“Oh, yes, I know, the nice girl with dark eyes—tragic eyes, tragic eyes
set in a calm face. Nature plays curious tricks, doesn’t she?”
“Yes—I suppose she does. She is my niece.”
“The girl with the tragic eyes—that accounts for it, then.”
“No—no—the child.”
“A delightful child.”
That started Marcus—off he went. It was astonishing how much he found
to say about Shan’t. From her getting up in the morning to her going to
bed at night: he told it all—and the woman in the bath-chair listened
with gentle amusement. Here was a father utterly wasted. This man
should marry: but not the girl with tragic, happy, big brown eyes.
She mustn’t marry a man who would criticize her and be ashamed of her
connections. This man was not a big enough man to marry her. He must
marry one of his set; who knew what to say and when to say it, and how
to say it: who would have things social at her finger-tips. The woman
in the bath-chair liked the girl with brown eyes, but she saw at a
glance what background should be hers. She settled her in her home with
a devoted husband. They would furnish in suites. The girl would have
her embroidered tea-cosy: that was certain and a table centre of Indian
embroidery—it might be worked in gold thread: it might be worked in
green beetles. She would wear—? She would dress in the height of the
fashion. This was delightful. The elderly woman loved making up stories
about people. But it didn’t amuse Marcus; he didn’t know what she was
smiling at.
“What amuses you?” he asked.
“So much—nearly everything! In fact everything except the tragedies of
life—and those often might have been avoided if some one had laughed at
the right moment.”
“The difficulty is to know the right moment,” said Marcus. “What amused
you?”
She told him: described the home she had chosen for the girl. Marcus
said she was very unkind. Why unkind? she wanted to know. She was
praising the girl, if only he could see it. That was why he could
never marry a girl like that: he could never see how delightful, how
wholesome, how splendid she was.
“If you had a son—would you like him to marry her?”
“No, because my son might, I am afraid, be something like you. Too
spoilt to be natural. Both you and he would look for things that are
superficial and unnecessary—a certain easy manner—a ready jargon. You
are perfectly right to look for it, for you have come to expect it.
As I say, you would criticize this girl—and criticism would stunt her
growth. She would be unnatural, and in course of time she would be
unhappy. But the young man she should marry will admire her: bring out
the best in her: encourage her; and in course of time what she must
learn will be taught her by her sons and daughters. The daughters will
criticize her and the sons will force her to be different. By that time
she will be ready to change—and in the background there will always be
her husband to tell her, when they find themselves alone, that he liked
her best as she was, and things as they used to be. And if she had not
been so happy young she would never have such fine boys and girls, and
it is her boys and girls—girls particularly—who are going to make
England. Now let us see the little niece—I am rather blind—I cannot see
her face at a distance.”
Marcus called “Shan’t” and Mrs. Sloane smiled. This Marcus did not
see. He was rearranging the skirts of Shan’t: pulling up her socks;
arranging her hair, so that some of it at least showed under her hat;
then he patted her generally, as any mother might have done.
“Well?” said the elderly woman.
“Oh!” said Shan’t, beaming.
Marcus was delighted to see how quickly they made friends. Every one
took to Shan’t.
He turned and found the dark-eyed girl coming towards him—shyly
advancing. She was certainly too self-conscious. “My mother says we
should be so pleased if you would come shrimping with us this afternoon
and come to supper afterwards.” She had made the great advance; Marcus
would have retreated, but he had been caught unprepared; he hesitated,
seeking an excuse. The first that presented itself to him was that
his legs were too pale, as Shan’t’s had been: the next that he didn’t
shrimp.
“But you must have supper somewhere?” she suggested.
Marcus could not say that as a rule he did not have it anywhere, so he
said—“Oh, thank you—”
“Then you _will_?”
While Marcus was talking to the girl the elderly woman stooped
forward—and drew Shan’t towards her. “Shan’t, darling,” she said,
“don’t tell Uncle Marcus I know you. For a joke, let’s pretend.”
“Let’s!” said Shan’t, enchanted. She required no more than a hint,
and when Marcus came back, deeply engaged to supper, he found the two
talking—making conversation.
