“And a very good thing.” Nicholas looked at him with severity.
Renny continued, — “Then there’s Wakefield — an actor.”
Dennis put in, — “Rags says that Uncle Wake was a bad actor when he was a little boy.”
“Dennis,” said Alayne, “you have finished your pudding. You may go to your room and get ready for bed.”
“May I take the chipmunk with me for a treat, Adeline?” he asked.
“Oh, bother! Can’t I have anything in peace?” she exclaimed. “Very well. Take it.”
Holding the chipmunk close he ran up the two flights of stairs to his room. It was dark and cold but he was not afraid. He drew back the window curtains and let in the moonlight. He sat down in its light on the side of the bed. He held the little animal to his mouth. “Oh, you dear little sweet thing,” he murmured. It was warmed by his hands. It seemed almost alive. He liked it better than if it were alive, for he could do what he wished with it.
Downstairs, the two old brothers, having enjoyed their food, felt better than they had all the day. They walked strongly back to the drawing-room where a bright fire was blazing. Adeline went into the library and turned on the radio. For a wonder there was music not objectionable to Alayne. In the dim hall she looked up into Renny’s face. His face was softened into gentleness as he looked at her, into remorse for ever having hurt her, yet there was chagrin that she should be so easily hurt — so often hurt by him. He bent and kissed her forehead and then her lips. “Smile at me,” he said, and she brought herself to smile.
VI
“SOBER AND INDUSTRIOUS”
Raikes moved quietly though the ravine, the gun drooping in his hand. At the far end he went to the clump of hushes where he had hidden the cock pheasant. He took it by the feet and drew it out. Its plumage glistened in the moonlight, its proud crested head, its proud neck, with the clearly marked collar of dark blue and dazzling white, hung limp. The feathers of its tail floated gently as he carried it.
He went to the farthest of Mr. Clapperton’s bungalows and tapped at the back door. It was opened by a stout woman and behind her stood a stout crimson-faced man in his shirt sleeves.
“Oh, good evening, Mr. Raikes,” she said. “Come right in. And what have you there, I’d like to know? A pheasant! Well, I declare!”
“It’s for you, Mrs. Barker,” Raikes said, in his soft Southern-Ireland voice, and he put the pheasant into her hand. Her fingers closed gladly about the claws. “Goodness, isn’t he pretty!”
“Indeed and he is.” Raikes gently stroked the bird’s bright plumage. “I’d roast him if I was you.”
“I’ll stuff him and roast him and have cranberry sauce with him. Look, Jack.”
“Fine,” said her husband, in a drink-wheezy voice. “Just fine.”
“Come in, won’t you, Mr. Raikes?” she urged.
“Thank you, I will for a bit. It’s cold for you with the door open.” He entered, with his air of grave politeness, taking off his battered hat and showing his thick black hair.
The two men stood close together looking at each other. Barker’s lips formed the words — “Have a drink?” His wife’s back was turned but she knew.
“No drinking here,” she said loudly, while she well knew that her bullying tone would have no effect whatever. She went about the work of plucking the pheasant, grumbling all the while about the drink.
Barker went to a cupboard and took out a bottle half full of rye whisky. He sang softly in a husky voice, — “Have a wee drop and Dorcas, afore ye gang awa’.”
“That’s wrong,” said his wife.
“What’s wrong?” he asked belligerently.
“The words. They don’t make sense the way you’ve got them.”
“The words don’t matter. It’s the tune that counts and the sentiment. I’ve got the sentiment all right, haven’t I, Tom?”
“You have the sentiment fine,” answered Raikes, “but Mrs. Barker is right about the words.” He gave her a little smile as he took the glass of whisky and water from Barker. He asked:
“Wouldn’t you like me to pluck that bird for you, Mrs. Barker? Sure you’ll spoil your hands.”
“Oh, no, thanks. I’ll manage fine.” But she threw him a grateful, an almost tender look, as she sat down with the pheasant between her thighs and began to tear the bright plumage from his breast.
The two men sat on either side of the table covered by a red cloth on which was a pack of soiled playing cards and, in the centre, a pink vase holding a pink artificial rose. Barker smacked his lips loudly at each mouthful, as though to affirm his enjoyment and defiance, but Raikes gazed pensively into the liquor remaining in the bottle and sipped without sound.
“My, it’s a nice fat bird,” exclaimed Mrs. Barker. “Where did you say you shot it?”
“I didn’t say,” replied Raikes, “and I wouldn’t say, and, if I was you, I wouldn’t ask. There are some that are very fussy about their pheasants.”
“Colonel Whiteoak,” said Barker, “did a funny thing last fall when the open season for pheasants began. He sprinkled corn over the floor of his barn and left the doors wide open. The pheasants smelled it out and they went for it — about sixty of them — and he locked the doors and kept them shut up there till the three days was over.”
“I guess he wanted them all for himself,” said Mrs. Barker. She began pulling out the pheasant’s tail feathers. “Look, ain’t they pretty? I’m going to have them in a hat.” She held them against the side of her head and smiled coquettishly at Raikes.
“Women never learn,” said Barker, pouring himself another glass, “when they’re too old for dolling up.”
“Mrs. Barker certainly isn’t too old,” said Raikes gallantly. Her eyes were on him and, when Barker offered him another drink, he refused. “I have to go into the house and see the boss. I mustn’t be smelling of liquor.”
“I’ll give you a pinch of coffee to chew,” said Barker. “That deadens the smell.”
His wife burst into derisive laughter. “I can smell a whisky breath a mile away — coffee or no coffee.”
“You know it all, don’t you?” said Barker sulkily, then asked, — “How’s the old codger, Tom?”
“Just the same. Ah, he might be worse. I’m quite content with my job. The young ladies are very kind.”
“That Althea is a bit touched here.” Mrs. Barker put her fingers to her forehead. “I saw her sitting in front of a tree the other day, painting as if it was summer.”
“I know,” laughed Raikes. “She’ll come in after a walk, tired out, and her skirts clogged with snow. But she don’t mind about anything, so long as her pets are warm and fed. She’s an odd one all right.”
“Tom,” asked Barker in an undertone, “will you be able to get the car tonight?”
“Sure. I’ll be here for you about nine.”
“I do wish you two would stay at home!” Mrs. Barker glared at them, down from under the pheasant’s feathers clinging to her hair and even on one eyebrow. “You think of nothing but getting out with the car and drinking and gambling. One of these times Mr. Clapperton will find out and then where’ll you be?”
“Just where I am, mark my words,” laughed Raikes. “Come now, Mrs. Barker, don’t you be cross and will you give me that pinch of coffee you recommended?” He gave her his gentle