Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
“No! No!” said Mary. “You must keep away from that horse. Renny, I do beg that you will be careful of the children!”
Renny looked at her teasingly. “It will be quite safe to give them a ride that far,” he said.
“Philip,” she cried. “Do you hear him? You must tell him never, never to let the children near that horse!”
“Never, never let the children near that horse,” repeated Philip tranquilly. “And, by the way, where did you spend last night?”
Renny looked at him blankly. “Why — I — why — I —”
“What the devil are you stuttering about?” asked Philip. “I asked where you spent last night?”
“At a little farm not far from Mr. Ferrier’s.”
“What was your reason? The hostler from the hotel met one of our men and told him you had an early lunch there. What were you doing between then and bedtime?”
“Well — you see —” He went into a detailed account of the incident on the railway line.
Philip looked thoughtful. “What I don’t understand is why you should pass that crossing on the road to Mr. Ferrier’s. It was quite five miles out of the way.”
“I got lost.”
“You couldn’t possibly get lost on that road. It’s as straight as a string.”
Mary’s eyes were alight with mischief as they looked into her stepson’s troubled face.
“Now what I think is,” went on Philip, “that you went out of your way to see some girl and stopped the night somewhere you had no business to be. I have an idea that you went to see that girl Elvira for Maurice. You took her money, perhaps — Am I right?”
“There’s no use in my trying to hide anything from you,” growled Renny, and he gave the colt a slap and galloped in the direction of
the stables.
Before he was halfway there he wheeled and galloped back. Eden ran to meet him.
“What are you going to do, Renny?” he called out.
“Go back and tell Daddy that Maurice had nothing to do with it.”
Eden, delighted to carry a message for his hero, dashed back.
“What is it, darling?” asked Mary.
He answered promptly. “Maurice had nothing to do with it,
Renny says.”
Mary stroked his hair. She pushed out her pretty underlip petulantly.
“What’s the matter, Molly?” asked Philip.
“It seems to me we are never enjoying ourselves together but Renny appears on the scene and spoils things. Or, if he does not appear, you are wondering where he is and what he is up to.”
“He’s just at the troublesome age,” returned Philip. “But I’m glad he is no liar. Shall I give you another swing?”
She shook her head. Then asked — “Why do you suppose he spent the night at that farm?”
What he supposed Philip did not intend to tell her. To change the subject he said — “Just look at Peep! He’s stuffing himself with mulberries!”
The baby had been picking up the fallen berries and now, at the sound of his name, turned and faced them, his cherub’s mouth purple. When his mother slapped his hands he burst into screams of rage, striking back at her with his round fists. She carried him to the house.
Philip laughed and the sound of the gong for the one o’clock dinner came from the house. Taking Eden by the hand, he moved slowly across the lawn, his mind troubled by the behaviour of his eldest son. Had this affair of Maurice’s turned Renny’s mind toward sex in its darker aspect? He had been interested in girls, his attentions to Vera Lacey had been the subject of amusement to the family, but there had been never anything serious, anything secret in his excursions, before this. Philip knew that Elvira and her relative, — sister or aunt — God knew what! — had moved in the direction of Mr. Ferrier’s. But surely — not Elvira! That would be too shocking. And certainly not the older woman. Yet there was that message sent back by Eden — Maurice had nothing to do with it. Renny had been off on his own. He had certainly had a rough time with that colt. Well, let him keep it and see what he could make of it! As Scotchmere said — he was the “ridin’est critter!”
Eliza met him in the hall.
“Mr. Ferrier wishes to speak to you on the telephone, sir,” she said severely. “I told him it was dinner time, but nothing would stop him. He has called up three times this morning.”
“Run along with Eliza, Eden,” said Philip, and humped his broad shoulders above the telephone in the library to listen to a vehement outpouring of accusations against his son, his colt, and himself.
When he entered the dining room his mother turned toward him with an accusing look and a piece of dumpling poised on her fork.
“Do you see that, Philip? That’s my last mouthful of dumpling. My plate’s cleared. We didn’t wait for you. Molly and Edwin and Augusta said wait. But Nick and Ernest and Malahide and I said no, and we outweighed them.” She thrust the piece of dumpling into her mouth.
Philip helped himself to the pot pie. “It was Ferrier,” he said, “raising hell about the colt.”
