air. The flame of the

sunset bathed the facade of the stately house. No doubt it would be

interesting to see new people, new relations; but he really cared to

see no one just now, except his mother. From her he wanted to receive

absolution, so that, his conscience relieved of the burden of his

disobedience, he might revel to the full in the thought of the

inheritance upon which--so it seemed to him--he had to-day entered.

Still, in his present humour, Dickie's sense of _noblesse oblige_ was

strong.

"I suppose I've got to go in and help entertain everybody," he

remarked.

"Her ladyship'll think something's wrong, Sir Richard, and be anxious

if you stay away."

The boy held out his arms. "All right then, Winter," he said.

Here Chaplin again gave that admonitory cough. Richard, his face

hardening to slight scorn, looked at him over the butler's shoulder.

"Oh! You need not be uneasy, Chaplin. When I say I'll do a thing, I

don't forget."

Which brief speech caused the butler to reflect, as he bore the boy

across the hall and up-stairs, that Sir Richard was coming to have an

uncommonly high manner about him, at times, considering his age.

An unwonted loudness of conversation filled the Chapel-Room. It was

filled also by the rose-red light of the sunset streaming in through

the curve of the oriel-window. This confused and dazzled Richard

slightly, entering upon it from the silence and sober clearness of the

stair-head. A shrill note of laughter.--Mr. Cathcart's voice saying, "I

felt it incumbent upon me to object, Lady Calmady. I spoke very plainly

to Fallowfeild."--Julius March's delicately refined tones, "I am afraid

spirituality is somewhat deficient in that case."--Then the high

flute-like notes of a child, rising clearly above the general murmur,

"_Ah! enfin--le voila, Maman. C'est bien lui, n'est-ce pas?_" And with

that, Richard was aware of a sudden hush falling upon the assembled

company. He was sensible every one watched him as Winter carried him

across the room and set him down in the long, low armchair near the

fireplace. Poor Dickie's self-consciousness, which had been so

agreeably in abeyance, returned upon him, and a red, not of the sunset,

dyed his face. But he carried his head proudly. He thought of Chifney

and the horses. He refused to be abashed.

And Ormiston, breaking the silence, called to him cheerily:--

"Hello, old chap, what have you been up to? You gave Mary and me the

slip."

"I know I did," the boy answered bravely. "How d'ye do, Mrs. Cathcart?"

as the latter nodded and smiled to him--a large, gentle, comfortable

lady, uncertain in outline, thanks to voluminous draperies of black

silk and black lace. "How d'ye do, sir?" this to Mr. Cathcart--a tall,

neatly-made man, but for a slight roundness of the shoulders. Seeing

him, there remained no doubt as to whence Mary inherited her large

mouth; but matter for thankfulness that she had avoided further

inheritance. For Mr. Cathcart was notably plain. Small eyes and snub

nose, long lower jaw, and gray forward-curled whiskers rendered his

appearance unfortunately simian. He suggested a caricature; but one,

let it be added, of a person undeniably well-bred.

"My darling, you are very late," Katherine said. Her back was towards

her guests as she stooped down arranging the embroidered rug across

Dickie's feet and legs. Laying his hand on her wrist he squeezed it

closely for a moment.

"I--I'll tell you all about that presently, mummy, when they're gone.

I've been enjoying myself awfully--you won't mind?"

Katherine smiled. But, looking up at her, it appeared to Richard that

her face was very white, her eyes very large and dark, and that she was

very tall and, somehow, very splendid just then. And this fed his

fearlessness, fed his young pride, even as, though in a more subtle and

exquisite manner, his late experience of the racing-stable had fed

them. His mother moved away and took up her interrupted conversation

with Mr. Cathcart regarding the delinquencies of Lord Fallowfeild.

Richard looked coolly round the room.

