One December evening Nina had just got into bed. The light was still on and she lay for a moment listening to the torrential rain outside. This was the moment, settled by long custom, for Dawkins to make his appearance. Just as she had recovered from the shudderiness of the sheets he would come in in his friendly fashion with her hot milk and biscuits, and would reach himself a chair and sit down and listen while she chattered away to him in the intervals of milk and biscuits. When she had finished he would switch off the light and stoop over her in the dark, and she would put up her pajamaed arms to his neck for his good-night kiss, which, on her part, was usually milk-and-biscuity. That happened every evening on which Dawkins was free, which even now was at least four times a week, and it was a well-established part of the day’s routine which sent Nina off to sleep quite happily.
But this evening it was not Dawkins who came into the little white bedroom, but his usual deputy, Miss Lamb.
“Oh,” said Nina, disappointed, “isn’t daddy coming in this evening?”
“No,” said Miss Lamb, putting down milk and biscuits on the bedside table, “he’s dining out.”
“He didn’t tell me,” said Nina. “Did he wear his evening clothes? Where’s he gone?”
There was no reason why Dawkins should not tell Nina, save that he felt awkward when Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter’s name came up in conversation between them because, singularly, a little look of fear came into Nina’s eyes on those occasions. And Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter had given the invitation so delicately—“Just a simple little dinner, so that we can talk, because there’s such a lot I want to discuss with you about Betty and Nina, and we do get so interrupted if they’re still up. And we’re both old enough”—this with a friendly smile of common sense—“for people not to think anything of our dining tête-à-tête”—that he couldn’t have got out of it if he had wanted to. But he had ridiculously flinched from telling Nina, although, to show there was nothing to hide, he had compromised by telling Miss Lamb his destination just before starting out. And Miss Lamb was so surprised that she could not help telling the truth to Nina; and perhaps she was a little alarmed, too, and couldn’t conceal that from Nina, either.
“He’s dining at Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter’s,” said Miss Lamb. “Yes, he wore his evening clothes and he said he wouldn’t be back very late.”
“Oh,” said Nina again.
Miss Lamb, as in duty bound, had loyally tried to keep her voice unconcerned, and had of course failed. For a second or two Nina and Miss Lamb were grown women as they eyed each other. But Miss Lamb knew her duty and her place.
“Come on, Nina. Drink up your milk so that I can turn your light out and you can go to sleep,” she said.
Nina had no taste whatever now for milk or for biscuits, but with Miss Lamb’s eye on her she acted as resolutely as ever her father had done against President Eguia. She ate her biscuits and drank her milk speedily and without a sign of distaste.
“Good night, dear,” said Miss Lamb, with the faintest trace of a catch in her voice. They kissed each other in the darkness, and then Miss Lamb tiptoed out of the room.
Nina lay in bed with her thoughts revolving dizzily through her mind. She felt feverishly active. She clenched her fists and her little teeth as she thought of Dawkins with Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter. There shot into her mind the memory of a recent conversation with Betty. The latter had let fall some unguarded expression on which Nina had seized instantly.
“What do you mean?” Nina had said.
“Oh, nothing, nothing at all,” Betty had replied.
“You do mean something,” pursued Nina relentlessly. “Come on, out with it.”
Fat little Betty had tried to be stubborn, thin little Nina had been fiercely persistent.
“Oh, it’s nothing really,” yielded Betty at length, “it’s just that—that mother said I must be nice to you and get Mr. Dawkins to like me in case—in case Mr. Dawkins and mother ever got married. That’s all.”