“I see that he is back,” observed Nicholas. “I am not surprised at that. I always said he was vicious.”
“I’m afraid you will have difficulty in getting rid of him now,” added Ernest.
“Begin bad, end bad,” put in Sir Edwin.
Augusta said, dictatorially — “Harness him to one of the farm wagons and let him work. That will prevent his becoming incorrigible.”
Adeline peered across Malahide at her daughter. “What do you know about horses, Lady Bunkley? Put a thoroughbred between the shafts of a farm wagon! I say no! It would break his spirit.”
Sir Edwin turned to her. “It seems strange,” he said mildly, “that a woman of your great intelligence, Mrs. Whiteoak, should not be able to remember her daughter’s name.”
Adeline looked abashed, as only Sir Edwin could abash her. “Well, well,” she muttered, “I’m losing my memory. I’m getting old.”
“Renny says the colt is a good one,” said Philip. “He wants to school him for high jumping. I think I’ll let him have his way.”
“Just for a change,” said Ernest, and Mary threw him a glance
of agreement.
The door opened and Meg, followed by Renny, came in. To cover the embarrassment of his own entrance he had persuaded her to this first venture into family life. At her appearance a warm emotion of tenderness and relief stirred those about the table, with the exception of Mary and Malahide, she regarding the young girl with irritable wonder and he with amused curiosity.
Her uncles drew out her chair, which was between theirs, and she sat down in it shading her face with her hand. Philip eagerly investigated the pot pie in search of a tempting morsel for his daughter.
“The wing,” said Adeline, “give her the wing! That’s the thing to tempt delicate girls. Make ’em feel like flying, eh, Meggie?”
“Yes, Granny,” answered Meg, and tears began to roll down her cheeks.
“Meg, Meg, do try to control yourself!” exclaimed Mary.
Philip surveyed the plate he had arranged as though he would, out of his own heart, put virtue into it for her healing, then passed it to her. Nicholas patted her shoulder and Ernest picked up her table napkin which had fallen, and spread it carefully on her knees.
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Eden.
All the family said
“Ssh”
at once, and he subsided into contemplation of his aunt’s many ornaments.
Philip now heaped a plate of what remained of the pie for Renny, who attacked it hungrily. But if he hoped that his absence of the night before was to receive no further notice, he was mistaken.
“Where did you stop the night?” asked Nicholas.
“At a farm.”
“But why was that necessary?”
“I had a dickens of a time with the colt. Didn’t Father tell you?”
“What farm did you stop at?” inquired Ernest.
“A little farm — poor people — never saw it before.”
“What was the farmer’s name?” asked his aunt. “I used to know the names of the farmers for many miles about.”
“Why, Auntie, you knew nothing about that part of the county,” said Renny irritably.
“I might,” persisted Augusta. “Just tell me the farmer’s name.”
“Bob. I didn’t ask his surname.” He wished they would let him enjoy his dinner in peace.
“What family had he?”
“A lot of little girls. Another one had just come.”
Philip sat watching him with a whimsical smile, but said nothing.
Meg suddenly spoke. “Vera told me this morning that those terrible women have gone in that direction. Perhaps you spent the night with them.”
If she had dropped a bomb in their midst the family would have scarcely felt more consternation. They looked from her to Renny, who laid down his knife and fork and stared at his sister aghast.
Philip spoke first. “She doesn’t know what she is saying, poor child!”
Augusta said, in her ominous contralto: —
“Her mind is deranged. And no wonder, after all she has been through. It is not the first time I have known that to occur after a blow on the head.”
Grandmother struck the table with her spoon. “D’ye mean to say, Lady B. —” She was afraid to mispronounce her daughter’s name because of Sir Edwin, yet disdained to say it correctly. “D’ye mean to say that Meg is deranged because of the little tap on the pate I
gave her?”
“I should not be surprised, Mamma.”
Her mother grinned at her. “You’ve had harder ones.”
“But
not
following on disappointed love, Mrs. Whiteoak,” returned Sir Edwin blandly.
“Was there a bump on Meg’s head?” asked Eden.
Meg burst into tears and rose from the table.
“There now, there now,” said Ernest consolingly. He put his arm about her and led her weeping out of the room.
