Charles Rex by Ethel May Dell (books to improve english .txt) 📕

afraid to strike a wrong note.
Toby was trembling a little and that fact decided her. She put a comforting arm about her.
"Do you know I am wondering how to make you happy?" she said.
Toby choked back a sob. "You are very kind, and I am stupid--stupid. I will try to be happy. I will really."
Maud began to draw her gently nearer, but Toby surprised her by a sudden passionate movement and slipped down on to the floor, hiding her face against her.
"I'm not fit--to speak to you!" she said in a vehement, strangled whisper. "I'm so bad--so bad. And I do--so--want to be good."
"My dear, dear child!" Maud said very tenderly.
Toby fought with herself for a space, her thin arms tightly clasping Maud's knees. At last, forcing back her distress she lifted her head.
"I'm so dreadfully sorry. Don't let it upset you! Don't--tell Jake!"
"You are quite safe with me, dear," Maud assured her. "But can't I help you?"
She knew even as she asked the question that Toby was not prepared to give her full confidence, and her own reserve shrank from asking for it.
Toby looked up at her with quivering lips. "Oh, you are good!" she said. "I want to be good--like you. But--I don't feel as if I ever shall be."
Maud laid a very gentle hand upon the blue-veined forehead. "I think goodness is only comparative at the best of times, dear," she said. "I don't feel that I am specially good. If I seem so to you, it is probably because my life holds very few temptations to be anything else."
"Ah!" Toby said, with a quick sigh. "And do you think people ought to be made to suffer for--for things they can't help?"
Maud shook her head. "I am afraid it often happens, dear."
"And yet you believe in God," Toby said.
"Yes, I believe in God." With quiet reverence Maud made answer. "And I am quite sure, Toby--quite, quite sure--that He never holds people responsible for the things they can't help."
"Then why--" began Toby restlessly.
Maud interrupted her. "No, no. Don't ask why! The world is as God made it. 'We are His workmanship.' Let Him do with us as He will!"
Toby's hands clenched. A frown that was curiously unchildlike drew the wide forehead. "Are we to be quite passive then? Just--slaves?"
"No," Maud said. "Servants--not slaves. There is a big difference. And every one of us--every one of us--has God's work to do in the world."
"And you think that bad people,--like me--can do anything?" said Toby.
Maud smiled a little. "Toby dear, I am quite sure that your work is waiting for you."
"Don't know where I'm going to begin," said Toby, with another sigh.
"My dear, you have begun." Maud's hand smoothed the fair hair. "Do you think I don't know how hard you try?"
Toby's eyes filled with quick tears. "But is it any good trying? Shall I ever get away from--from--" She broke off with a nervous, upward glance. "Shall I ever do more than begin?" she substituted rather piteously.
"My dear, yes." Very quietly, with absolute decision, Maud made answer. "You are young--too young to be hampered by anything that is past. You have your life before you, and--to a very great extent--you can make of it what you will. There is no need--believe me, there is no need--to look back. There is only time enough for the present. Just keep on trying! Make the very best you can of it! And you will find the future will come out all right."
"Will it?" said Toby rather dubiously.
Maud bent and kissed her. "Certainly it will, dear. Never doubt it! It may not be the future we plan for ourselves, but it will be the very best possible if we keep on doing our best with the present."
"Thank you," Toby murmured gratefully. "And you really think--you do really think--the past doesn't matter?"
Maud was silent for a few moments. The thought of Saltash was in her mind, his jesting evasions, his air of careless proprietorship. What was the thing in this child's past that she desired so earnestly to put away? She wondered if she ought to ask, but she could not.
A slight terror ran through the small, supplicating figure at her knee, and quick pity banished doubt. "I think it is entirely in our own hands, dear," she said gently. "The past can always be left behind if we work hard enough."
"Oh, thank you," Toby said again, and gathering Maud's hands impulsively into her own she kissed them. "I'm going to work very hard," she said. "You'll help me, I know. I've got to--to leave off turning somersaults--and learn to--curtsey."
She sent a shy smile into Maud's face, and almost in spite of herself Maud answered it. There was something oddly appealing, irresistibly attractive, about the child. She was so young and ardent, yet so pathetically anxious to please.
"Of course I will help you," she said. "I will always help you, my dear."
And Toby, emboldened, thrust warm arms about her neck, and held her close.