“Have you many children?” asked Shan’t, sitting down on an inverted tin
bucket.
“No—I have no children.”
“That’s—a pity, isn’t it?”
“Yes—it’s a great pity.”
“No boys—not one? Perhaps you’ve forgotten—? You might have one or
two—perhaps in the toy cupboard—”
“Not one.”
“Oh, dear—I hope your little dog is quite well?”
“Thank you very much—but my little dog is dead.”
“Oh, dear—I _am_ surprised—they don’t generally—but the gooseberries
are very good this year, at least I think they are.”
“Excellent,” said the elderly lady; “I have never seen better.”
“And the red-currants are rather good,” said Shan’t.
“Excellent.”
“Do you paddle often?” asked Shan’t.
“No, I have just had influenza.”
“Oh, dear—that’s rather a pity.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“It _is_—what shall I say next?” she whispered.
“You mustn’t whisper,” said Marcus; “it isn’t polite.”
“I think—I’ll just go—and look for—crabs,” said Shan’t, getting pink.
“Do,” said the elderly woman. “A most intelligent child,” she added,
turning to Marcus, “but why does she wear shoes and socks and a hat?”
“Ought she not?” asked Marcus anxiously.
“She would be happier without—but leave her now. Tell me about her.”
“She’s a curious child in some ways—the way she makes friends, surely,
is unusual; and her conversation with you—rather advanced for a child
of her age, isn’t it?”
“Most unusual.”
“It’s not dangerous, is it?”
“I see no possible danger in her talking to me.”
“No; I mean she isn’t too clever for her age, is she?”
“She is so much with you—isn’t she?”
Marcus smiled—“Oh, I didn’t mean that.”
That evening Mrs. Sloane wrote a letter and it ran as follows:
DEAREST ELSIE,—I have met the ogre. He’s really rather an ingratiating
ogre and the most attentive of uncles. He is delightful with Shan’t.
He is taken for a widower with his little girl. One dark-eyed siren
has already tried to enchant him. I have interfered. The girl is much
too good for him, and in other ways unsuitable. He couldn’t make her
happy and she certainly would make him very unhappy. He would be in no
danger at all if he were not bored and the mother managing. I don’t
see, Elsie, why you should dislike him. He doesn’t know that I know
you. Amusing, isn’t it? Shan’t and I are in the secret. She plays up
splendidly—makes conversation and asks me how many children I have.
She seems very happy and quite at home. She is too heavily hatted and
stoutly shod, but I have interfered there, too. To me the uncle seems
wasted. He should marry. I should make friends, if I were you.
To which Elsie wrote back that she was perfectly friendly towards Mr.
Maitland. It was he who was impossible. She certainly couldn’t make
advances. He had been very rude and very selfish about Diana. Diana,
dear child, was very loyal to him and never said anything against him.
Shan’t, of course, childlike, would be fond of any one who indulged her.
The elderly woman lay back in her chair and laughed when she read
Elsie’s letter. Elsie was perfectly friendly towards the poor uncle.
What would she be if she were unfriendly?
X
_It takes an engineer to dam a river: a mere man
may stem the tide of a child’s crying, and if he can’t
there is always the woman waiting; it’s her job._
“Horrible!” thought Marcus as he made his way towards the house where
lodged the girl and her mother, and he supposed her brothers and
sisters. Supper? And shrimps for supper? The shrimps he had been asked
to shrimp for? Why had Shan’t got him into this difficulty?
It was her fault. If she had been less get-at-able, less ready with her
all-embracing smile, he would never have known the girl and her mother.
If Sibyl hadn’t married Eustace Carston this could never have happened.
Arrived at the house Marcus found the door wide open. He knocked on it
with his stick and viciously broke a blister in the paint which took
him back to the joys of boyhood. Out rushed a small boy—exactly the
kind of small boy he should have expected. A boy covered with sand—his
hair full of it—his knees sandy—his stockings held sand in every rib.
“Hullo! You have come, then? Mum said you would funk it at the last
moment.”
