CHAPTER XXII
IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
Garden Cottage was occupied on the eleventh of March, 1871. For severaldays before that, the great discharging lorries lent by Mr. Deventer hadtoiled up the hill, the four stout horses leaning hard on the collar andtheir drivers ready to insert the wheel-rest at every turning.
Ever since this time began, Rhoda Polly had almost lived at our house,and she it was who had done the ordering of all the strange Orientalfurnishings, partly from her own taste and partly from questioning me asto the arrangement of the different rooms I had seen at Autun.
Mrs. Deventer came across the bridge every day in her little blueVictoria--taking a peep in at us in the morning and hurrying back totend her flocks, but in the afternoon, stopping over tea till she coulddrive a rather soiled Rhoda Polly home, as it were a much ruffled chickunder a motherly wing. For indeed Rhoda Polly spared neither man norbeast, least of all did she spare herself. A tack-hammering, paintingand varnishing, cellar-to-garret Rhoda Polly pervaded the house,swooping upon all and sundry and compelling strict attention to businessamong the much-promising, little-performing tradesmen of Aramon.
My father had already done his part, for he was a man who could notendure the chill mistral of the Rhone valley. Every room which had achimney was equipped above with a wind shield, and beneath with steelandirons, beside which the cut faggots lay ready piled. The chamberswithout chimneys had been fitted with porcelain German stoves, the pipesof which bristled like lightning-rods along the roof ridges, and in thehall a great open fire-place shone with brass and copper, the spoil ofan ancient Spanish monastery condemned in 1835 by Mendizabal, primeminister and Jew share-broker. What wonder if Rhoda Polly went homedishevelled and not over clean, but full of excitement and ready tobattle for her new fad with the family at Chateau Schneider. Once thereher mother plumped her into a hot bath, and after a smart douche toclose the pores, Rhoda Polly came down literally as fresh as paint, todo battle for her new enthusiasms.
Hannah and Liz Deventer came once or twice to see what it was all about,but as they would not help, but only went round accumulating brickbatsto pelt Rhoda Polly with later in the day, on the second occasion thatcapable young woman turned them both out _vi et armis_, though she musthave weighed a good third less than Hannah.
The girls went good-humouredly enough, and having found my father talkedwith him in the Gobelet garden, by the old sundial which bore the armsof a former Marquis de Gallifet, and a date which commemorated the visitof Mesdames de Grignan and de Sevigne during the governorship of theformer's husband.
Gordon Cawdor, my father, pleased all women, and I must admit mostmen--though up till now I had not been able to allow him the fullmeasure of my sympathy or admiration. To do him justice he did not seemin the least conscious of the need of these, so long as I behaveddecently and did my duty at school and college.
He was a man wonderfully stoical about the modern lack of filialrecognition, no doubt saying to himself, as I came to do later, that thebringing up of sons was a poor business if one looked for direct returnson the capital and labour expended. But he never complained, and must, Ithink, have been finally and lastingly astonished when the long-barrenfields of my filial piety ripened of themselves.
At any rate I began to know him better during these days. I marked hisgentle ways, his enormous reading and erudition, never flaunted, neverrefused, never at fault. He had already finished his part of the work atthe Garden Cottage, so he sat either in his study with the tall Frenchwindow on the hasp ready to a visitor's hand--or, if the sun shone andthe mistral was stilled, out on the broad wooden bench by the fish pond,a volume in his hand to read or annotate when alone--but quite ready todrop it into the pocket of his velvet jacket, and turn the gaze of hisgentle scholarly eyes upon whomsoever had come forth in need of societyor soul refreshment.
I learned a lesson in those days--to know how other people estimated myfather. Of course, I had seen Dennis Deventer drinking in the knowledgehe felt the lack of, as from a fountain. I knew what Professor Renardand the Bey thought of him. Yet, after all, these were men of GordonCawdor's own age and stamp.
But when I saw the fine sweet house-motherliness of Mrs. Deventersitting at my father's feet and talking confidentially yet with respect,the thing seemed to me strange. I have seen her finish the review andarrangement of a series of china and napery closets, the laying down offresh papers in chests of drawers, or the ordering of knick-knacksgathered in the Bey's campaigns. Then she would throw a fold of blackSpanish lace over her pretty grey hair, always shining and neat--and so,without explanation or apology, hie herself out to find my father.
"A talk with him is my refreshment!" she said once when she came backand laid the folded lace scarf down beside the work she was next toattack. More than once I had passed them speaking low and earnestly, andI am sure she was consulting him about some intimate affairs of whichshe had spoken to no one else.
Or it was the turn of Rhoda Polly and her procedure was different. Shewould remove the provision of tin-tacks, French nails, or whatnot fromher mouth, her habitual ready receptacle, throw a wisp or two ofrebellious ripe-corn hair back from her brow, and demand to be told ifthere were any very bad smuts on her face! When she presented herhandkerchief or the hem of her apron to me I knew from long experiencewhat was expected of me. I was to remove the offending smuts from RhodaPolly's face with the oldest and most natural of cleansers, exactly aswe had done to one another when the dinner bell or the voice ofauthority called us from some extra grubby tree-climbing or mud-piemaking experiment in the days when the world was young.
