Part 15 (1/2)

She was excited and stood over him as though she would force him to be interested.

”It's too much, Garrett. It's got to stop.”

”What?”

”Harry. Some one must speak to him.”

Garrett smiled. ”That, of course, will be you, Clare--you always do; but if it's my permission that you want you may have it and welcome.

But we've discussed all this before. What's the new turn of affairs?”

”No. I want more than your permission; we must take some measures together. It's no good unless we act at once. Miss Ponsonby told me this afternoon--it has become common talk--the things he does, I mean.

She did not want to say anything, but I made her. He goes down continually to some low public-house in the Cove; he is with those Bethels all day, and will see nothing of any of the decent people in the place--he is becoming a common byword.”

”It is a pity,” Garrett said, ”that he cannot choose his friends better.”

”He must--something must be done. It is not for ourselves only, though of course that counts. But it is the House--our name. They laugh at him, and so at all of us. Besides, there is Robin.”

Garrett looked at his sister curiously--he had never seen her so excited before. But she found it no laughing matter. Miss Ponsonby would not have spoken unless matters had gone pretty far. The Cove!

The Bethels! Robin's father!

For, after all, it was for Robin that she cared. She felt that she was fighting his battles, and so subtly concealed from herself that she was, in reality, fighting her own. She was in a state of miserable uncertainty. She was not sure of her father, she was not sure of Robin, scarcely sure of Garrett--everything threatened disaster.

”What will you do?” Garrett had no desire that the responsibility should be s.h.i.+fted in his direction; he feared responsibility as the rock on which the s.h.i.+p of his carefully preserved proprieties might come to wreck.

”Do? Why, speak--it must be done. Think of him during the whole time that he has been here--not only to Pendragon, but to us. He has made no attempt whatever to fit in with our ways or thoughts; he has shown no desire to understand any of us; and now he must be pulled up, for his own sake as well as ours.”

But Garrett offered her little a.s.sistance. He had no proposals to offer, and was barren of all definite efforts; he hated definite lines of any kind, but he promised to fall in with her plans.

”I will come down to breakfast,” she said, ”and will speak to him afterwards.”

Garrett nodded wearily and went back to his work. On the next morning the crisis came.

Breakfast was a silent meal at all times. Harry had learnt to avoid the cheerful familiarity of his first morning--it would not do. But the heavy solemnity of the ma.s.sive silver teapot, the ham and cold game on the sideboard, the racks of toast that were so needlessly numerous, drove him into himself, and, like his brother and son, he disappeared behind folds of newspaper until the meal was over.

Clare frequently came down to breakfast, and therefore he saw nothing unusual in her appearance. The meal was quite silent; Clare had her letters--and he was about to rise and leave the room, when she spoke.

”Wait a minute, Harry. I want to say something. No, Robin, don't go--what I'm going to say concerns us all.”

Garrett remained behind his newspaper, which showed that he had received previous warning. Robin looked up in surprise, and then quickly at his father, who had moved to the fireplace.

”About me, Clare?” He tried to speak calmly, but his voice shook a little. He saw that it was a premeditated attack, but he wished that Robin hadn't been there. He was, on the whole, glad that the moment had come; the last week had been almost unbearable, and the situation was bound to arrive at a crisis--well, here it was, but he wished that Robin were not there. As he looked at the boy for a moment his face was white and his breath came sharply. He had never loved him quite so pa.s.sionately as at that moment when he seemed about to lose him.

Clare had chosen her time and her audience well, and suddenly he felt that he hated her; he was immediately calm and awaited her attack almost nonchalantly, his hand resting on the mantelpiece, his legs crossed.

Clare was still sitting at the table, her face half turned to Harry, her glance resting on Robin. She tapped the table with her letters, but otherwise gave no sign of agitation.

”Yes--about you, Harry. It is only that I think we have reason--almost a right--to expect that you should yield a little more thoroughly to our wishes. Both _Garrett_”--this with emphasis--”and myself are sure that your failing to do so is only due to a misconception on your part, and it is because we are sure that you have only to realise them to give way a little to them, that I--we--are speaking.”

”I certainly had not realised that I had failed in deference to your wishes, Clare.”