Part 7 (1/2)
On the roof another view was being taken. I heard the details from Hugh Deventer, who at this time was constantly with his father, now that he had been forgiven and, as it were, taken back into the general scheme of things as conceived by Dennis Deventer.
”Rhoda Polly brought him up” (so ran his narrative), ”and it was like watching a hen with a new brood of chickens to see the pair of them.
Rhoda Polly is like that. She was quite sure that she had found the specific remedy for all our woes, so she could hardly let the man speak at first, so anxious was she that he should say the right thing.
”She kept at it interrupting so long, that at last the Pater, who was not specially patient just then, told her to go away and let them talk it out in peace. And that is pretty strong from the Pater to Rhoda Polly, for mostly he encourages her to say and do just what she likes.
She is not like the others. There is nothing of the mother's-ap.r.o.n-string-girl about Rhoda Polly. She likes running about the works in a dirty blouse much better than sitting all day, with embroidery on her knee, listening to mother purring.
”As for Cremieux and my father, they understood each other from the first. It was wonderful to find how much they had in common. And he will help to stop the rioting. He says he will not go away from Aramon till the men are back at work. Cremieux's opinion is that these sporadic risings do no good, even when run on the best lines, without personal violence or destruction of property. To succeed, the thing must be a national movement, concerted and directed from each one of the great towns, otherwise the bourgeois government merely waits till its feet are free elsewhere, and then tramples out one by one all the little revolts.”
At that moment Deventer caught me by the arm.
”Hold hard,” he whispered, ”here he comes with the Chief. I declare they are as thick as thieves, and yet in an hour he may be leading the rascals over yonder to burn down the Chateau.”
The restless eyes of Dennis Deventer spied me out.
”Ah, Angus me boy,” he hailed, ”come this way. You two ought to know one another. This is our philosopher's son from Gobelet, who has run away from college to take service under Garibaldi.”
”If he casts his eyes in that direction,” said the dark young man, smiling, ”I can find him more profitable work nearer home.”
”Come, none of your proselytising on my ground!” said Dennis Deventer, laying a heavy hand on his companion's shoulder. ”If he chooses to go and get a bullet in him for the sake of France, that is his own affair.
But I will not have him mixed up in your little revolutions about which he knows nothing at all.”
”But I will teach him. He is intelligent--of a fine race--it is such men we need. Let me speak to him, I beg.”
But Dennis Deventer would listen to nothing. He pushed his visitor out of the hall, laughing and shaking his head good-humouredly.
”Take anyone you like from my rank and file,” he said, ”but leave my staff officers alone.”
But I did not forget that tall, grave young man, who talked so earnestly and pleaded so strongly for a chance to teach me the wisdom of insurrection.
CHAPTER VIII
I SEE THE SCARLET TATTER NEAR AT HAND
I might have thought much more about Gaston Cremieux and the dark fatality of his eyes, if other things had not immediately distracted my attention. The garrison had had its noon dinner in the great hall, and at one o'clock the family were served in the fine red and gold dining-room, the furnis.h.i.+ngs of which had been the gift of the Emperor.
Dennis Deventer sat at the top of the table with the gleeful air of having dispatched the business of the day.
There was a feeling of picnic unceremoniousness about the feast. The servants were somewhat thinned by flight, and as there was no hard-and-fast etiquette in Dennis Deventer's house on any occasion, several of the younger apprentice engineers a.s.sisted in the service, partly from a general feeling of loyalty, and partly because they liked to steal glances at the three Deventer girls--glances of which only Liz appeared conscious and or in any way prompt with a return fire.
Even Jack Jaikes, a dark figure of a Spanish hidalgo, in engineer's blue serge and pockets continually bulging with spanners, looked in and said with brusque courtesy:
”Anything I can do for you, Chief?”
”Nothing,” said Dennis Deventer, over his shoulder, ”except to come in and sit down with us.”
”Thank you, Chief,” answered Jaikes, ”but I have dined already. I am watching the rascals from the roof. They have gone away for a while to their 'speak-house,' where doubtless they are talking over the matter.
But it will not do to trust to appearances. I wish you would let me run that live wire from the big dynamo in the power-house. That would curl them up by the score if they tried any more of their rushes.”