“Did she?” asked Marcus. Was here an excuse he could seize—
“Come in—the teapot’s on the table.”
Marcus followed the sandy boy into a room that seemed full to
overflowing—of the girl’s relations. They all had great big eyes, some
brown, some blue: all too big. Their cheeks were too pink—they were
all horribly healthy. It was just the sort of family she would belong
to. The girl detached herself from a crowd gathered round what they
chose to call an aquarium, to make much of Marcus—to put him at his
ease. She wore a pink blouse and was quite free from sand. Her cheeks
were flushed, but that might come from shrimping. She was a little
too pleased to see him, and a little too grateful to him for coming.
Perhaps she knew how much he was suffering. She must know he wasn’t
accustomed to this kind of thing. He thought of Diana. How would she
look in the midst of this family? Delightfully cool, he knew, and
tremendously amused. She would love to see him being made a fuss of by
the wrong kind of people.
The sandy boy, having given his sister her chance, proceeded to take
his and monopolized Mr. Maitland.
Marcus thought in despair that the tea, if ever possible at this hour,
must by now be quite undrinkable. The sandy boy had a crab in water to
show Mr. Maitland, and a starfish imprisoned—it had died—and there were
jellyfish in a bucket—jellyfish of all pets the least likely to move
Marcus to enthusiasm. He tried to be interested—was beginning to like
the small boy a little—when the mother came and told Sandy to leave Mr.
Maitland alone.
“Why should Rose have him?” asked the sandy boy, defiantly.
“Sandy, you scamp,” said his mother, “what nonsense you talk!”
“It _isn’t_—you _said_—we were to leave Rosie with Mr. Maitland—”
“Sandy, Sandy, where do you expect to go to—?”
“_When?_ Well—you said, we were to leave him”—nodding in Marcus’s
direction—“to Rosie—it comes to the same thing.”
“Are you interested in old things, Mr. Maitland?” asked Mrs. Madder.
Marcus said he was—in some old things.
“We are always on the lookout—this is a sweet little print, isn’t it?”
She held out a cheaply framed, hand-coloured print for his inspection.
Marcus looked at it and asked where she had got it.
“Oh, that’s telling,” she answered playfully; “the man said it was a
bargain, though I don’t think even he knew its true value. What do you
think I gave for it?”
Marcus said he had no idea. Mrs. Madder challenged him to guess, but
did not wait to hear whether he made a good guess or not. He must see
the quaintest little bit of china she had bought! Was he jealous? That
it was quaint Marcus could say with perfect truth—with less truth that
he was very jealous.
“It’s such fun collecting, isn’t it?” she asked impetuously. She was
terribly impetuous and inclined to be playful.
He admitted it was—great—fun.
“And it doesn’t cost much, if you know!”
Marcus said no doubt she was right, it was a question of knowledge, and
he sat with the china woolly lamb in his hands, with his thoughts on
that horrible teapot.
“Isn’t supper ready?” asked some one.
“Ages ago,” said the sandy boy; “I simply yelled that the teapot was on
the table.”
“You should have said it louder,” suggested another.
Marcus was put next to Rosie; Mrs. Madder explaining that there was
no need for ceremony; besides, she was so busy with the teapot she
wouldn’t be able to amuse Mr. Maitland:—and Auntie was deaf, so she
liked to have her next her, so that she could repeat the jokes to
her. “Here, Auntie! Next to me; I will tell you if Mr. Maitland says
anything amusing.”
On the other side of Marcus sat a man who, gathering that Mr. Maitland
was interested in old things, told him of all the cheap places he knew
in London—and after having done that, told him most of the contents of
a shilling hand-book on “How to collect anything, and everything.” It
was most interesting—only a shilling! He would lend it to Mr. Maitland.
Mr. Maitland said he had hardly time to collect everything. The man
smiled and said it did not mean “everything” literally, naturally, and
he was hurt and refused to talk any more. Gratefully Marcus turned to
the quiet Rose at his other side who had nothing to teach him, but a
generous sympathy to offer any one. She was ready to be sorry about
anything—sorry that he wouldn’t have any more tea—no more lobster
salad? Well, blanc-mange, then? Not with strawberry jam? Well—sardines?
