“It would be impossible to me,” said Admiral Lacey. “I’d be furiously trying to do something about it.”
“You mean,” said Sinclair, “that you would not leave your country to its fate and escape to a foreign one.”
The Admiral was a little embarrassed.
“You know your limitations, sir,” he said with a glance at Curtis Sinclair’s hump, “better than I do.”
The Southerner’s beautiful hand fingered the crystal stem of his wine glass.
“We of the South,” said Sinclair, “have much to avenge. It’s not enough to burn your house and leave your plantation a scorched ruin, as some are doing. There are those among us who want something more active than the mere destruction of our own property.” He paused and looked enquiringly into the faces of the other two.
“You can be sure of our sympathy in anything you do,” said Philip Whiteoak.
“With the exception of joining the Confederate army” — the Admiral spoke fiercely and drained his glass — “I will do anything I can to co-operate. But I am a poor man. I cannot give money.”
“We are not without funds,” said the Southerner haughtily.
He went on: “Last spring an officer of the Union army — a Colonel Dahigren — was killed in action. Our men found on his body an order from headquarters to sack and burn Richmond. We have not forgiven that, and never shall.”
“Dastardly,” declared Admiral Lacey. “As bad as Cromwell’s Ironsides.”
“Even worse,” said Philip. “Now what do you plan to do?”
However, Curtis Sinclair retreated. He tapped nervously on the table with his fingers. He said, in a low voice, “It would take me some time to explain just what are our plans and I’m sure Mrs. Whiteoak will be expecting us in the drawing-room.” It could be seen that, at the moment, he had nothing more to say. Shortly the three men joined the ladies.
It was noticeable to Philip Whiteoak that the atmosphere in that room was not of the happiest. Lucy Sinclair was sitting on a blue satin settee, the flounces of her Paris gown spread gracefully about her, the tip of one tiny slippered foot just showing. She was exclaiming on the beauty of some little ivory elephants from India, which Adeline had taken from a cabinet to show her. But Mrs. Lacey sat aloof, looking askance at the other two. Her husband, without a glance at her, went straight to Lucy Sinclair’s side. Curtis Sinclair joined Adeline by the cabinet. Philip sat down beside Mrs. Lacey.
“Is it possible,” she asked, in a tense whisper, “that all Southern women behave as flirtatiously?”
“Sh,” he whispered back, “she will hear you.”
“What are you two whispering about?” cried Mrs. Sinclair. “Not about me and the dear Admiral, I hope.”
“I was thinking,” said Mrs. Lacey, “that after all you say you have been through, I should expect you to be a little subdued.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Sinclair, “if you had known me before, you would see a great difference in me. But it’s my nature to be gay, and when I’m in such good company —”
There was a welcome interruption here, as the tutor and the three children came into the room through one of the French windows that opened on the terrace. The gentle summer breeze moved the curtains, and those inside the room could feel the pine-scented darkness of the night, barely lit by a few distant stars and a young moon rising above the ravine. A whippoorwill was repeating, with mournful ecstasy, his three insistent notes.
“Ernest,” cried his mother, “you should be in your bed.”
“I have come to say goodnight.” The little boy spoke with polite self-possession and went to her.
She opened her arms wide, exclaiming, “Come and kiss me quick then and be off with you.” She spoke in consciously Irish accents and made a consciously dramatic picture with her child, as though protecting him from all the dangers of this world.
“What lovely children!” Lucy Sinclair remarked to Admiral Lacey. “How I envy the parents! It’s a sorrow to my husband and me that we have no children. How I could have loved a daughter!”
“I have two girls,” the Admiral said proudly, “and one son. He is in the Royal Navy.”
Adeline gave Ernest a resounding kiss. “Now,” she said, “say your goodnights to all the company.”
Nothing reluctant, Ernest embraced and kissed each one in turn. He wished he might stay a little longer in the drawing-room in the light of the chandelier. When he put his arms about Lucy, he said, “I can recite ‘Bingen on the Rhine.’”
She smelled his sweet child’s breath. She pressed him to her and said, “Will you recite it for me? I adore recitations.” Mrs. Lacey, seeing the embrace, thought, “She pursues even little boys.”
Ernest asked, “May I recite, Mamma?”
“You may,” she answered grandly, “if you don’t disgrace yourself by forgetting the words.”
“I’ll not forget,” he promised with confidence. He moved to a position where he faced the company. He began, in his treble tones:
A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers;
There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was lack of woman’s tears.
But a comrade was beside him, as his life-blood ebbed away,
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
And so on to the end without one mistake.
At the burst of applause, Ernest blushed and ran to sit by his mother.
“Who, in this part of the world, taught him to recite with such feeling and such distinctness?” asked Lucy Sinclair.
“Our rector’s wife,” said Adeline, “is very clever. She teaches them to recite and to play the piano.”
“The piano,” exclaimed Lucy. “Which of them plays the piano?”
It could be seen that Nicholas was the one. His downcast eyes, the pout of his lips, showed his embarrassment.
“Come now,” urged Adeline, “play that pretty piece of Schubert’s.”
“No, Mamma” — he shook his head — “I can’t.”
“Why, you played it only the other day for my girls and me,” cried Mrs. Lacey.
“That was different.”
“Go to the piano at once, sir,” commanded his father.
Nicholas rose and, with a hangdog air, sat down at the instrument. Without too many mistakes he played the piece through.
“What spirit — what finish!” exclaimed Lucy Sinclair.
“My wife should know,” said her husband, “for she studied music in Europe.”
“She must play for us,” said Adeline.
“If there is one thing above another that I enjoy, it’s a musical evening,” declared the Admiral, who scarcely knew one tune from another.
“What I enjoy,” said Mrs. Lacey, “are recitations.”
“Ah, you should hear my daughter recite,” Adeline said.
Nicholas had been well applauded for his performance and now returned to his tutor’s side where he sat silent on a sofa just inside the door.
“Gussie,” said