Charles Rex by Ethel May Dell (easy readers .TXT) 📖

fate is sealed."
"I hope not." Jake still gravely watched him, but not as if he sought for anything in the baffling, mobile countenance. "What do you want him for anyway?"
Saltash flicked the ash from his cigar. "Perhaps I'm turning philanthropist, Jake. Do you know the symptoms? I've been anxious about myself several times lately."
"Come on rather suddenly, hasn't it?" suggested Jake.
Saltash nodded. "It's old age, I fancy. Anyhow I've a notion for doing Bunny a good turn. The boy can have play as well as work. He can join the polo-club at Fairharbour. I'll introduce him."
"And where will he live?" asked Jake.
"With the old Bishops of course. He'll be safe enough with them and within reach of you and Maud at the same time. It's time you eased the leading string a bit, you know. He'll start kicking if you don't."
"I don't think so," said Jake. "He goes his own way already quite as much as is good for him. I don't need to hold him in very tight either. He's not the bolting sort."
"You mean you've trained him well," laughed Saltash. "I congratulate you. You've a genius for that sort of thing, Jake. The boy will probably answer to your lightest touch and never even know he does it."
"What was the other thing you wanted to say to me?" said Jake.
"Oh that!" Saltash's eyes fell suddenly to his empty wine glass. He fingered the stem of it for a few seconds with a curiously irresolute air. "Do you know I think I'll put it to Maud first!" he said at length, with a smile that was faintly shamefaced.
"It'll come to the same thing," said Jake.
Saltash's eyes flashed upwards. He met Jake's look almost with defiance. "Doubtless you are master in your own house, Jake," he said. "Far be it from me to question it."
"I didn't mean that," said Jake. "What I meant was," the red-brown eyes began to smile, "that Maud and I are friends--and we generally want the same thing."
Saltash nodded. "Not so bad after eight years," he said.
"No. It's pretty great," said Jake. "You'd think we were an ill-matched pair, wouldn't you? But we've learnt to plough as straight a furrow as anyone."
"No, I don't think you ill-matched," said Saltash unexpectedly. "You've always been about the same height and breadth, my friend. I saw that a long time ago. The luckiest day that ever dawned for Maud was the one on which you cut me out."
"Think so?" said Jake. "Well, it wasn't a very lucky one for you, I'm afraid."
"I got over it," said Saltash lightly. "I'm too great a rotter, you know, Jake, to take things much to heart. I've loved heaps of women since--even some good ones. But they never take me seriously; so I presume I shall continue to rot."
"Thought you'd turned sober," suggested Jake.
Again Saltash's look dwelt upon the ruby drain in his wine-glass. For a moment the restlessness of his face deepened to something very nearly approaching melancholy.
"I'm tired, Jake," he said abruptly. "I've run through the whole gamut of amusements, and I'm bored to the soul. I want to do a good turn to somebody--just for a change--to see what it feels like. Perhaps--who knows--it may take the taste of rottenness out of my mouth. You fellows who lead a decent, orderly life don't know what it is when the wine turns to vinegar and all the sweets of life to gall."
"Sounds pretty damnable," said Jake.
Saltash grimaced like a weary monkey. "It's dust and ashes, my good Jake. But we won't discuss it. Let's come to business! You know Larpent--my captain--quite one of the best?"
Jake nodded. "I've met him--yes."
Saltash flung himself back in his chair smoking rapidly. "He was damaged when the yacht went down. He's in a nursing home in town, getting better. He's got a daughter--a girl called Antoinette. She's been at school in France, and Larpent was bringing her home in the yacht when we went down. She's nineteen--a jolly little thing--half French. Larpent doesn't know what to do with her. He has no people. She--quite properly--wants to earn her own living. But she's too young yet to fight the world. Larpent's a rover, he'll never settle on land. She's never had any home life, poor kid. And she wants it. You'll say it's like my damned cheek to come to you, but on my life you and Maud are the only people I can think of. There's my old friend Lady Jo--Mrs. Green as she prefers to be called--but she isn't very strong just now. I can't bother her. Besides she hasn't got a home like yours. She's up in town."
The jerky utterance came to an end. Saltash turned his head towards Jake, watching him half furtively through the smoke.
There followed a silence of some duration. Jake's brows were slightly drawn. He spoke at last, slowly and softly as his manner was. "Are you suggesting that--Captain Larpent's daughter--should come to us?"
"She'd be useful enough," said Saltash in his quick, vehement way. "She'd help Maud with the children. There's nothing she wouldn't do. It would be a kindness on your part, and you wouldn't regret it. She's a taking little thing. I'd like you to have her for a month, and if you don't want to keep her after that--well--shunt her back on to Larpent. He'll be well by that time. If he isn't--I'll look after her till he is."
"Who's looking after her now?" said Jake. "Where is she?"
Saltash pushed back his chair with a movement of impatience. "Did you think I'd bring her to Burchester for all the county to blab about? She's under my protection--and she's safe." He spoke with a certain fierceness, and in a moment was pacing the room, his face arrogantly lifted. "I know very well the sort of story that's going round, but if you're a white man you'll help me to give it the lie. I know I'm a blackguard, Jake,--never pretended to be anything else. But I hope I'm a gentleman as well--at least where women are concerned. That child is none the worse in mind or body for being thrown on my hands. You've got to believe that."
"All right," said Jake.
Saltash paced jerkily on, his hands behind him. "I want you to have her because you're straight, and she'll come to no harm with you. You never even parley with the devil, do you, Jake? Remember that time--it's ten years ago, more--when a man tried to tempt you to tamper with one of your horses and you horsewhipped him for his baseness."
"I prefer not to remember it, my lord," said Jake.
Saltash stopped suddenly by his chair and gripped his shoulder with a wiry hand. "I've liked you ever since," he said. "Look here, Jake! I'm not tempting you to do anything wrong now. I'm asking you to do something that doesn't appeal to you; but if you do it, it'll be one of the most decent actions of your life. That child is quite alone just now--except for me. Will you take her--like a good chap--till something else safe turns up?"
Jake sat slowly forward. "I'll have to talk it over with Maud," he said.
Saltash's grip shifted impatiently. "You know very well what Maud will say. Don't be an ass about it! Say No--if you mean to say No--at once!"
There came the quiet tread of approaching feet on the gravelled terrace and the sound of low voices talking together. Jake lifted his head. His face was grim. He looked Saltash straight in the eyes.
"You've told me the plain truth about her. You swear it?"
Saltash's swarthy countenance was in shadow, but those strange eyes of his gleamed oddly, with the sort of fitful shining that comes from a coat of mail in an uncertain light. They did not flinch from Jake's straight regard, neither did they wholly meet it.
"Is my oath really more valuable than my word, Jake?" he said, with a wry twist of the lips. "Most people don't find it so."
Jake stood up, a figure square and forceful. For a moment he faced Saltash with a level scrutiny that--possibly--pierced the coat of mail. Then abruptly he smiled. "I will take your word, my lord," he said.
"And the child?" said Saltash.
Jake nodded. "The child too--if Maud agrees."
"Thanks," said Saltash, and smiled back at Jake--the smile that gave his ugly face so great a charm. "I am obliged to you, Jake. I think Maud will agree."
"Shall we go to her?" said Jake.