All? thought Nina to herself in bed. All? Her daddy marrying that woman! Nina knew positively and for certain that that would mean the end of all wild camping trips. They would never explore the Amazon together. And she wanted her daddy for herself, herself, herself. And there was a thread of unselfishness running through her thoughts, too, for she knew that her daddy would not find permanent happiness, or any illusory likeness to it, in Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter’s arms. With all the fierce rapid decision to be expected of the Hawk’s daughter Nina threw off the bedclothes and swung her legs out of bed in the darkness. She dared not switch on the light—Miss Lamb was too watchful a guardian for her to risk a light after lights out. She dressed in the dark, silently, and then stood for a moment listening. She still could hear nothing beside the noise of the rain outside. She thought rapidly. Her macintosh and greatcoat and rubber Wellingtons were down-stairs in the cloak-room off the hall, and it would be useless to try to get hold of them with Miss Lamb in the drawing-room next door. She would have to go through the rain without them. For a moment she debated the possibility of creeping down-stairs and through the front door, but decided against it for fear of encountering one of the maids or being heard by Miss Lamb. There was another way out which she had employed on various occasions. She opened the window and climbed out into the cold streaming darkness, wriggled on to the ornamental stonework over the drawing-room bay, grabbed the drain-pipe, and made a flurried descent. Then she began the two-mile journey into Gilding through the December rain, at a half-trot, with panic in her heart.
Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter had made careful preparations for Dawkins’ arrival—the distinguishing feature of her carefulness being the care she took to avoid the appearance of care. Her little dining-room was discreetly lighted by shaded candles, so that the dark furniture looked classic and welcoming, there was a noble fire in the grate, and the glasses and table-linen shone in the half-light. Betty was in bed, and the little daily maid, who as a favor had consented to stay for the evening, had been elaborately coached. Gin-and-Italian were awaiting Mr. Daw kins as soon as he had hung up his hat and coat, and Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter laughingly excused herself from joining him in it.
That dinner, regarded as a meal, was a perfect triumph. Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter had been hampered by the need to avoid any appearance of unusual luxury, and also by the untrustworthiness of the maid as a cook, which necessitated her cooking everything herself beforehand and leaving it for the maid to serve. Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter surmounted these difficulties marvelously, and no one would have dreamed who saw her, calm and assured, with opulent bare arms shimmering in the candle-light, that five minutes before Dawkins’ arrival she had been enveloped in a coverall heatedly administering the finishing touches to the potatoes.
Oysters came first, that easiest of all dishes to prepare and the most enjoyable to eat. Fine oysters they were, fat and full-flavored, and Dawkins’ soul rejoiced in them. The oysters were succeeded by soup, smooth and agreeable and seasoned with the delicacy of true art, and with it a sherry of the better class—just one glassful of liquid sunshine. And Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter talked in her pleasant contralto, while Dawkins expanded and grew less and less reserved, and looked more and more interestedly at that full throat and arms a-gleam across the table against the darkness of the corner of the room. Fricassee of chicken, with aristocratically-mashed potatoes and the most beautiful spinach followed the soup, and Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter, with a vein of seriousness in her light-hearted voice, pressed Dawkins to sample the Burgundy. A wonderful wine it was; it had cost Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter nearly as much as a new frock would have done, but she had looked upon it as money well spent. It was the finest Burgundy the best wine merchant in Gilding could supply, and Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter had aired it with infinite care. It bore within it all the wit of Voltaire, the effectiveness of Maupassant, the exuberance of Borotra, the art of Coquelin, the splendor of Versailles, and the placid joys of the Saône. It warmed and it delighted; it was a heady nectar.
Dawkins sipped and sav
ored and sipped again, and the wine tinged his thoughts with its own roseate hue. The wine was nectar, the chicken ambrosia, and Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter was—Venus? Juno? Some one too delightful for words, anyway. So exquisite was the whole effect that Dawkins wisely declined to cloy his palate with the perfect meringue pudding which appeared, but contented himself with a bite of fine Gruyère cheese and a biscuit. He hardly noticed himself agreeing with Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter’s suggestion that he should sample the port—another wine over which Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter had spent some minutes’ anxious discussion with the wine merchant. A goodly port, worthy of mention along with the Burgundy, than which there could be no higher praise.
Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter eyed Dawkins’ exalted benignancy of expression across the table, and decided that she had reached the effect she had aimed at, so that she made up her mind not to call in the additional aid of the liqueur brandy she held in reserve. She wanted Dawkins to be merely mellow and with a faltering self-control; she did not want him anything like drunk.
