The Restless Sex. Chambers Robert William
lifted to his master, now. They were of the same age.
"Will you wear a black overcoat or a grey, sir?"
"I don't care. I'm going up to the nursery first. The nursery," he repeated, with a secret thrill at the word, which made him tingle all over in sheerest happiness.
"The car, sir?"
"First," said Cleland, "I must find out what Miss Stephanie wishes – or rather, I must decide what I wish her to do. Telephone the garage, anyway."
There was a silence; Cleland had walked a step or two toward the door. Now, he came back.
"Meacham, I hope I have done what was best. On her father's side there was good blood; on her mother's, physical health… I know what the risk is. But character is born in the cradle and lowered into the grave. The world merely develops, modifies, or cripples it. But it is the same character… I've taken the chance – the tremendous responsibility… It isn't a sudden fancy – an idle caprice; – it isn't for the amusement of making a fine lady out of a Cinderella. I want – a – baby, Meacham. I've been in love with an imaginary child for a long, long time. Now, she's become real. That's all."
"I understand, sir."
"Yes, you do understand. So I ask you to tell me; have I been fair to Mr. James?"
"I think so, sir."
"Will he think so? I have not told him of this affair."
"Yes, sir. He will think what madame would have thought of anything that you do." He added under his breath: "As we all think, sir."
There was a pause, broken abruptly by the sudden quavering appeal of Janet at the door once more:
"Mr. Cleland! Th' young lady is all over the house, sor! In her pajaymis and naked feet, running wild-like and ondacent – "
Cleland stepped to the door:
"Where's that child?"
"In the butler's pantry, sor – "
"I'm up here!" came a clear voice from the landing above. Cleland, Janet and Meacham raised their heads.
The child, in her pyjamas, elbows on the landing rail, smiled down upon them through her thick shock of burnished hair. Her lips were applied to an orifice in an orange; her slim fingers slowly squeezed the fruit; her eyes were intently fixed on the three people below.
When Cleland arrived at the third floor landing, he found Stephanie Quest in the nursery, cross-legged on her bed. As he entered, she wriggled off, and, in rose-leaf pyjamas and bare feet, dropped him the curtsey which she had been taught by Mrs. Westlake.
But long since she had taken Cleland's real measure; in her lovely grey eyes a thousand tiny devils danced. He held out his arms and she flung herself into them.
When he seated himself in a big chintz arm-chair, she curled up on his knees, one arm around his neck, the other still clutching her orange.
"Steve, isn't it rather nice to wake up in bed in your own room under your own roof? Or, of course if you prefer Mrs. Westlake's – "
"I don't. I don't – " She kissed him impulsively on his freshly-shaven cheek, tightened her arm around his neck.
"You know I love you," she remarked, applying her lips to the orange and squeezing it vigorously.
"I don't believe you really care much about me, Steve."
Her grey eyes regarded him sideways while she sucked the orange; contented laughter interrupted the process; then, suddenly both arms were around his neck, and her bewitching eyes looked into his, deep, very deeply.
"You know I love you, Dad."
"No, I don't."
"Don't you really know it?"
"Do you, really, Steve?"
There was a passionate second of assurance, a slight sigh; the little head warm on his shoulder, vague-eyed, serious, gazing out at the early April sunshine.
"Tell me about your little boy, Dad," she murmured presently.
"You know he isn't very little, Steve. He's fourteen, nearly fifteen."
"I forgot. Goodness!" she said softly and respectfully.
"He seems little to me," continued Cleland, "but he wouldn't like to be thought so. Little girls don't mind being considered youthful, do they?"
"Yes, they do! You are teasing me, Dad."
"Am I to understand that I have a ready-made, grown-up family, and no little child to comfort me?"
With a charming little sound in her throat like a young bird, she snuggled closer, pressing her cheek against his.
"Tell me," she murmured.
"About what, darling?"
"About your lit – about your boy."
She never tired hearing about this wonderful son, and Cleland never tired of telling about Jim, so they were always in accord on that subject.
Often Cleland tried to read in the gravely youthful eyes uplifted to his the dreamy emotions which his narrative evoked – curiosity, awe, shy delight, frank hunger for a playmate, doubt that this wonder-boy would condescend to notice her, wistfulness, loneliness – the delicate tragedy of solitary souls.
Always her gaze troubled him a little, because he had not yet told his son of what he had done – had not written to him concerning the advent of this little stranger. He had thought that the best and easiest way was to tell Jim when he met him at the railroad station, and, without giving the boy time to think, brood perhaps, perhaps worry, let him see little Stephanie face to face.
It seemed the best way to John Cleland. But, at moments, lying alone, sleepless in the night, he became horribly afraid.
It was about that time that he received a letter from Miss Rosalinda Quest:
DEAR MR. CLELAND:
Will you bring the child out to Bayford, or shall I call to see her when business takes me into town?
I want to see her, so take your choice.
This brusque reminder that Stephanie was not entirely his upset Cleland. But there was nothing to do about it except to write the lady a civil invitation to call.
Which she did one morning a week later. She wore battle-grey tweeds and toque, and a Krupp steel equipment of reticule and umbrella; and she looked the fighter from top to toe.
When Cleland came down to the drawing-room with Stephanie. Miss Quest greeted him with perfunctory civility and looked upon Stephanie with unfeigned amazement.
"Is that my niece?" she demanded. And Stephanie, who had been warned of the lady and of the relationship, dropped her curtsey and offered her slender hand with the shy but affable smile instinctive in all children.
But the grey, friendly eyes and the smile did instantly a business for the child which she never could have foreseen; for Miss Quest lost her colour and stood quite dumb and rigid, with the little girl's hand grasped tightly in her grey-gloved fingers.
Finally she found her voice – not the incisive, combative, precise voice which Cleland knew – but a feminine and uncertain parody on it:
"Do you know who I am, Stephanie?"
"Yes, ma'am. You are my Aunt Rosalinda."
Miss Quest took the seat which Cleland offered and sat down, drawing the child to her knee. She looked at her for a long while without speaking.
Later, when Stephanie had been given her congé, in view of lessons awaiting her in the nursery, Miss Quest said to Cleland, as she was going:
"I'm not blind. I can see what you are doing for her – what you have done. The child adores you."
"I love her exactly as though she were my own," he said, flushing.
"That's plain enough, too… Well, I shall be just. She is yours. I don't suppose there ever