Volume I Part 8 (1/2)
The tall eight-day clock in a corner of the hall chimed the half-hour.
”Half-past five, and Starlight Bess not ordered,” exclaimed Roderick.
”Let's go out to the stables and see about her,” suggested Vixen. ”And then I can show you my pony. You remember t.i.tmouse, the one that _would_ jump?”
”Violet!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the aggrieved governess. ”Do you suppose I would permit you to go out of doors in such weather?”
”Do you think it's still raining?” asked Vixen innocently. ”It may have cleared up. Well, we'd better order the cart,” she added meekly, as she rang the bell. ”I'm not of age yet, you see, Rorie. Please, Peters, tell West to get papa's dog-cart ready for Mr. Vawdrey, and to drive Starlight Bess.”
Rorie looked at the bright face admiringly. The shadows had deepened; there was no light in the great oak-panelled room except the ruddy fire-glow, and in this light Violet Tempest looked her loveliest. The figures in the tapestry seemed to move in the flickering light--appeared and vanished, vanished and appeared, like the phantoms of a dream. The carved bosses of the ceiling were reflected grotesquely on the oaken wall above the tapestry. The stags' heads had a goblin look. It was like a scene of enchantment, and Violet, in her black frock and amber sash, looked like the enchantress--Circe, Vivien, Melusine, or somebody of equally dubious antecedents.
It was Miss McCroke's sleepiest hour. Orange pekoe, which has an awakening influence upon most people, acted as an opiate upon her. She sat blinking owlishly at the two young figures.
Rorie roused himself with a great effort.
”Unless Starlight Bess spins me along the road pretty quickly, I shall hardly get to Briarwood by dinner-time,” he said; ”and upon my honour, I don't feel the least inclination to go.”
”Oh, what fun if you were absent at your coming-of-age dinner!” cried Vixen, with her brown eyes dancing mischievously. ”They would have to put an empty chair for you, like Banquo's.”
”It would be a lark,” acquiesced Rorie, ”but it wouldn't do; I should hear too much about it afterwards. A fellow's mother has some kind of claim upon him, you know. Now for Starlight Bess.”
They went into the vestibule, and Rorie opened the door, letting in a gust of wind and rain, and the scent of autumn's last ill-used flowers.
”Oh, I so nearly forgot,” said Violet, as they stood on the threshold, side by side, waiting for the dog-cart to appear. ”I've got a little present for you--quite a humble one for a grand young land-owner like you--but I never could save much of my pocket-money; there are so many poor children always having scarlet-fever, or tumbling into the fire, or drinking out of boiling tea-kettles. But here it is, Rorie. I hope you won't hate it very much.”
She put a little square packet into his hand, which he proceeded instantly to open.
”I shall love it, whatever it is.”
”It's a portrait.”
”You darling! The very thing I should have asked for.”
”The portrait of someone you're fond of.”
”Someone I adore,” said Rorie.
He had extracted the locket from its box by this time. It was a thick oblong locket of dead gold, plain and ma.s.sive; the handsomest of its kind that a Southampton jeweller could supply.
Rorie opened it eagerly, to look at the portrait.
There was just light enough from the newly-kindled vestibule lamp to show it to him.
”Why it's a dog,” cried Rorie, with deep-toned disgust. ”It's old Argus.”
”Who did you think it was?”
”You, of course.”
”What an idea! As if I should give anyone my portrait. I knew you were fond of Argus. Doesn't his head come out beautifully? The photographer said he was the best sitter he had had for ever so long. I hope you don't quite detest the locket, Rorie.”