Every one was there--Julius, Mary, Mademoiselle de Mirancourt, while

away in the oriel-window Roger Ormiston stood talking to a pretty,

plump, very much dressed lady, who chattered, laughed, stared, with

surprising vivacity. As Dickie looked at her she stared back at him

through a pair of gold eye-glasses. Against her knee, that rosy light

bathing her graceful, little figure, leant a girl about Dickie's own

age. She wore a pale pink and blue frock, short and outstanding in the

skirts. She also wore a broad-brimmed, white hat, with, a garland of

blush-roses around the crown of it. The little girl did not stare. She

contemplated Richard languidly, yet with sustained attention. Her

attitude and bearing were attractive. Richard wanted to see her close,

to talk to her. But to call and ask her to come to him was awkward. And

to go to her--the boy grew a little hot again--was more awkward still.

Mrs. Ormiston dropped her gold eye-glasses into her lap.

"It really is ten thousand pities when these things happen in the wrong

rank of life," she said. "Rightly placed they might be so profitable."

"For goodness sake, be careful, Ella," Ormiston put in quickly.

"Oh! My dear creature, don't be nervous. Everybody's attending to

everybody else, and if they did hear they wouldn't understand. I'm one

of the fortunate persons who are supposed never to talk sense and so I

can say what I like." Mrs. Ormiston gave her shrill little laugh. "Oh!

there are consolations, depend upon it, in a well-sustained reputation

for folly!"

The laugh jarred on Richard. He decided that he did not quite like his

aunt Charlotte Ormiston. All the same he wished the charming, little

girl would come to him.

"But to return. It's a waste. To some poor family it might have been a

perfect fortune. And I hate waste. Perhaps you have never discovered

that?"

Ormiston let his glance rest on the somewhat showy figure.

"I doubt if William has discovered it either," he remarked.

"Oh! as to your poor brother William, heaven only knows what he has or

has not discovered!--Now, Helen, this conversation becomes undesirable.

You've asked innumerable questions about your cousin. Go and make

acquaintance with him. I'm the best of mothers of course, but, at

times, I really can do quite well without you."

Now surely this was a day of good fortune, for again Dickie had his

desire. And a most surprisingly pretty, little desire it

proved--seductive even, deliciously finished in person and in manner.

The boy gazed at the girl's small hands and small, daintily shod feet,

at the small, lovely, pink and white face set in a cloud of

golden-brown hair, at the innocent, blue eyes, at the mouth with

upturned corners to it. Richard was not of age to remark the eyes were

rather light in colour, the lips rather thin. The exquisite refinement

of the girl's whole person delighted him. She was delicate as a

miniature, as a figure carved in ivory. She was like his Uncle Roger,

when she was silent and still. She was like--oh, poor Dick!--some

bright glancing, small, saucy bird when she spoke and her voice had

those clear, flute tones in it.

"Since you did not come to me, I had to come to you," she said. "I have

wanted so much to see you. I had heard about you at home, in Paris."

"Heard about me?" Dickie repeated, flattered and surprised. "But won't

you sit down. Look--that little chair. I can reach it."

And leaning sideways he stretched out his hand. But his finger-tips

barely touched the top rail. Richard flushed. "I'm awfully sorry," he

said, "but I am afraid--it isn't heavy--I must let you get it

yourself."

The girl, who had watched him intently, her hands clasped, gave a

little sigh. Then the corners of her mouth turned up as she smiled. A

delightful dimple showed in her right cheek.

"But, of course," she replied, "I will get it."

She settled herself beside him, folded her hands, crossed her feet,

exposing a long length of fine, open-work, silk stocking.

"I desired enormously to see you," she continued. "But when you came in

I grew shy. It is so with one sometimes."

"You should use your influence, Lady Calmady," Mr. Cathcart was saying.

"Unquestionably the condition of the workhouse is far from

satisfactory. And Fallowfeild is too lenient. That _laisser-aller_

policy of his threatens to land us in serious difficulties. The place

is insanitary, and the food is unnecessarily poor. I am not an advocate

for extravagance, but I cannot bear to see discomfort which might be

avoided. Fallowfeild is the most kind-hearted of men, but he has a

fatal habit of believing what people tell him. And those workhouse

officials have got round him. The whole matter ought to be subjected to

the strictest investigation."