CHAPTER IV
SALTASH

They joined the two on the terrace, and presently they were all laughing together at Saltash's drolleries. He knew how to bring effervescence to the very quietest waters. They sat for a space on a seat in the soft spring starlight, while below them on the down there thrilled the unspeakable music of nightingales singing far and near. Then after a while Jake strolled away for his nightly inspection of the stables, taking Bunny with him, and Saltash and Maud were left alone.
He moved close to her at once, his arm stretched behind her along the back of the seat. At their feet lay an old red setter, Chops, who had belonged to Jake before his marriage and had devoted himself to Maud ever since.
"By Jove, this is peaceful!" said Saltash, and stopped to caress the old dog with a gentle hand. "Do you know, Maud, it's a good thing you never married me if this sort of thing makes you happy."
She smiled her quiet, contented smile. "I think it is a good thing too, Charlie. It certainly would never have satisfied you."
"Nothing does," he declared restlessly. "I'm a wanderer on the face of the earth, and I don't pick up much as I go along. I'm getting old, you know. Life isn't what it was."
Maud was silent for a few moments, the starlight in her eyes. "I sometimes wonder," she said at length, "if you have ever really lived yet."
He laughed on a mocking note. "My dear girl, I--who have done everything!"
She shook her head. "No, not everything, Charlie."
"Everything that's bad," he suggested recklessly.
She put out a hand to him that went into his quick hold and lay there with perfect confidence. "I don't think you're really old," she said. "I think you're just beginning to grow up. No, don't laugh! I am quite serious. You are just beginning to discriminate between the things that are worth while and those that are not."
"Is anything worth while?" said Saltash.
"Yes, yes. Heaps of things. But not the things you care for,--not just the wild pleasures of life. Charlie, I'm not good at expressing things, and I'm afraid--just a little--of trespassing, even though we are such old friends."
Her voice had a wistful note. He carried her hand to his lips. "_Ma belle reine_, is it possible? You?"
Her fingers closed upon his. "I hate you to be world-tired and lonely. But I would rather have you that than feeding on husks."
"I'm not doing that at the present moment," he said. "I'm living like a beastly hermit--except that I cut my nails and brush my hair occasionally. You've heard about the woman on the yacht, of course?"
Her silence answered him, and he laughed again.
"A lie, _chere reine_! There was no woman."
"Oh, Charlie!" she said impulsively. "Forgive me for believing it!"
He made a royal gesture. "I forgive you. Moreover, the lie was not without foundation. There was a child on board of the female species,--very small and badly frightened. We saved her between us, Larpent and I. She belongs to Larpent--not to me."
"You mean she is his daughter?" questioned Maud.
"That is exactly