And after dinner Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter proposed that they should remain in the cozy dining-room, and Dawkins agreed automatically. He was settled into a comfortable chair at the side of the fire, and Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter sank gracefully on to a low pouffe in front of the fire—a well-chosen strategic position, with the firelight on her face and the coffee-table at her feet, for she was just, but not obviously, within Dawkins’ reach should he, as Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter fully intended, want to reach toward her.
The conversation had flowed unobtrusively but steadily; Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter had been prettily solicitous about Nina’s health and her school record, charmingly interested in the golf handicap, full of tender thought for the garden and the Baby, and had harked back with delightful anxiety to the futures of Nina and Betty. This was the subject they began to discuss as the flickering firelight played over Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter’s wistful face. They were two such exceptional girls, and they were so happy and friendly together, and Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter thought they were such a good influence on each other. In fact she was always heartily sorry on the days when Nina came calling, to separate them at the end of the evening.
And insensibly running alongside this appealing topic there was another one stealing along seemingly unnoticed, whose main theme was the troubles of widows and of Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter in particular. For there ought to be a man in control of every child; she often wished that Betty had a man to look up to, for a man could set an example to his daughter in some ways impossible to a mother. A child was nearly as unfortunate to be fatherless as she was to be motherless—for, of course, after all the mother was the most important influence. There were some matters only a mother could hope to be of any use in. A child who had no woman to whom to take her confidences was—But Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter never succeeded in saying what she was. She never had the chance of passing on to her final descriptions of the trials and tribulations of this world and how she could hardly bear them longer.
For there was a knock at the door, and the little maid who had been washing up in the kitchen went to open it. They heard a low-voiced argument in the hall, and then the maid looked in.
“Please’m,” she said, but she got no further, for somebody else slipped into the room behind her—a little draggled waif of a somebody from whose clothes the water ran in little trickles.
“Nina!” said Dawkins, but no sound came from Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter save a hissing intake of breath.
Nina stood there in the candle-light with her wet hair and her drawn features, and the Hawk’s long chin and the Hawk’s gray eyes seemed to Dawkins’ dazzled gaze to have come back from the grave. It was only with an effort that he tore himself free from the numb bedazement which had settled down upon him, instantly succeeding his previous mood of expansive and admiring sympathy.
“Whatever have you came here for?” asked Dawkins, and it was a second or two before the answer came.
“You—you’re wanted back at home,” she said—she had no real idea of what she said.
“Why? Good gracious, is anything wrong?”
Nina nodded silently. Of a sudden she felt very stupid and tired.
“Whatever is it? Something can’t have happened to Miss Lamb?”
Nina shook her head; the water from her clothes was forming a little puddle round her feet.
“Well, then, what is it? Tell me, Nina.”
But Nina still said nothing.
“Tell us at once, you naughty little girl,” said Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter, and all her exasperated disappointment breathed venomously in every syllable. It was this which roused Dawkins from his previous rather ordinary mood to one of anxious receptivity.
“Come on, Nina, old lady,” he said. “Let’s have it.”
Nina’s glance moved from him to Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter, and met hers like a fencer’s with a flash of parry and ripost, and then moved back again. The long chin seemed even longer than usual, and the gray eyes were as hard as stones. Even so did the Hawk appear at the bad times.
“You’ve got to come home,” said Nina, and Dawkins automatically rose from his chair to obey.
In a flash Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter stood barring his path.
“This is all too silly,” she said. “Why on earth should you go home just because this child says you must, Mr. Dawkins?”
The three of them stood looking at one another like characters at the climax of some old-fashioned melodrama, but none of them felt at all melodramatic, somehow.
“Come on,” said Nina to Dawkins steadily, and Dawkins prepared to obey. He was not obeying Nina, his little girl ward, but the Hawk’s daughter, or the Hawk himself, for that matter—it may have been Fate, or it may have been Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter’s port, but all remembrance of his resolves never to give way to Nina’s whims had vanished, and he remained Nina’s humble and devoted servant.
“I think I had better go,” he said to Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter, and that lady bit her lip and clenched her hands and would have stamped with rage if she had not restrained herself by a wild effort. As it was she could say nothing.
