"THE BLUDGEONINGS OF CHANCE"
They had been at Wren's End nearly three weeks, and sometimes Jan
wondered if she appeared to Tony as unlike her own conception of herself
as Tony's of his father was unlike what she had pictured him.
She knew Hugo Tancred to be dishonest, shifty, and wholly devoid of a
sense of honour, but she had up till quite lately always thought of him
as possessing a lazy sort of good-nature.
Tony was changing this view.
He was not yet at all talkative, but every now and then when he was
alone with her he became frank and communicative, as reserved people
often will when suddenly they let themselves go. And his very simplicity
gave force to his revelations.
During their last year together in India it was evident that downright
antagonism had existed between Hugo Tancred and his little son. Tony had
weighed his father and found him wanting; and it was clear that he had
tried to insert his small personality as a buffer between his father and
mother.
Jan talked constantly to the children of their mother. Her portraits,
Anthony's paintings and sketches, were all over the house, in every
variety of happy pose. One of the best was hung at the foot of Tony's
cot. The gentle blue eyes seemed to follow him in wistful benediction,
and alone in bed at night he often thought of her, and of his home in
India. It was, then, quite natural that he should talk of them to this
Auntie Jan who had evidently loved his mother well; and from Tony Jan
learned a good deal more about her brother-in-law than she had ever
heard from his wife.
Tony loved to potter about with his aunt in the garden. She worked
really hard, for there was much to do, and he tried his best to assist,
often being a very great hindrance; but she never sent him away, for she
desired above all things to gain his confidence.
One day after a hard half-hour's weeding, when Tony had wasted much time
by pulling up several sorts of the wrong thing, Jan felt her temper
getting edgy, so they sat down to rest upon one of the many convenient
seats to be found at Wren's End. Anthony hated a garden where you
couldn't sit comfortably and smoke, wheresoever the prospect was
pleasing.
Tony sat down too, looking almost rosy after his labours.
He didn't sit close and cuddly, as little Fay would have done, but right
at the other end of the seat, where he could stare at her. Every day was
bringing Tony more surely to the conclusion that "he liked to look at"
his aunt.
"You like Meg, don't you?" he said.
"No," Jan shook her head. "I don't like her. I love her; which is quite
a different thing."
"Do you like people and love them?"
"I like some people--a great many people--then there are others, not so
many, that I love--you're one of them."
"Is Fay?"
"Certainly, dear little Fay."
"And Peter?"
For a moment Jan hesitated. With heightened colour she met Tony's grave,
searching eyes. Above everything she desired to be always true and
sincere with him, that he might, as on that first night in England, feel
that he "believed" her. "I have every reason to love Mr. Ledgard," she
said slowly: "he was so wonderfully kind to all of us." She was
determined to be loyal to Peter with poor Fay's children. Jan hated
ingratitude. To have said she only liked Peter must have given Tony the
impression that she was both forgetful and ungrateful. She would not
risk that even though she might risk misunderstanding of another kind if
he ever repeated her words to anybody else.
Her heart beat rather faster than was comfortable, and she was thankful
that she and Tony were alone.
"Who _do_ you like?" he asked.
"Nearly everybody; the people in the village, our good neighbours ...
Can't you see the difference yourself? Now, you love your dear Mummy and
you like ... say, William----"
"No," Tony said firmly, "I love William. I don't think," he went on, "I
like people ... much. Either I love them like you said, or I don't care
about them at all ... or I hate them."
"That," said Jan, "is a mistake. It's no use to hate people."
"But if you feel like it ... I hate people if they cheat me."
"But who on earth would cheat you? What do you mean?"
"Once," said Tony, and by the monotonous, detached tone of his voice Jan
knew he was going to talk about his father, "my Daddie asked me if I'd
like to see smoke come out of his ears ... an' he said: 'Put your hand
here on me and watch very careful.'" Tony pointed to Jan's chest. "I put
my hand there and I watched and watched an' he hurt me with the end of
his cigar. There's the mark!" He held out a grubby little hand, back
uppermost, for Jan's inspection, and there, sure enough, was the little
round white scar.
"And what did you do?" she asked.
"I bit him."
"Oh, Tony, how dreadful!"
"I shouldn't of minded so much if he'd really done it--the smoke out of
his ears, I mean; but not one teeniest little puff came. I watched so
careful ... He cheated me."
