CHAPTER X
Mr. Fentolin raised to his lips the little gold whistle which hung fromhis neck and blew it. He seemed to devote very little effort to theoperation, yet the strength of the note was wonderful. As the echoesdied away, he let it fall by his side and waited with a pleased smileupon his lips. In a few seconds there was the hurried flutter of skirtsand the sound of footsteps. The girl who had just completed her railwayjourney entered, followed by her brother. They were both a little outof breath, they both approached the chair without a smile, the girlin advance, with a certain expression of apprehension in her eyes. Mr.Fentolin sighed. He appeared to notice these things and regret them.
"My child," he said, holding out his hands, "my dear Esther, welcomehome again! I heard the car outside. I am grieved that you did not atonce hurry to my side."
"I have not been in the house two minutes," Esther replied, "and Ihaven't seen mother yet. Forgive me."
She had come to a standstill a few yards away. She moved now very slowlytowards the chair, with the air of one fulfilling a hateful task. Thefingers which accepted his hands were extended almost hesitatingly. Hedrew her closer to him and held her there.
"Your mother, my dear Esther, is, I regret to say, suffering from aslight indisposition," he remarked. "She has been confined to her roomfor the last few days. Just a trifling affair of the nerves; nothingmore, Doctor Sarson assures me. But my dear child," he went on, "yourfingers are as cold as ice. You look at me so strangely, too. Alas! youhave not the affectionate disposition of your dear mother. One wouldscarcely believe that we have been parted for more than a week."
"For more than a week," she repeated, under her breath.
"Stoop down, my dear. I must kiss your forehead--there! Now bring up achair to my side. You seem frightened--alarmed. Have you ill news forme?"
"I have no news," she answered, gradually recovering herself.
"The gaieties of London, I fear," he protested gently, "have proved alittle unsettling."
"There were no gaieties for me," the girl replied bitterly. "Mrs.Sargent obeyed your orders very faithfully. I was not allowed to moveout except with her."
"My dear child, you would not go about London unchaperoned!"
"There is a difference," she retorted, "between a chaperon and ajailer."
Mr. Fentolin sighed. He shook his head slowly. He seemed pained.
"I am not sure that you repay my care as it deserves, Esther," hedeclared. "There is something in your deportment which disappoints me.Never mind, your brother has made some atonement. I entrusted him witha little mission in which I am glad to say that he has been brilliantlysuccessful."
"I cannot say that I am glad to hear it," Esther replied quietly.
Mr. Fentolin sat back in his chair. His long fingers played nervouslytogether, he looked at her gravely.
"My dear child," he exclaimed, in a tone of pained surprise, "yourattitude distresses me!"
"I cannot help it. I have told you what I think about Gerald and thelife he is compelled to live here. I don't mind so much for myself, butfor him I think it is abominable."
"The same as ever," Mr. Fentolin sighed. "I fear that this little changehas done you no good, dear niece."
"Change!" she echoed. "It was only a change of prisons."
Mr. Fentolin shook his head slowly--a distressful gesture. Yet all thetime he had somehow the air of a man secretly gratified.
"You are beginning to depress me," he announced. "I think that you cango away. No, stop for just one moment. Stand there in the light. Dearme, how unfortunate! Who would have thought that so beautiful a mothercould have so plain a daughter!"
She stood quite still before him, her hands crossed in front of her,something of the look of the nun from whom the power of suffering hasgone in her still, cold face and steadfast eyes.
"Not a touch of colour," he continued meditatively, "a figure straightas my walking-stick. What a pity! And all the taste, nowadays, they tellme, is in the other direction. The lank damsels have gone completelyout. We buried them with Oscar Wilde. Run along, my dear child. You donot amuse me. You can take Gerald with you, if you will. I have nothingto say to Gerald just now. He is in my good books. Is there anythingI can do for you, Gerald? Your allowance, for instance--a triflingincrease or an advance? I am in a generous humour."
"Then grant me what I begged for the other day," the boy answeredquickly. "Let me go to Sandhurst. I could enter my name next week forthe examinations, and I could pass to-morrow."
