The Dark House | Page 7

and
she had come a little nearer to him.
"What's your name?"
"Robert--Robert Stonehouse."
"Where do you come from?"
He had jerked his head vaguely in the direction of the hill, for he did
not want her to know.
"Over there."
"Why are you crying?"
"I--I don't know."
"Would you like to play with us?"
"Yes--I--I think I would."
She had called the other children and they had come at once and stood
round her, gazing wide-eyed at him, not critically or unkindly, but like
puppies considering a new companion. The girl in the green serge frock
had taken him by the hand.
"This is a friend of mine, Robert Stonehouse. He's going to play with us.
Tag--Robert!"
And she had tapped him on the arm and was off like a young deer.
All his awkwardness and shyness had dropped from him like a disguise.

No one knew that he was a strange little boy or that his father owed
money to all the tradespeople. He was just like anyone else. And he had
run faster than the fastest of them. He had wanted to show her that he
was not just a cry baby. And whenever he had come near her he had
been all warm with happiness.
In three days the nice children had become the Brothers Banditti with
Robert Stonehouse as their chief. Having admitted the stranger into
their midst he had gone straight to their heads like wine. He was a rebel
and an outlaw who had suddenly come into power. At heart he was
older than any of them. He knew things about reversions and bailiffs
and life generally that none of them had ever heard of in their
well-ordered homes. He was strong and knew how to fight. The nice
children had never fought but they found they liked it. Once, like an
avenging Attila, he had led them across the hill and fallen upon his
ancient enemies with such awful effect that they never raised their
heads again. And the Banditti had returned home whooping and drunk
with victory and the newly discovered joy of battle. His hand was
naturally against all authority. He led them in dark plottings against
their governesses and nursemaids, and even against the Law itself as
personified by an elderly, somewhat pompous policeman whose beat
included their territory. On foggy afternoons they pealed the doorbells
of such as had complaint against them, and from concealment gloated
over the indignant maids who had been lured down several flights of
stairs to answer their summons. And no longer were they nice children
who returned home clean and punctual to the bosom of their families.
Very rarely had the Banditti showed signs of revolt against Robert's
despotism, and each time he had won them back with ease which
sowed the first seeds of cynicism in his mind. It happened to be another
of the elder Stonehouse's theories--which he had been known to
expound eloquently to his creditors--that children should be taught the
use of money, and at such times as the Stonehouse family prospered
Robert's pocket bulged with sums that staggered the very imagination
of his followers. He appeared among them like a prince--lavish,
reckless, distributing chocolates of superior lineage with a haughty
magnificence that brought the disaffected cringing to his feet.

But even with them he was not really happy. At heart he was still a
strange little boy, different from the rest. There was a shadow over him.
He knew that apart from him they were nice, ordinary children, and that
he was a man full of sorrows and mystery and bitter experience. He
despised them. They could be bought and bribed and bullied. But if he
could have been ordinary as they were, with quiet, ordinary homes and
people who loved one another and paid their bills, he would have cried
with joy.
When he did anything particularly bold and reckless he looked out of
the corners of his eyes at Frances Wilmot to see if at last he had
impressed her. For she eluded him. She never defied his authority, and
very rarely took part in his escapades. But she was always there,
sometimes in the midst, sometimes just on the fringe, like a bird, intent
on business of its own, coming and going in the heart of human affairs.
Sometimes she seemed hardly to be aware of him, and sometimes she
treated him as though there were an unspoken intimacy between them
which made him glow with pride for days afterwards. She would put
her arm about him and walk with him in the long happy silence of
comradeship. And once, quite unexpectedly, she had seemed gravely
troubled. "Are you a good little boy, Robert?" she had asked, as though
she really expected him to know, and relieve