Jan said nothing. What could she say? Hot anger burned in her heart
against Hugo. She could have bitten him herself.
"Peter was there," Tony went on, "and Peter said it served him right."
"Yes," said Jan, grasping at this straw, "but what did Peter say to
you?"
"He said, 'Sahibs don't cry and sahibs don't bite,' and if I was a sahib
I mustn't do it, so I don't. I don't bite people often."
"I should hope not; besides, you know, sometimes quite good-natured
people will do things in fun, never thinking it will hurt."
Tony gazed gloomily at Jan. "He cheated me," he repeated. "He said he
would make it come out of his ears, and it didn't. He didn't like
me--that's why."
"I don't think you ought to say that, and be so unforgiving. I expect
Daddie forgot all about your biting him directly, and yet you remember
what he did after this long time."
Poor Jan did try so hard to be fair.
"I wasn't afraid of him," Tony went on, as though he hadn't heard, "not
really. Mummy was. She was drefully afraid. He said he'd whip me because
I was so surly, and she was afraid he would ... I _knew_ he wouldn't,
not unless he could do it some cheaty way, and you can't whip people
that way. But it frightened Mummy. She used to send me away when he
came...."
Tony paused and knitted his brows, then suddenly he smiled. "But I
always came back very quick, because I knew she wanted me, and I liked
to look at him. He liked Fay, I suppose he liked to look at her, so do
I. Nobody wants to look at me ... much ... except Mummy."
"I do," Jan said hastily. "I like to look at you just every bit as much
as I like to look at Fay. I think you care rather too much what people
look like, Tony."
"It does matter a lot," Tony said obstinately.
"Other things matter much more. Courage and kindness and truth and
honesty. Look at Mr. Ledgard--he's not what you'd call a beautiful
person, and yet I'm sure we all like to look at him."
"Sometimes you say Peter, and sometimes Mr. Ledgard. Why?"
Again Jan's heart gave that queer, uncomfortable jump. She certainly
always _thought_ of him as Peter. Quite unconsciously she occasionally
spoke of him as Peter. Meg had observed this, but, unlike Tony, made no
remark.
"Why?" Tony repeated.
"I suppose," Jan mumbled feebly, "it's because I hear the rest of you do
it. I've no sort of right to."
"Auntie Jan," Tony said earnestly. "What is a devil?"
"I haven't the remotest idea, Tony," Jan replied, with the utmost
sincerity.
"It isn't anything very nice, is it, or nice to look at?"
"It might be," said Jan, with Scottish caution.
"Daddie used to call me a surly little devil--when I used to come back
because Mummy was frightened ... she was always frightened when he
talked about money, and he did it a lot ... When he saw me, he would
say: 'Wot you doing here, you surly little devil--listening, eh?'"
Tony's youthful voice took on such a snarl that Jan positively jumped,
and put out her hand to stop him. "'I'll give you somefin to listen
to....'"
"Tony, Tony, couldn't you try to forget all that?"
Tony shook his head. "No! I shall never forget it, because, you see,
it's all mixed up with Mummy so, and you said"--here Tony held up an
accusing small finger at Jan--"you said I was never to forget her, not
the least little bit."
"I know I did," Jan owned, and fell to pondering what was best to be
done about these memories. Absently she dug her hoe into the ground,
making ruts in the gravel, while Tony watched her solemnly.
"Then why," he went on, "do you not want me to remember Daddie?"
"Because," said Jan, "everything you seem to remember sounds so unkind."
"Well, I can't help that," Tony answered.
Jan arose from the seat. "If we sit idling here all afternoon," she
remarked severely, "we shall never get that border weeded for Earley."
The afternoon post came in at four, and when Jan went in there were
several letters for her on the hall-table, spread out by Hannah in a
neat row, one above the other. It was Saturday, and the Indian mail was
in. There was one from Peter, but it was another letter that Jan seized
first, turning it over and looking at the post-mark, which was
remarkably clear. She knew the excellent handwriting well, though she
had seen it comparatively seldom.