"It is very nice of you to have wanted so much to see me," Dickie said.

His eyes were softly bright.

"Oh! but one always wants to see those who are talked about. It is a

privilege to have them for one's relations."

"But--but--I'm not talked about?" the boy put in, somewhat startled.

"But certainly. You are so rich. You have this superb _chateau_. You

are"--she put her head on one side with a pretty, saucy, birdlike

movement--"_enfin_," she said, "I had the greatest curiosity to make

your acquaintance. I shall tell all my young friends at the convent

about this visit. I promised them that, as soon as mamma said we should

probably come here. The good sisters also are interested. I shall

recount a whole history of this beautiful castle, and of you, and

your----"

She paused, clasped her hands, looking away at her mother, then

sideways at Richard, bowing her little person backwards and forwards,

laughing softly all the while. And her laughing face was

extraordinarily pretty under the shade of her broad-brimmed hat.

"It is a great misfortune we stay so short a time," she continued. "I

shall not see the half of all that I wish to see."

Then an heroic plan of action occurred to Richard. The daring

engendered by his recent act of disobedience was still active in him.

He was in the humour to attempt the impossible. He longed, moreover, to

give this delectable little person pleasure. He was willing even to

sacrifice a measure of personal dignity in her service.

"Oh! but if you care so much, I--I will show you the house," he said.

"Will you?" she cried. "You and I alone together. But that is precisely

what I want. It would be ravishing."

Poor Dickie's heart misgave him slightly; but he summoned all his

resolution. He threw off the concealing rug.

"I--I walk very slowly, I'm afraid," he said rather huskily, looking up

at her, while in his expression appeal mingled pathetically with

defiant pride.

"But, so much the better," she replied. "We shall be the longer

together. I shall have the more to observe, to recount."

She was on her feet. She hovered round him, birdlike, intent on his

every movement.

Meanwhile the sound of conversation rose continuous. Lady Calmady,

calling to Julius, had moved away to the great writing-table in the

farther window. Together they searched among a pile of papers for a

letter of Dr. Knott's embodying his scheme of the new hospital at

Westchurch. Mr. Cathcart stood by, expounding his views on the subject.

"Of course a considerable income can be derived from letters of

recommendation," he was saying, "in-patient and out-patient tickets.

The clergy come in there. They cannot be expected to give large

donations. It would be unreasonable to expect that of them."

Mademoiselle de Mirancourt, Mrs. Cathcart, and Mary had drawn their

chairs together. The two elder ladies spoke with a subdued enthusiasm,

discussing pleasant details of the approaching wedding, which promised

the younger lady so glad a future. Mrs. Ormiston chattered; while

Ormiston, listening to her, gazed away down the green length of the elm

avenue, beyond the square lawn and pepper-pot summer-houses, and pitied

men who made such mistakes in the matter of matrimony as his brother

William obviously had. The rose of the sunset faded in the west. Bats

began to flit forth, hawking against the still warm house-walls for

flies.

And so, unobserved, Dickie slipped out of the security of his armchair,

and rose to that sadly deficient full height of his. He was nervous,

and this rendered his balance more than ever uncertain. He shuffled

forward, steadying himself by a piece of furniture here and there in

passing, until he reached the wide open space before the door on to the

stair-head. And it required some fortitude to cross this space, for

here was nothing to lay hold of for support.

Little Helen Ormiston had kept close beside him so far. Now she drew

back, leaving him alone. Leaning against a table, she watched his

laborious progress. Then a fit of uncontrollable laughter took her. She

flew half-way across to the oriel-window, her voice ringing out clear

and gay, though broken by bursts of irrepressible merriment.