Shrimps, then? Shrimps, he _must_, because they were the shrimps he
ought to have caught.
No, nothing, Marcus assured her. He had dined—suppered—he had had quite
enough.
“We make cocoa when we come in,” said Rose, beaming at him.
Here at least was certain comfort and something to look forward to.
“Come in from where?” he asked.
“Oh, we just go out and wander about—it’s so delicious—you will—won’t
you? It’s too hot to stay indoors, isn’t it?”
“Much too hot.”
“Before you go out, Rosie,” said her mother, “just play Mr. Maitland
that dear little Berceuse—Tum-ti tum-ti tum—you know.”
“Oh, no, mother.”
“Oh, no,” said Marcus.
“Don’t you like music?” she asked, surprised, men so often did.
“I have never—”
“Well you should hear Rosie. I’m sure you would like it—but I’m afraid
the piano hasn’t been tuned—”
“Please don’t, mother!”
“After all we have paid for you, Rosie! Rosie!”
“Some other time,” pleaded Marcus; “it’s so hot indoors.”
“Do you find it hot? Sandy, let Mr. Maitland sit next the door; there,
do move, Mr. Maitland! Auntie, make room for Mr. Maitland and Rosie.”
She shook her head, “She can’t hear. Well, shall we go out, then?”
Marcus stepped out into the fresh, cool air with a sigh of deepest
thankfulness. Even the girl who trod the red-bricked path beside him
he could forgive for daring to fall in love with him. The mother for
trying to catch him he should never forgive; but there was something
attractive about Rosie. “Shall we sit here?” she asked when they
reached the sands. He would rather she had left it to him to choose
the place; but in full view of the whole watering-place and that a
favourite one, there should be no immediate danger. Under the shelter
of a rock they sat. Yes—she was attractive—he could see no reason why
she should marry as the old lady in the bath-chair had imagined she
should. Surely there must be something between Marcus Maitland and
that other man? Rose knew how to be quiet, which was a great thing in
woman.—She stuck out her feet. Her shoes? Bad shape; and her stockings?
They weren’t quite right. He didn’t see what was wrong exactly—unless
it was that the other sides of the seams showed through—but still she
was very attractive: her simplicity was engaging. Well-shaped shoes
were after all a matter—a question of money.
“It’s funny you should be Mr. Maitland, isn’t it?” she said, digging
her heels into the soft sand and looking up at him under her long, dark
eyelashes.
“It would be far funnier if I was not—funnier to me, at all events.”
“Yes, of course: you are so amusing, aren’t you?”
“Am I? I don’t think so.” He was open to conviction.
“Yes, you are—I’m serious—don’t you think you are?”
“Amusing?”
“Yes.”
“I never thought so.”
“Well, you are—and I’m sure you are—kind too!”
“Are you, why?” Unconsciously, perhaps, Marcus put on the kindest face
in the world—an absurd face it was, but Rose was looking the other way.
“You look it,” she said softly.
Marcus said she had said he looked so many things, amongst them a
widower.
“Oh, I am so glad you are not that.” The tragic eyes were turned upon
him—they were positively wells of deep thankfulness.
“Why?” He was terrified—yet, fascinated, he must know why.
She said she would have hated him to be unhappy.
“But,”—he was getting very uncomfortable: he wished Shan’t would come
and bury him in the sand, as she was wont to do—deep, deep, deep.
“But,” he went on desperately, “I might not have been unhappy—”
“Not if your wife had died? I should have hated that—I mean I should
hate you to be—shallow. I know you would have been heart-broken: I
should wish you to be.” That settled it, once and for all—
“Why?” Marcus felt he was now paddling in pathos. He saw himself a
widower walking to church with a child on either side: their hands in
his.
“Because I want you to think rather wonderfully of marriage—and married
life.”
Marcus said hastily that he could not think of them at all.
“Why—you must—for my sake. You will—if I ask you to.”
“Because there are reasons” (there were none, of course) “I can never
marry.”
