Far to Seek | Page 9

politeness: and Tara was standing by
him--a jagged hole in her blue frock, a scratch across her cheek, and her
hair ribbon gone--looking suspiciously as if he had been trying to
murder her instead of doing her a knightly service.
She couldn't help it, of course. But still--it was a distinct score for Aunt
Jane, who, as usual, went straight to the point.
"You nearly kicked my head just now. A little gentleman would
apologise."
He did apologise--not with the best grace.

"My turn next," his father struck in. "What the dickens were you up
to--tearing slices out of my finest tree!" His twinkly eyes were almost
grave and his voice was almost stern. ("Just because of Aunt Jane!"
thought Roy.)
Aloud he said: "I'm awfully sorry, Daddy. It was only ... Tara got in a
muddle. I had to help her."
The twinkle came back to his father's eyes.
"The woman tempted me!" was all he said; and Roy, hopelessly
mystified, wondered how he could possibly know. It was very clever of
him. But Aunt Jane seemed shocked.
"Nevil, be quiet!" she commanded in a crisp undertone; and Roy,
simply hating her, pulled out his watch.
"We've got to hurry, Daddy. Mother said 'not later than half-past.' And
it is later."
"Scoot, then. She'll be anxious because of the storm."
But though Roy, grasping Tara's hand, faithfully hurried ahead because
of mother, he managed to keep just within earshot; and he listened
shamelessly, because of Aunt Jane. You couldn't trust her. She didn't
play fair. She would bite you behind your back. That's the kind of
woman she was.
And this is what he heard.
"Nevil, it's perfectly disgraceful. Letting them run wild like that;
damaging the trees and scaring the birds."
She meant the pheasants of course. No other winged beings were
sacred in her eyes.
"Sorry, old girl. But they appear to survive it." (The cool good-humour
of his father's tone was balm to Roy's heart.) "And frankly, with us, if
it's a case of the children or the birds, the children win, hands down."

Aunt Jane snorted. You could call it nothing else. It was a sound
peculiarly her own, and it implied unutterable things. Roy would have
gloried had he known what a score for his father was that delicately
implied identity with his wife.
But the snort was no admission of defeat.
"In my opinion--if it counts for anything," she persisted, "this
harum-scarum state of things is quite as bad for the children as for the
birds. I suppose you have a glimmering concern for the boy's future, as
heir to the old place?"
Nevil Sinclair chuckled.
"By Jove! That's quite a bright idea. Really, Jane, you've a positive flair
for the obvious."
(Roy hugely wanted to know what a "flair for the obvious" might be.
His eager brain pounced on new words as a dog pounces on a bone.)
"I wish I could say the same for you," Lady Roscoe retorted unabashed.
"The obvious, in this case--though you can't or won't see it--is that the
boy is thoroughly spoilt, and in September he ought to go to school.
You couldn't do better than Coombe Friars."
His father said something quickly in a low tone and he couldn't catch
Aunt Jane's next remark. Evidently he was to hear no more. What he
had heard was bad enough.
"I don't care. I jolly well won't," he said between his teeth--which
looked as if Aunt Jane was not quite wrong about the spoiling.
"No, don't," said Tara, who had also listened without shame. And they
hurried on in earnest.
"Tara," Roy whispered, suddenly recalling his quest. "I found the
Golden Tusks. I'll tell it you after."
"Oh, Roy, you are a wonder!" She gave his hand a convulsive squeeze

and they broke into a run.
The "bits of blue" had spread half over the sky. The thunder still
grumbled to itself at intervals and a sharp little shower whipped out of
a passing cloud. Then the sun flashed through it and the shadows crept
round the great twin beeches on the lawn--and the day was as lovely as
ever again.
And yet--for Roy, it was not the same loveliness. Aunt Jane's repeated
threat of school brooded over his sensitive spirit, like the thundercloud
in the wood that was the colour of spilled ink. And the Boy-of-ten--a
potential enemy--was coming to tea....
Yet this morning he had felt so beautifully sure that nothing could go
wrong on a day like this! It was his first lesson, and not by any means
his last, that Fate--unmoved by 'light of smiles or tears'--is no respecter
of profound convictions or of beautiful days.

CHAPTER III.
"Man am I grown; a man's work I must do." --TENNYSON.
Tara was right. The Boy-of-ten (Roy