"Spell ho!" Rhoda Polly would cry; "had enough this one time. I am offto talk to your father. He does me good."
And now when the other Deventer girls, the stately swan-necked Hannahand the Dresden shepherdess of a dainty Liz, being expelled for"shameless slacking" and "getting in everybody's way," took their roadwith happy expectant faces to the bench by the sundial, I knew in myheart for the first time that I would never so add to the happiness ofhumanity as that gentle refined scholarly man who was my father.
To my shame I took a cast about the garden, and from the top of a ladderlooked down upon the trio in an unworthy and wholly ungentlemanly way. Idid not mean to overhear--of course not--but I overheard. My only excuseis that I was in a quandary. I knew that I had somehow been all wrongabout my father, and I wanted to find out how I could put matters right.Hannah was seated on the bench beside him, listening and looking down,making diagrams meanwhile in the gravel with the point of her_en-tout-cas_, a sort of long-handled parasol sent from Paris.
Liz had characteristically pulled one of the little stools called"banquettes" from under the sundial, and had seated herself between myfather's knees. She had taken her hat off and now leaned her elbow onhis knee looking up into his face.
He was telling them about maidens of old times, how the Lesbia ofCatullus looked and dressed, how he and she idled the day by the lengtha-dream in a boat in the bays about Sirmio. He quoted Tennyson'sdelicious verses to them, and they promised to look them up that night.
"If it were not that Rhoda Polly knows so much, I should begin Latinthis very day," said Liz; "but she is such a swell that she can alwayscome down on a fellow. She thinks we know nothing!"
"I know I don't," said Hannah, "except how to walk and dance and behaveat table."
"No, that last you don't," retorted Liz Deventer; "you were far thenoisiest (mother said so) in our last big family fight!"
"Well, I mean I can do these things when I like, Silly!" said Hannah,unmoved.
The hand of my father descended slowly. It had been raised to mark therhythm of _Olive-silvery-Sirmio_! It now rested on the curly brown locksof Liz Deventer. He ceased to speak, and then suddenly with a sigh hesaid, "I envy Dennis. I have a good son--yes, a good son," he repeatedwith emphasis, "but I should have liked a daughter also. There is a sideof me she would have understood."
Instantly the girls had their a
rms about his neck, and I hastilydescended my shameful ladder, leaving behind me a chorus of "We will beyour daughters--Rhoda Polly too--mother too--she thinks----"
But I got out of earshot as fast as might be, quite chopfallen andashamed. I had not been a good son, whatever Gordon Cawdor might say--Iknew it. I had held him lightly and withheld what others found theirgreatest joy in giving him--my confidence. It was no use saying that henever invited it. No more had he invited that of Mrs. Deventer, or ofthe girls--or, what touched me more nearly, that of Rhoda Polly herself.
At last the great day came, and by the same train which had brought theBey on his errand of inspection the three new tenants of the Cottagearrived. The Bey looked military and imposing as he stood over thebaggage counter. Linn, tall and gaunt in unbroken black, accepted myfather's arm smilingly almost at the first sound of his voice. He showedher through the narrow shed-like waiting-rooms to the carriage inreadiness outside. Mrs. Deventer had received Alida into her arms as shedescended from the carriage, and was now cooing over her, watchedhungrily by Rhoda Polly, who wearied for her turn to come.
It struck me that Alida was not looking quite so well as usual. It hadcost her more than I thought to disobey her father--more afterwardsperhaps than at the time. For among those of her blood, the servitude ofwoman goes with heredity, and the culture of Europe, though it mayrender obedience impossible, does not kill the idea of parentalauthority. "Though he slay me, yet shall I trust in him!"
But when Alida greeted me, I knew in a moment that though the battle hadbeen sore, the victory was won. There would be no looking back.
"What, Angoos, _mon ami_, have I all those friends already? I owe themall to you!"
I took Rhoda Polly's hand, and put it into the gloved fingers of thelittle Princess.
"Not to me, dear Alida," I said, "but to this girl; she has, as youshall find, a heart of gold."
Alida kept the strong roughened fingers in hers, and looked deep intothe eyes of Rhoda Polly as if to read her inmost soul.
"I shall remember that, Angoos," she said; "that is a beautiful thingwhen it is said in the language of my own country. It sings itself--itmakes poetry. Listen!
"'Rhoda Polly of the Golden Heart--Heart of Gold, how true is mymaiden!' Wait, I will sing it for you in Arabic----"
But suddenly, no one knew why, the female heart being many stringed andunaccountable, even to me, Rhoda Polly was crying--yes, Rhoda Polly thedry-eyed, and who but Alida was comforting her under the stupid gaze ofhangers-on about the station of Aramon!