"_Regardez, regardez donc, Maman! Ma bonne m'avait dit qu'il etait un

avorton, et que ce serait tres amusant de le voir. Elle m'a conseiller

de lui faire marcher_."

She darted back, and clapping her hands upon the bosom of her charming

frock, danced, literally danced and pirouetted around poor Dickie.

"_Moi, je ne comprenais pas ce que c'etait qu'un avorton_," she

continued rapidly. "_Mais je comprends parfaitement maintenant. C'est

un monstre, n'est-ce pas, Maman_?"

She threw back her head, her white throat convulsed by laughter.

"_Ah! mon Dieu, qu'il est drole_!" she cried.

Silence fell on the whole room, for sight and words alike were

paralysing in their grotesque cruelty. Ormiston was the first to speak.

He laid his hand somewhat roughly on his sister-in-law's shoulder.

"For God's sake, stop this, Ella," he said. "Take the girl away. Little

brute," he added, under his breath, as he went hastily across to poor

Dick.

But Lady Calmady had been beforehand with him. She swept across the

room, flinging aside the dainty, dancing figure as she passed. All the

primitive fierceness, the savage tenderness of her motherhood surged up

within her. Katherine was in the humour to kill just then, had killing

been possible. She was magnificently regardless of consequences,

regardless of conventionalities, regardless of every obligation save

that of sheltering her child. She cowered down over Richard, putting

her arms about him, knew--without question or answer--that he had heard

and understood. Then gathering him up against her, she stood upright,

facing them all, brother, sister, old and tried friends, a terrible

expression in her eyes, the boy's face pressed down upon her shoulder.

For the moment she appeared alienated from, and at war with, even

Julius, even Marie de Mirancourt. No love, however faithful, could

reach her. She was alone, unapproachable, in her immense anger and

immense sense of outrage.

"I will ask you to go," she said to her sister-in-law,--"to go and take

your daughter with you, and to enter this house no more."

Mrs. Ormiston did not reply. Even her chatter was for the moment

stilled. She pressed a handkerchief against the little dancer's

forehead, and it was stained with blood.

"Ah! she is a wicked woman!" wailed the child. "She has hurt me. She

threw me against the table. _Maman quel malheur ca se verra. Il y aura

certainement une cicatrice_!"

"Nonsense," Ormiston said harshly. "It's nothing, Kitty, the merest

scratch."

"Yes, my dear, we will have the carriage at once,"--this from Mr.

Cathcart to his wife. The incident, from all points of view, shocked

his sense of decency. Immediate retirement became his sole object.

Lady Calmady moved away, carrying the boy. She trembled a little. He

was heavy. Moreover, she sickened at the sight of blood. But little

Helen Ormiston caught at her dress, looked up at her.

"I hate you," she said, hissing the words out with concentrated passion

between her pretty even teeth. "You have spoilt me. I will hate you

always, when I grow up. I will never forget."

Alone in the great state-bedroom next door, a long time elapsed before

either Richard or Katherine spoke. The boy leaned back against the sofa

cushions, holding his mother's hand. The casements stood wide open, and

little winds laden with the scent of the hawthorns in the park wandered

in, gently stirring the curtains of the ebony bed, so that the trees of

the Forest of This Life thereon embroidered appeared somewhat

mournfully to wave their branches, while the Hart fled forward and the

Leopard, relentless in perpetual pursuit, followed close behind. There

was a crunching of wheels on the gravel, a sound of hurried farewells.

Then in a minute or two more the evening quiet held its own again.

Suddenly Dickie flung himself down across Katherine's lap, his poor

body shaken by a tempest of weeping.

"Mother, I can't bear it--I can't bear it," he sobbed. "Tell me, does

everybody do that?"

"Do what, my own precious?" she said, calm from very excess of sorrow.

Later she would weep too in the dark, lying lonely in the cold comfort

of that stately bed.

"Laugh at me, mother, mock at me?" and his voice, for all that he tried

to control it, tore at his throat and rose almost to a shriek.