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’s _menage_, 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 the _Quartier 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.