It was Hugo Tancred's; and the post-mark was Port Said. She opened it
with hands that trembled, and it said:
"MY DEAR JAN,
"In case other letters have miscarried, which is quite
possible while I was up country, let me assure you how
grateful I am for all you did for my poor wife and the
children--and for me in letting me know so faithfully what
your movements have been. I sent to the bank for your
letters while passing through Bombay recently, and but for
your kindness in allowing the money I had left for my
wife's use to remain to my credit, I should have been
unable to leave India, for things have gone sadly against
me, and the world is only too ready to turn its back upon a
broken man.
"When I saw by the notice in the papers that my beloved
wife was no more, I realised that for me the lamp is
shattered and the light of my life extinguished. All that
remains to me is to make the best of my poor remnant of
existence for the sake of my children.
"We will talk over plans when we meet. I hope to be in
England in about another month, perhaps sooner, and we will
consult together as to what is best to be done.
"I have no doubt it will be possible to find a good and
cheap preparatory school where Tony can be safely bestowed
for the present, and one of my sisters would probably take
my precious little Fay, if you find it inconvenient to have
her with you. A boy is always better at school as soon as
possible, and I have strong views as to the best methods of
education. I never for a moment forget my responsibilities
towards my children and the necessity for a father's
supreme authority.
"You may be sure that, in so far as you make it possible
for me to do so, I will fall in with your wishes regarding
them in every way.
"It will not be worth your while writing to me here, as my
plans are uncertain. I will try to give you notice of my
arrival, but may reach you before my next letter.
"Yours affectionately,
"HUGO TANCRED."
Still as a statue sat Jan. From the garden came the cheerful chirruping
of birds and constant, eager questioning of Earley by the children.
Earley's slow Gloucestershire speech rumbled on in muffled _obbligato_
to the higher, carrying, little voices.
The whirr of a sewing-machine came from the morning-room, now the
day-nursery, where Meg was busy with frocks for little Fay.
In a distant pantry somebody was clinking teacups. Jan shivered, though
the air from the open window was only fresh, not cold. At that moment
she knew exactly how an animal feels when caught in a trap. Hugo
Tancred's letter was the trap, and she was in it. With the exception of
the lie about other letters--Jan was perfectly sure he had written no
other letters--and the stereotyped phrases about shattered lamps and the
wife who was "no more," the letter was one long menace--scarcely veiled.
That sentence, "in so far as you make it possible for me to do so, I
will fall in with your wishes regarding them in every way," simply meant
that if Jan was to keep the children she must let Hugo make ducks and
drakes of her money; and if he took her money, how could she do what she
ought for the children?
And he was at Port Said; only a week's journey.
Why had she left that money in Bombay? Why had she not listened to
Peter? Sometimes she had thought that Peter held rather a cynically low
view of his fellow-creatures--some of his fellow-creatures. Surely no
one could be all bad? Jan had hoped great things of adversity for Hugo
Tancred. Peter indulged in no such pleasant illusions, and said so.
"Schoolgirl sentimentality" Meg had called it, and so it was. "No doubt
it will be possible to find some cheap preparatory school for Tony."
Would he try to steal Tony?
From the charitable mood that hopeth all things Jan suddenly veered to a
belief in all things evil of her brother-in-law. At that moment she felt
him capable of murdering the child and throwing his little body down a
well, as they do in India.
Again she shivered.
What was she to do?
So helpless, so unprotected; so absolutely at his mercy because she
loved the children. "Never let him blackmail you," Peter had said.
"Stand up to him always, and he'll probably crumple up."
Suddenly, as though someone had opened shutters in a pitch-dark room,
letting in the blessed light, Jan remembered there was also a letter
from Peter.
She crossed the hall to get it, though her legs shook under her and her
knees were as water.
She felt she couldn't get back to the window-seat, so she sat on the
edge of the gate-table and opened the letter.
A very short letter, only one side of a page.
"DEAR MISS ROSS,
"This is the last mail for a bit, for I come myself by the
next, the _Macedonia_. You may catch me at Aden, but
certainly a note will get me at Marseilles, if you are kind
enough to write. Tancred has been back in Bombay and gone
again in one of the smaller home-going boats. Where he got
the money to go I can't think, for from many sources lately
I've heard that his various ventures have been far from
prosperous, and no one will trust him with a rupee.
"So look out for blackmail, and be firm, mind.
"I go to my aunt in Artillery Mansions on arrival. When may
I run down to see you all?
"Yours always sincerely,
"PETER LEDGARD."