“I—am—so sorry—” There was a terrific silence—an impossible silence.
She broke it gently—broke it as softly as the waves broke upon the
sands. “But you won’t mind if I do?”
“My dear child, of course not—do you want to?” This was a marvellous
way out.
She said, Yes, but she could not do it without him.
He asked what he had to do with it, and she said, “More than you know,”
which he was willing enough to admit!—So far as he could see he had
nothing to do with it.
“Much more than you know,” she repeated.
She drew up her feet. They were very pretty slim feet, he discovered.
He liked the shoes even, except that they were white. He didn’t really
like white shoes. She clasped her hands round her knees. He liked her
hands, particularly liked them. They were long and delightfully brown.
He didn’t mind brown hands—not a bit—at the seaside.
“Whom do you want to marry?” he asked, feeling a sudden rush of
tenderness towards this dark-eyed girl, and a slight resentment towards
the man she would marry. This girl had found him both sympathetic and
amusing. If Diana thought him amusing she would never tell him so.
“That’s the curious part of the whole thing—I heard from some one this
morning.”
“The some one?” said Marcus, with marvellous intuition. He really was
sympathetic, he felt the glow of it himself.
“Yes, and he said you were here—”
“Why did he say that?” What business had any one to say Marcus Maitland
was anywhere—even if he were? He hated his movements discussed.
“Because you are, I suppose.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But how does he know?”
“He’s in your office—isn’t it extraordinary?”
“Very—and what is he in my office? And my office, by the way, is so
little mine. I have left the business—”
“Yes—I know! It’s rather a pity, from our point of view.”
“It was hardly worth the trouble of getting to know me?” suggested
Marcus.
“No—I don’t mean that—but although he doesn’t see you now, he knew you
in America—he was sent over there for a year or two—”
“What position does he hold?”
“He’s getting on very well—for his age wonderfully well—but I thought
if you could just tell me what his prospects are—I might tell my
mother—and she would give her consent, I am sure—if I could just say he
was getting on wonderfully well—and—”
“What’s his name?”
“Flueyn—pronounced Flynn—he said you never got it right.”
“Does he? I’m sorry. Flueyn? Why, he’s a most excellent fellow. I
remember him.”
“Will—he—get on?”
“Yes—of course—bound to—”
“How—much a year will he get on?”
Marcus thought for a moment—Flueyn—excellent chap—fine big fellow—he
had rather a terrible laugh: too boisterous in private life, he should
say. But he didn’t know him in private life—no question of knowing
him—very good worker—very keen—it was quite possible he would get on.
But why did this girl want to marry him?
“How—much—?” The tragic eyes were turned upon him; they were pleading
eyes, dangerous eyes—the red lips trembled a little—dangerous too—very.
How much was going to make such a tremendous difference—the hands
tensely clasped said that: the eyes clouded expressed that—the parted
lips meant that.
“Of course—I would do anything within my power—but I am not in a—”
“Don’t say that.”
“Don’t cry—it will be all right—tell your mother it will be all
right—don’t thank me.”
“How _can_ I thank you?”
“By not thanking me—Flueyn’s an excellent chap—no, I won’t come and
have cocoa, thank you. I never drink it at night. You will be all
right? Then you will forgive me if I go home; I have letters to write.
I won’t forget, only don’t build on it—because—”
“I have built—it’s finished—all but the roof.”
Marcus looked at her—there were tears in her eyes. “Please don’t look
so—happy,” he said; “it frightens me.”
On his way back to the hotel, he called in to see Mrs. Sloane. She was
delighted to see him and to hear his news.
“Tell me all about it—begin at the very beginning. Tell me first about
the young man.”
“He’s very big and I should say wonderfully healthy: has lots of
hair—fair! It stands on end at the slightest provocation. He laughs,
I should imagine, tremendously. Out of office hours he would be
boisterous, I am sure of that—but none of her family will mind—‘Auntie’
wouldn’t hear him if he wasn’t. He plays games, I believe—I don’t know
what else to tell you. You see I didn’t know him—I didn’t even know how
to pronounce his name.”
