Far to Seek. Diver Maud

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СКАЧАТЬ almost shyly, he slipped over his hand the deftly woven, trifle of ribbon and gleaming hair. As the first glow of pleasure subsided, there sprang the instinctive thought—"Won't Mummy be pleased!" And straightway he was caught afresh in the toils of his dilemma—How could he possibly explain——?

      What was she doing? Why didn't she come——?

      There——! His ear caught far-off footsteps—too heavy for hers. He slipped off the Bracelet, folded it in Tara's letter and tucked it away inside his shirt.

      Hurriedly—a little nervously—he tied his brown bow and got upon his feet, just as the door opened and his father came in.

      "Well, Roy!" he said, and for a few seconds he steadily regarded his small son with eyes that tried very hard to be grave and judicial. Scoldings and assertions of authority were not in his line: and the tug at his heart-strings was peculiarly strong in the case of Roy. Fair himself, as the boy was dark, their intrinsic likeness of form and feature was yet so striking that there were moments—as now—when it gave Nevil Sinclair an eerie sense of looking into his own eyes—which was awkward, as he had come steeled for chastisement, if needs must, though his every instinct revolted from the mutual indignity. He had only once inflicted it on Roy for open defiance in one of his stormy ebullitions of temper; and, at this moment, he did not seem to see a humble penitent before him.

      "What have you got to say for yourself?" he went on, hoping the pause had been impressive; strongly suspecting it had been nothing of the kind. "Gentlemen, as I told you, don't hammer their guests. It was rather a bad hammering, to judge from his handkerchief. And you don't look particularly sorry about it either."

      "I'm not—not one littlest bit."

      This was disconcerting; but Nevil held his ground.

      "Then I suppose I've got to whack you. If boys aren't sorry for their sins, it's the only way."

      Roy's eyelids flickered a little.

      "You better not," he said with the same impersonal air of conviction. "You see, it wouldn't make me sorry. And you don't hurt badly. Not half as much as Joe did. He was mean. He kicked. I wouldn't have stopped, all the same—if you hadn't come."

      The note of reproach was more disconcerting than ever.

      "Well, if whacking's no use, what am I to do with you? Shut you up here till bedtime—eh?"

      Roy considered that dismal proposition, with his eyes on the summer world outside.

      "Well—you can if you like. But it wouldn't be fair." A pause. "You don't know what a horrid boy he was, Daddy. You'd have hit him harder—even if he was a guest."

      "I wonder!" Nevil fatally admitted. "Of course it would all depend on the provocation."

      "What's 'provication'?"

      The instant alertness, over a new word, brought back the smile to Nevil's eyes.

      "It means—saying or doing something bad enough to make it right for you to be angry."

      "Well, it was bad enough. It was"—a portentous pause—"about Mummy."

      "About Mummy?" The sharp change in his father's tone was at once startling and comforting. "Look here, Roy. No more mysteries. This is my affair as much as yours. Come here."

      Pulling a bedside chair near the window, he sat down and drew Roy close to him, taking his shoulders between his hands.

      "Now then, old boy, tell me just exactly what happened—as man to man."

      The appeal was irresistible. But—how could he——? The very change in his father's manner made the telling at once more difficult and more urgent.

      "Daddy—it hurts too much. I don't know how to say it——" he faltered, and the blood tingled in his cheeks.

      If Nevil Sinclair was not a stern father, neither was he a very demonstrative one. Even his closest relations were tinged with something of the artist's detachment, and innate respect for the individual even in embryo. But at sight of Roy's distress and delicacy of feeling, his heart melted in him. Without a word, he slipped an arm round the boy's shoulder and drew him closer still.

      "That better, eh? You've got to pull it through, somehow," he said gently, so holding him that Roy could, if he chose, nestle against him. He did choose. It might be babyish; but he hated telling: and it was a wee bit easier with his face hidden. So, in broken phrases and in a small voice that quivered with anger revived—he told.

      While he was telling, his father said nothing; and when it was over, he still said nothing. He seemed to be looking out of the window, and Roy felt him draw one big breath.

      "Have you got to whack me—now, Daddy?" he asked, still in his small voice.

      His father's hand closed on his arm. "No. You were right, Roy," he said. "I would have hit harder. Ill-mannered little beast! All the same——"

      A pause. He, no less than Roy, found speech difficult. He had fancied himself, by now, inured to this kind of jar—so frequent in the early years of his daringly unconventional marriage. It seemed he was mistaken. He had been vaguely on edge all the afternoon. What young Joe had rudely blurted out, Mrs. Bradley's manner had tacitly expressed. He had succeeded in smothering his own sensations, only to be confronted with the effect of it all on Roy—who must somehow be made to understand.

      "The fact is, old man," he went on, trying to speak in his normal voice, "young Bradley and a good many of his betters spend years in India without coming to know very much about the real people over there. You'll understand why when you're older. They all have Indians for servants, and they see Indians working in shops and villages, just like plenty of our people do here. But they don't often meet many of the other sort—like Mummy and Grandfather and Uncle Rama—except sometimes in England. And then—they make stupid mistakes—just because they don't know better. But they needn't be rude about it, like Joe; and I'm glad you punched him—hard."

      "So'm I. Fearfully glad." He stood upright now, his head erect:—proud of his father's approval, and being treated as "man to man." "But, Daddy—what are we going to do … about Mummy? I do want her to know … it was for her. But I couldn't tell—what Joe said. Could you?"

      Nevil shook his head.

      "Then—what?"

      "You leave it to me, Roy. I'll make things clear without repeating Joe's rude remarks. She'd have been up before this; but I had to see you first—because of the whacking!" His eye twinkled. "She's longing to get at your bruises——"

      "Oh nev' mind my bruises. They're all right now."

      "And beautiful to behold!" He lightly touched the lump on Roy's cheek. "I'd let her dab them, though. Women love fussing over us when we're hurt—especially if we've been fighting for them!"

      "Yes—they do," Roy agreed gravely; and to his surprise, his father drew him close and kissed his forehead.

      His mother did not keep him waiting long. First the quick flutter of her footsteps; then the door gently opened—and she flew to him, her sari blowing out in beautiful curves. СКАЧАТЬ