Dawkins had reached the door before a trace of common sense returned to him.
“By George, old lady. You’re wet through. We can’t possibly drive you home like that.”
They hesitated together before Dawkins turned to Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter.
“Could Nina have some of Betty’s things to go home in, do you think?” he asked, and Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter knew not what to reply. To refuse would be churlish; to agree would to be fall in with Mr. Dawkins’ project of going home. Her hesitation and the struggle on her face were obvious, and Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter instantly fell several degrees in Dawkins’ estimation. Dry clothes after getting wet were one of the points Mr. Dawkins was quite fanatical about, and to hesitate about giving them was a crime in his eyes. His eyebrows came together in a fierce frown, and the terrible gleam appeared in his eyes. He had instantly become Nina’s confederate as well as her hereditary retainer, and even Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter quailed before the menace his attitude seemed to convey.
“All right,” she said, and she weakly led Nina up-stairs.
Betty, sleeping the sleep of the young and well-plumped, was suddenly roused by the switching on of her bedroom light and the entrance of two people. One seemed to be her mother, who was not such an unusual phenomenon, the other, so her bedazed eyes told her, but she could not credit them, was Nina. Betty promptly imagined herself dreaming, and as in a dream she saw Nina strip herself of her clothes and towel herself with Betty’s own towel; while her mother rummaged in her drawers and produced an assortment of Betty’s not-too-well-mended underclothing and outer clothing. Betty saw Nina dress herself in these, and then the vision receded and the light went out, leaving Betty quite convinced she had been dreaming. It was only her discovery next morning of Nina’s wet clothes which dispelled the idea —and she got small satisfaction from her mother when she asked questions about what had happened.
Down-stairs the front door was open, and Dawkins had his overcoat on and the engine of the car started. Nina came mistily down-stairs and Dawkins wrapped her up in the rugs in the front seat. He looked round to say good-by, but Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter’s temper had got the better of her and she had gone in and savagely slammed the front door. Dawkins raised his eyebrows philosophically, and scrambled into the driver’s seat. He pushed the gear lever forward, and the car crawled into Gilding High Street, turned the corner and leaped smoothly forward. Dawkins pressed the accelerator, and the car sang through the outskirts of Gilding, seemed to clear instantly, at a bound, the mile of high road, swung neatly into the side lane, swung round the two sharp corners, and came to a halt outside the Other House. Nina was nodding in her seat, and Dawkins carried her in. Miss Lamb met them in the hall and followed them up to Nina’s bedroom, and there, without a word, Dawkins handed her over and went down-stairs. He was not in the mood to discuss the business with anybody that night.
Chapter XXI
And the next morning when the realization had crystallized that both his behavior and Nina’s had been quite fantastic he felt still worse. For the first time since they had been in the Other House he came down late to breakfast, deliberately, because he felt shy of encountering Nina, and after breakfast, he haled Miss Lamb into his study and put her through a savage cross-examination, because he was exceedingly savage. He demanded to know the why and the wherefore, how Nina had got out of the house without Miss Lamb’s knowledge, and what the dickens’ Miss Lamb meant by allowing the child to go out for a two-mile walk in December rain, and what had put the idea into Nina’s head anyway.
Miss Lamb, despite the fact that all her new-found happiness was at stake, received the storm with unbowed head like the patrician she was. Yes, she had told Nina that he was dining at Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter’s. That was because Nina had asked when she had taken in her supper. She had said nothing else on the subject. Yes, it was her fault that Nina had got out of the house. She was fully responsible, and was guilty of inattention to duty in allowing it. She had come to the conclusion that Nina had got out of the window and down the drain-pipe via the cornice. Yes, it would be dangerous, especially in the dark, but not so very dangerous to an active little girl. She had no idea why Nina had suddenly decided to go to Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter’s unless—Unless? Unless—perhaps—Nina had felt jealous of the lady for some reason or other. She did not know what had happened at Mrs. Gateson-Slaughter’s, but she hoped it had been nothing unpleasant.