Mr. Fentolin tapped the table thoughtfully with his forefinger.
"A little ungrateful, my dear boy," he declared, "a little ungratefulthat, I think. Your confidence in yourself pleases me, though. You thinkyou could pass your examinations?"
"I did a set of papers last week," the boy replied. "On the givenpercentages I came out twelfth or better. Mr. Brown assured me that Icould go in for them at any moment. He promised to write you about itbefore he left."
Mr. Fentolin nodded gently.
"Now I come to think of it, I did have a letter from Mr. Brown," heremarked. "Rather an impertinence for a tutor, I thought it. He devotedthree pages towards impressing upon me the necessity of your adoptingsome sort of a career."
"He wrote because he thought it was his duty," the boy said doggedly.
"So you want to be a soldier," Mr. Fentolin continued musingly. "Well,well, why not? Our picture galleries are full of them. There has been aFentolin in every great battle for the last five hundred years. Sailors,too--plenty of them--and just a few diplomatists. Brave fellows! Notone, I fancy," he added, "like me--not one condemned to pass their daysin a perambulator. You are a fine fellow, Gerald--a regular Fentolin.Getting on for six feet, aren't you?"
"Six feet two, sir."
"A very fine fellow," Mr. Fentolin repeated. "I am not so sure about thearmy, Gerald. You see, there are some people who say, like your Americanfriend, that we are even now almost on the brink of war."
"All the more reason for me to hurry," the boy begged.
Mr. Fentolin closed his eyes.
"Don't!" he insisted. "Have you ever stopped to think what warmeans--the war you speak of so lightly? The suffering, the misery ofit! All the pageantry and music and heroism in front; and behind, ablackened world, a trail of writhing corpses, a world of weeping womenfor whom the sun shall never rise again. Ugh! An ugly thing war, Gerald.I am not sure that you are not better at home here. Why not practisegolf a little more assiduously? I see from the local paper that you arestill playing at two handicap. Now with your physique, I should havethought you would have been a scratch player long before now."
"I play cricket, sir," the boy reminded him, a little impatiently, "and,after all, there are other things in the world besides games."
Mr. Fentolin's long finger shot suddenly out. He was leaning a littlefrom his chair. His expression of gentle immobility had passed away. Hisface was stern, almost stony.
"You have spoken the truth, Gerald," he said. "There are other things inthe world besides games. There is the real, the tragical side oflife, the duties one takes up, the obligations of honour. You have notforgotten, young man, the burden you carry?"
The boy was paler, but he had drawn himself to his full height.
"I have not forgotten, sir," he answered bitterly. "Do I show any signsof forgetting? Haven't I done your bidding year by year? Aren't I herenow to do it?"
"Then do it!" Mr. Fentolin retorted sharply. "When I am ready for youto leave here, you shall leave. Until then, you are mine. Remember that.Ah! this is Doctor Sarson who comes, I believe. That must mean that itis five o'clock. Come in, Doctor. I am not engaged. You see, I am alonewith my dear niece and nephew. We have been having a little pleasantconversation."
Doctor Sarson bowed to Esther, who scarcely glanced at him. He remainedin the background, quietly waiting.
"A very delightful little conversation," Mr. Fentolin concluded. "I havebeen congratulating my nephew, Doctor, upon his wisdom in preferring the
quiet country life down here to the wearisome routine of a profession.He escapes the embarrassing choice of a career by preferring todevote his life to my comfort. I shall not forget it. I shall not beungrateful. I may have my faults, but I am not ungrateful. Run awaynow, both of you. Dear children you are, but one wearies, you know, ofeverything. I am going out. You see, the twilight is coming. The tide ischanging. I am going down to meet the sea."
His little carriage moved towards the door. The brother and sisterpassed out. Esther led Gerald into the great dining-room, and fromthere, through the open windows, out on to the terrace. She gripped hisshoulder and pointed down to the Tower.
"Something," she whispered in his ear, "is going to happen there."