“But you ought to have known him. He sounds so eminently desirable.”
“For her—yes, but he would jar upon you a thousand times a day.”
“That would be my fault—it’s a bad thing for a woman when she grows too
fragile, too exotic, to stand a boisterous laugh. You are very gentle,
my friend, to an old woman.... I told Shan’t I felt very old to-day,
and she said, so kindly: ‘You’re not so old as Moses would have been if
he had lived.’”
She put out her hand and Marcus took it and held it as delicately and
as carefully as he would have held a vase of the Ming period.
“The Flueyns must be happy,” she said. “You will see that they are.”
“I have very little influence—really.”
“Is that quite true?”
“Not quite.”
Mrs. Sloane said that was rather a comfort to her because she had a
confession to make. She had not been quite—well, truthful herself.
Marcus was a little alarmed. He could not imagine an elderly woman
in a bath-chair departing in any way from the path of goodness and
righteousness. He asked what she had to confess and asked it so
charmingly that she vowed he had missed his vocation in life. “You
would forgive so nicely,” she explained.
“Hardly as nicely as you would tell a—lie,” he suggested.
“A lie is perhaps a little too strong—no, I suppose it’s not—I led you
to believe I did not know Shan’t, whereas I know her very well: and of
course I know Elsie. I live in Bestways, and I have known her for a
long time, and the longer I know her the better I love her. Now, am I
forgiven?”
“The best thing I have heard of her is that you are her friend,” said
Marcus.
“How nice of you—to tell an untruth so charmingly! But tell me why you
dislike each other so much? It was in order to find out if Elsie was
justified in her ridiculous attitude towards you that I did not tell
you who I was.”
“Does she really dislike me?” asked Marcus. “Why should she? I have
never done anything to her.”
Mrs. Sloane asked him if he hadn’t made the children rather fond of him.
“But surely she couldn’t mind that?”
“Why do you dislike her?”
“I don’t; but she is always trying to keep the children away from me.”
“I see very little difference between you,” said Mrs. Sloane; and after
what she had said about Elsie, Marcus was obliged to say he was glad of
that.
When Marcus reached the hotel he was met by the hall porter, who
astonished him by saying: “I’m a family man myself, sir, you
will excuse me—but will you go upstairs at once? I was told to
say—_directly_ you came in.”
Marcus went upstairs. Over the banisters at each landing hung an
anxious housemaid. Each housemaid expressed her relief at seeing him,
each begged him to hurry. Each assured him the lift was working. He had
been in too great a hurry to remember the lift. When he got near his
room a voice broke upon his ear—a long wail—the cry of one in great
distress; the wail spoke loudly of Irish blood in the veins of her who
wailed. It was the voice of his niece. Infuriated old women glanced at
him through half-opened doors. “What had he been doing gallivanting
about at night?” they seemed to say and no doubt they would have liked
to add: “If he had left the mother he might at least stay with the
child.”
“Shan’t,” he called, “I’m coming.” He passed lady’s-maids gathered
together, and strode into Shan’t’s room. Then and there he decided that
he had never seen a child cry—never imagined a child could cry—not
the child of any one belonging to him—as this child cried. It was
impossible that anything could cry so terribly. Tears poured down her
face: her eyes were screwed up. It was a horrible exhibition showing a
deplorable lack of self-restraint.
“Shan’t, stop!” He sat down beside her, he shook her gently—nothing
made any difference. “I’m here, your Uncle Marcus is here—”
This was why there were people in the world who didn’t love children.
They had seen them like this.
“I don’t want him—I want my darlin’—Aunt Elsie—”
“No, Shan’t, you don’t. You are at the seaside with your darling uncle.”
“I’m—not—I won’t be at the seaside. I want my darlin’ Aunt Elsie.”
“Shan’t—listen!” He tried to take her in his arms. She became rigid,
unbendable—unbreakable—“Shan’t—!”
“I—want—my—darlin’ Aunt—Elsie.”
The management sent up to say, Would the young lady be quiet? There was
an elderly gentleman above her—and an old lady below her—who could get
no sleep.
“Shan’t—be quiet!”