Philip looked ruefully at her untouched plate and heaved a sigh. “Look at that!” he said. “She hasn’t eaten a bite!”
“She will come right,” said Nicholas. “We must just be patient. In the meantime I may as well have this wing. I had nothing but dark meat.” He helped himself to the wing.
To draw the attention of the family from Renny, Philip began to talk somewhat truculently of the good points of the colt and so raised an animated discussion. Ernest returned, with word that Meg had gone to her room, but had intimated that she might eat a little of the sweet, if it were carried to her.
So Philip creaked up the stairs carrying a large piece of gooseberry tart, smothered in cream, to his daughter. When he came back his hair was dishevelled, his face flushed.
“Philip, just look at your hair!” exclaimed Mary.
“The darling was hugging me,” he said, in a voice not quite steady, and a cloud darkened Mary’s face.
From the dinner table Philip went straight to a white garden seat that circled a fine oak on the lawn, and established himself there with his pipe. When Renny appeared on the porch Philip raised his hand and beckoned to him.
Renny came slowly across the warm grass and sat down beside him. Philip asked: —
“Have you anything you’d like to tell me?”
“Yes,” muttered Renny.
“About last night?” encouraged Philip mildly.
“Yes. I did go there — where Meggie said.”
“Ah…. Yes, but not for Maurice?”
“Maurice knew nothing about it. I just went … on my own account.”
Philip puffed hard at his pipe, which showed signs of going out. His eyes rested admiringly on the flaming bed of geraniums. “A fine colour, aren’t they?”
“H’m-h’m,” muttered Renny, glancing sideways into his father’s face. He added quickly — “I didn’t go to see that girl of Maurice’s, but the older one. Elvira’s aunt.”
Philip watched the bees humming heavily about the geraniums. He asked, in a low voice: —
“You’d known her before? When she lived here?”
“I’d met her — just once. I had gone to take money to Elvira from Maurice. He didn’t want to see her again. He was afraid of another scene with her. He was terribly upset.”
“So — he pushed my son into a brothel, to save his own feelings — damn his eyes!” Philip spoke quietly against the mouthpiece of his pipe, the even puffs from which were not interrupted. He added, after a moment — “I’d like to go to his house this moment and thrash him under his father’s nose.”
The indolence of Philip’s speech somehow softened all his threats. Renny moved closer to him along the bench. He said huskily: —
“There was nothing between us at that first meeting. Except a bit of chaffing. I’d seen her through the window reading a teacup, and she said she’d read my fortune if I would go to see her.”
“And did she?”
“Yes.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Oh, mostly rot!”
“And didn’t she promise anything else — that first night?”
“She said she’d tell me how she came by such strange looking eyes.”
“Had she come by them honestly?”
“Her mother had got intimate with a Rumanian gypsy.”
“Is she pretty — this woman?”
“No — not pretty. But you can’t keep your eyes off her.” Remembrance of the night surged through him. He wrung his fingers together between his knees. “I don’t want to talk about her, Father. But I had to tell you why I was there.”
Philip asked quietly — “Did you sleep with her?”
Renny’s voice was scarcely audible. “Yes.”
“The bitch! And you not twenty yet! And your first experience!” He turned his full blue eyes on his son. “It was, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. There was something about me — that first night we met — that made her think differently. So she didn’t know — I don’t believe she’s the sort of woman you think she is, Father. She says I must never go back to see her again.” He spoke with boyish simplicity.
“Well, that is handsome of her,” returned Philip. “Renny, I want you to promise me something. If you feel tempted to go back to that woman, I want you to come to me and ask me for money. I’ll send you off somewhere. Go with you myself, if you’d like to have me. In the meantime, there’s the colt! You must try to see what you can do with him. And you’ll soon be going back to college.”
“I guess you’ll be glad when I do go, Dad,” said Renny contritely. “I’ll do what you say and — it’s awfully decent of you to let me have the colt. I’m afraid you spoil us — just as Mother says.”
Philip took his son’s hand and squeezed it.
“Well,” he said, as cheerfully as he could, “you and Meggie must turn out well, else I’ll be blamed for it. I’m sorry this happened. And right on top of the other affair, too. It seemed quite unnecessary. But — so much of life
is
unnecessary! You’ll find that out as you grow older.”