CHAPTER XI
THE BUTTERFLY

The perfect rose of a June sunset was slanting through the fir-woods of Burchester Park, making the red trunks glow. At the end of a long grass ride the new moon dipped to the west, a silver boat uptilted in a green transparent sea. A very great stillness lay upon all things--the eventide quiet of a summer day.
The dull thudding of a horse's hoofs along the ride scarcely seemed to break that magic silence. A frightened rabbit scurrying to cover made no sound at all. Somewhere a long way off a cuckoo was calling, tenderly, persistently. Somewhere near at hand a blackbird was warbling to his mate. But it all went into the enchanted silence, blending with the hush of the coming night. The man who rode the horse was conscious only of the peace of his surroundings. He doffed his cap to the moon in mock reverence, and carried it in his hand.
He came to the end of the ride and checked his animal on the brow of a steep descent. The park lay below him wrapped in mystery. On another slope a full mile away stood the Castle, ancient battlemented, starkly splendid, one westward-facing window burning as with fire. He sat motionless for a space, gazing across at it, his face a curious mask of conjecture and regret.
Finally, with great suddenness, he lifted his hand and smote his horse sharply on the flank. In a moment he was being precipitated at a headlong gallop down the hill. He went like the wind, and the enchanted wood was left behind.
Riding up the further slope to the Castle a few minutes later, he was hailed from behind and reined in to look back. A long-legged figure detached itself from a clump of trees that shadowed the bailiff's house and came racing in pursuit.
"Hi! Charlie! Don't be in such a deuce of a hurry! I'm going your way."
Saltash waited, not too patiently. "My good chap, you're dressed and I'm not! I shall be late for my guests."
"What's it matter?" scoffed Bunny breathlessly, reaching his side. "Maud and Jake don't count, and Toby is only a kid. I don't suppose she's ever been out to dine before."
"She's old enough to begin," remarked Saltash, pushing on at a walk.
"Well, she is beginning," said Bunny, with a grin as he strode beside him. "You haven't seen her for some weeks, have you? You'll see a difference, and so will her father."
"How?" said Saltash briefly.
Bunny's grin became more pronounced. "Oh, it's chiefly clothes. Maud is rather clever in that line, you know. I haven't seen a great deal of her lately. She's generally scampering round on horseback with Jake. But once or twice--with Maud--I've seen her look quite demure. She's really getting almost good-looking," he added dispassionately.
Saltash flung a swift look downwards. "Don't you approve?"
Bunny shrugged his shoulders. "I don't see enough of her to care either way. She's still a kid, you know,--quite a kid."
Saltash dropped the subject abruptly. "You're liking your job all right?"
"Rather!" Bunny made instant and enthusiastic reply. "It's just the sort of thing I was made for. Old Bishop's a brick. We're getting quite fond of one another."
"Sort of life you enjoy?" questioned Saltash.
"Oh, rather! I've always thought I'd like to manage a big estate. Wish I'd got one of my own."
"All right. I'll adopt you," laughed Saltash. "You shall be the son of my old age."
"Oh, don't be an ass!" protested Bunny. "Why on earth don't you get married?"
Saltash's brows twisted wryly. "Afraid I've lived too long, _mon cher_. If I had married your sister in the long ago, things might have been vastly different. As it is, I see no prospect of changing my state. Think it matters?"
"Well, it's rather a shame to let a good name die out," maintained Bunny. "And of course it's rot to talk like that about Maud. You can't pretend to have stayed in love with her all these years. There must have been heaps of others since then."
"No, I'm not pretending," said Saltash. "As you say, there have been--heaps of others." He made an odd gesture towards the western sky behind him. "There are always--heaps of stars, Bunny; but there's never more than one moon."
"Rot!" said Bunny.
"It is, isn't it?" said Saltash, and laughed with brief derision. "Well, I must get on. You can do the receiving if I'm late. Tell them I've been in town and only got back at mid-day! You needn't bother about Larpent. I'll see to him."
He flicked his horse's neck and was off with the words.
Bunny, striding after, watched him ride swiftly up the slope till the fir-trees of the avenue hid him from view.
"Queer fish!" he murmured to himself. "Very queer fish!"
He entered the Castle a little later by the great stone hall and found it lighted from end to end as if in preparation for a reception. He had known the place for years, but it always struck him afresh with its magnificence. It looked like a palace of kings. There were some beautiful pieces of statuary both in marble and bronze, and upon each of these a shaded light shone.
At the end of the hall a wide oak staircase that branched mid-way led to an oak gallery that ran round three sides of the hall, and where it divided a high door stood open, showing a lighted room beyond. Bunny left his coat with the silent-stepping butler and went straight up the shallow stairs.
He entered the stately apartment at the top expecting to find it empty. It was the drawing-room--a vast and lofty chamber with satin-covered walls, superbly furnished with old French furniture in royal blue velvet and gilt. There was a further room beyond, but Bunny did not pursue his way thither, for a man in evening-dress turned suddenly from one of the great southward-facing windows and moved to meet him.
He was a gaunt man with a trim beard and the eyes of the sea-farer, and he walked with a slight roll as if accustomed to pitching decks.
"Sir Bernard Brian?" he said.
Bunny held out his hand. "You're Captain Larpent, of course. I wonder we've never met before. I've heard of you often enough. Sorry you had such bad luck with _The Night Moth."_
"Oh, damnable luck!" said the sailor gloomily.
"Still you came out of it alive," said Bunny consolingly. "And your daughter too. Things might have been worse."
Larpent grunted. "Think so?"
"She does anyway," said Bunny, with a grin.
Larpent grunted again. "Shipboard is not the place for a girl," he remarked.
"Toby seems more at