“Nasty Uncle Marcus!”
“Shan’t—listen—”
But she refused to listen—she wriggled away under the bedclothes.
“What do you want, Shan’t?”
She emerged from under the bedclothes.
“I want my darlin’ Aunt Elsie.”
“But you can’t have her—she’s miles away. Would you like the kind lady
who played with you on the sands?”
“She’s dead!” cried Shan’t—wailing afresh.
“No—she’s not. Look here, will you be good if I fetch her?”
“Will she bring my darlin’ crab—what was on the sands—?”
“Yes—yes—”
“W—ill—you fet-ch—her?”
“Yes.”
Marcus was off downstairs, three steps at a time—scattering housemaids
as he went, out on to the sea-front, and finally reached the Madders’
door just as the cocoa was pronounced ready. “Oh, you’re just in time!”
they all cried, as he came into the room. “Rose, fetch another cup and
a spoon; no, you must share spoons.”
“What is it?” asked Rose, who was quick to see that something was wrong.
“It’s Shan’t, she won’t go to sleep—she does nothing but cry—will you
come—and bring a crab?”
To which unusual request Rose made no objection. “Sandy,” she cried,
“lend me a crab!”
“All right—there’s one under the sofa. Move, will you, Auntie, there’s
a crab—hold hard—it’s in a bucket—it won’t bite.”
Marcus apologized to the assembled family, begged them to forgive him,
didn’t wait to be assured of their ready forgiveness, but was off in
the wake of Rose. As he had run down the pavement in London after
Diana, so he now ran down the red-brick path after Rose. She ran less
lightly, perhaps, than Diana had run, but then she was less lightly
dressed. She ran just as fast—horribly fast. His life had become a
restless and strenuous one. Arrived at the hotel he and Rose went up in
the lift. He noticed the water from the pail streaming down the front
of her skirt; he never thought of the poor crab as he tried to dry it.
She begged him not to; he mustn’t wet his handkerchief. He said it was
already wet with the tears of Shan’t—soaked!
They found Shan’t sitting up in bed. The storm was passing; the waves
of her sobs were breaking—the moaning of the outgoing tide was still
to be heard. Rose was on her knees beside the bed, and in one moment
her arms were round the child. Marcus turned away; he could not have
said why, except that somehow or other he felt as if it were Flueyn’s
right before any other man’s to see Rose as she looked now—altogether
adorable like this—he had never seen her so desirable.
He felt he ought not to be listening to the crooning of that voice,
even to the absurd things she was saying—they were women’s secrets he
was overhearing; he was a listener on the threshold of a door he had
deliberately closed in his life.
After the storm there came peace. Shan’t was whispering: every now
and then came the backwash of a sob—but peace followed it. He seemed
to see the golden reflection of the setting sun on the wet sands.
Shan’t was putting her fingers in and out of the button-holes in the
girl’s knitted coat and was smiling up into her face. Rose was wiping
away the tears from the child’s face. Shan’t was shyly promising to
be good—never to cry any more? She nodded. Rose persuaded her to lie
down. Shan’t insisted that she must say good-night to the crab. This
was accomplished—poor crab! She must then pray for the crab and for all
little crabs. This was done. By degrees she fell asleep, and until Rose
was quite certain that nothing would awaken her she knelt beside her.
Marcus watched her for a moment, then turned away and walked to the
window. He felt lonely. There was silence except for the sound of the
waves breaking on the shore beneath the window, very softly. The world,
with Shan’t, had fallen gently to sleep and the waves sang a lullaby.
“She’s all right,” whispered Rose; “there will be some one near if she
wakes?”
Marcus nodded.
“Then I shall go home—give me that poor crab.”
Marcus was afraid it was dead. Rose said all Sandy’s pets died young.
They walked back to the lodgings together, in silence.
At the door he stopped. “I can’t thank you,” he said.
“There’s nothing to thank me for—I love children.”
“There is one thing I want to say—it will be all right with Flueyn.”
He asked her not to thank him, he said there was nothing to thank him
for. She laughed, then added shyly, “How little you know!”