The Potter and the Clay: A Romance of Today
Page 8
*VI.*
Cary was drumming idly on the piano. Her attitude was thepersonification of listlessness. When the Captain had spoken of it thatmorning she said it was "the spring feeling in the air."
The Captain smiled as he walked down the stairs of the lodgings.
"It’s London climate—fog and rain—in the winter; and it’s Londonsunshine in the spring!"
Cary continued to drum on the piano after he left. Then she let herhands fall from the keys and looked absently about the room. Shesupposed Trevelyan would drop in later or anyhow in the evening.Trevelyan had been irreproachable since her return—since that day inScotland.
Presently she dashed into a popular song and sung it with a touch of theold gleeful enthusiasm she had left behind in France. Trevelyan loathedthat song.
She broke off suddenly and twirled around on her stool. Someone wasknocking.
"Come in," she shouted, not rising, and thinking it was either Robert orJohn.
The landlady entered bearing a card. Cary held out her hand for it.
"But my father is out. Please tell Captain Trevelyan—"
"But miss, the Captain asked for you."
Cary rose.
"For me?"
Then she laughed.
"Oh, you must be mistaken, but if you’ll ask Captain Trevelyan up, I’llexplain."
She remained standing by the door of their little sitting room. Shecould hear the English officer tramping slowly and heavily up thestairs. She remembered Robert telling her of the charge his father hadled at Inkerman, and how he had gotten that wound in his hip. Afterawhile she caught sight of the top of the officer’s white head. Shewent forward to meet him and led him into the room and rolled up a bigleather chair.
"It’s Papa’s favorite," she said, smiling and standing with one handresting invitingly on the big tufted back.
The English officer smiled back from under his shaggy brows, and sankinto the great chair with a sigh of genuine comfort. Cary drew up achair and sat down near him.
"Papa is out," she said. "He has only just gone, too. I’m so sorry.If you care to wait—and perhaps later let me give you a cup of tea—" shewent on with a certain charming spontaneity, "John says my tea is almostlike the tea the English girls make—" she questioned Trevelyan’s fatherwith her laughing eyes.
"And what does my boy say about your tea?" asked the English officer,watching her curiously.
"Robert? Oh, Robert never says anything nice about it. He never saysnice things to me anyway," Cary pouted. "But I notice he nearly alwaysdrinks three cups when he comes and after all I believe that counts fora good deal—don’t you?"
"Undoubtedly—for a good deal of tea! And does he often come to drink itwith you?"
Cary laughed.
"Oh—frequently," she said vaguely.
The old British officer drew patterns on the floor with his cane and wassilent.
Cary looked at him stealthily from under her long lashes. She had onlymet Trevelyan’s father when he had called formally on their coming toEngland, or sometimes when he stopped by to take the Captain to drive,and once at the Stewarts’, at dinner. He had always inspired her with acertain awe. It might have been his lameness which Cary was wont toregard as a badge of an honor legion, or simply his brusque manner, notunlike his son’s, but lacking much of his son’s odd charm. Shesometimes had fancied she had seen a physical likeness between them, andonce she had caught herself wondering if the father had looked like theson in his youth and if the son would resemble more closely the fatherin age. She patted thoughtfully the arm of her chair.
"Papa will be so sorry to miss you," she began.
Trevelyan’s father leaned forward. He suddenly stopped drawing patternson the floor with his cane.
"I did not come to see your father," he said, "I came especially when Iknew he was out and you were in. I am calling on you." He smiledgrimly, forcing the boy’s face from his mind.
Cary stared. Then she recovered herself. "Yes?" she said politely.
The old officer sat up very straight grasping his cane, and then he leddirect to the object of his visit, as he had led direct his famouscharge into the center of the enemy’s lines, on the heights of Inkerman,way back in ’54.
"I’ve come to see you about that boy of mine," he said bluntly.
"You mean—Robert?" asked Cary slowly, and for lack of something to say.
"He’s a good enough kind of a chap—" Cary suppressed a smile,remembering how the old man adored him, "but he’s a bit hot-headed andreckless, and he’s—mad over you, and—" he broke off. It seemed to himalmost as though he was disloyal to the boy.
Cary leaned forward with burning cheeks.
"And you hope he won’t do anything rash—is that it?" There was a traceof indignation in her voice.
"Jove! no, child. I haven’t come to plead for him, but to ask you to becareful."
"I don’t understand you," said Cary, the hot flush not fading.
"There! You must not be offended. You know the boy is the apple of myeye, but he isn’t faultless. He has got good stuff in him if he is onlymoulded right, but there would be the very devil to pay—I beg yourpardon—if he was ever thwarted in anything he’d set his stubborn mindon."
Trevelyan’s father rose and crossed over to the window and stood therelooking out on the lengthening English twilight. His son’s face as ithad looked years ago as a baby, rose before him, but the baby hadreproachful eyes.
"He’s brave and he’s strong and he’s every inch a soldier; but a woman,child, needs gentleness as well as strength."
The soft dim twilight crept into the room; passed the rigid form of theold soldier at the window and stole onward to the chair in which thegirl sat motionless. The outline of her figure and the whiteness of herhalf averted cheek, showed vaguely through the gloom.
After a long, long time she rose.
"Thank you," she said, and the unconscious dignity in her voice touchedthe old warrior at the window strangely. "It was good of you to thinkof me so kindly, even though it is not deserved and—not necessary."
After a little Trevelyan’s father turned, and came toward the shadowystanding figure.
"I understand," he said; and then: "Good-bye."
"Good-bye," said Cary, gently, but she did not offer to shake hands.
Half an hour later the Captain came in. The kettle was not singing, northe curtains drawn, nor his chair rolled up in its accustomed place,with his easy slippers near by, and the red lamp was unlighted.
"Where is she? Where’s my baby?"
Cary rose from the big chair that Trevelyan’s father had occupied, andcame slowly forward.
"Here," she said, simply, her voice quiet as the deepening twilight thatsurrounded her, and she rubbed her cheek up and down against theCaptain’s.
The Captain lighted the red lamp, and turned to look at her, arrested bythe vague trouble in the voice.