by Sara Seale
It clearly never had struck him, and Sebastian glared furiously at Mark for a moment, searching for a flow of words which would effectually sweep this statement aside, but all he could find to say was, "What do I care?"
"Probably nothing. That's of no consequence," said Mark indifferently. "It also doesn't seem to strike you that you might have landed your sister in difficulties."
"Ginny? What's she got to do with it?"
"She went after you, didn't she? Chased all over the countryside with very little money. Anything might have happened," Mark warmed to his theme. "There might have been an accident, or she might have been abducted. Anything—we'd never have known."
"Ginny abducted? I'd like to see anyone try," said Sebastian derisively. "Anyway, why don't you pitch into her about it? She was the fool who never let you know where she was going. We can both look after ourselves very nicely, thank you, Mark."
"That being so, will you please be ready to start back with me this evening?" Mark replied coldly. "We shall have to spend the night in Dublin as it is."
"You're crazy," laughed Sebastian uneasily. "We can't go tonight, we're both playing. Tomorrow they move on, and we with them."
"You think so?" Mark said very politely, and the boy fidgeted.
"Well, ask Gina. She came to fetch me home like a bad little boy, but I don't think you'll find she's so keen to leave," he said, and darted back into the hall, muttering that his entrance was due.
Mark stood, looking after him, then slowly turned and saw the sun just beginning to dip behind the hills.
"Lord! What a sunset!" he exclaimed involuntarily, and Gina slipped off the wall.
"Come and see it from over here," she said, as Sebastian had first said to her, and taking him by the hand she walked with him into the tough brown grass.
III
He stood beside her on the little hill, looking away over the glittering pools of bog-water. She still held his hand, and he looked at her small averted profile, trying to determine from her face what her mood was. Her lips had that hint of bitterness about them which of late, with him, they had ceased to show. They were pale like her face, but her hair, blowing gently in the wind, was turned by the glowing light into a fiery halo about her head.
"Gina—" She turned her face slowly, but didn't look at him. "Will you hate to come away so much?"
She looked down at his fingers, which she was slowly opening and shutting as they lay in her hand. Gently they closed round hers. "Gina—you'll come?"
They neither of them realized that he was pleading with-her for something which to all intents and purposes she had shown no intention of refusing him, even if she had the power.
"Yes," she said then, with a little sigh, and after a bit added regretfully, "But it does seem a waste, when no one particularly wants us. We don't like being a duty to anyone."
He smiled slightly, then was grave. "I want you, Gina," he said with such sincere simplicity that she looked up quickly. He was watching her anxiously, his eyes a little afraid, and she tightened her grip on his fingers.
"Do you really, Mark? You want me 'as a person?" she cried eagerly, and didn't altogether understand the expression which flashed across his quiet face.
"Yes. As a person—as yourself, Gina," he said gravely, and she gave herself a little shake.
"Of course we'll come," she said. "There wasn't really any question of being able to refuse. But not till tomorrow, Mark. You must watch the show tonight, and tomorrow we'll go back. We couldn't let these people down, you see. They've been so awfully good to us."
Early the next morning, Mark stood between the two young Gales at the little station and saw the company off. They hung out of every window, shouting farewells and blessings and waving handkerchiefs. Sebastian jumped up and down, waving and yelling violently, while Gina, who had embraced everyone many times over, hung on to Mark's arm, and gazed despondently after the dwindling train, her face wet with tears.
"They were darlings," she said. "And now it's all over, and I don't suppose we'll ever see them again."
"And all my future is examinations!" added Sebastian with point.
Mark slipped an arm through each of theirs and piloted them out of the station. "You make me feel very like the Wicked Old Uncle," he said, with a laugh at their miserable faces. "Come and get some breakfast. We shall be starting ourselves in another hour."
Sebastian went into the house to put together his few belongings. Gina had none to collect.
"Do you like Ireland, Mark?" she asked him.
He was silent for a moment, then he said thoughtfully, "It's very beautiful—like a lovely dissatisfied woman."
"Oh," said Gina uncertainly, then swiftly leaving the subject, she said a little apologetically, "Mark—I'm sorry if Julie worried. It was stupid of me not to let her know where I was."
"Did you never think that I might worry too?" he asked.
"Did you?" she countered with slight surprise.
"I was sick with anxiety till your wire came," he told her quietly, and it was the nearest he ever came to reproaching her for her thoughtlessness.
She gave him one swift glance, wondering just what he really thought about the whole affair, then she smiled her sudden smile of great sweetness, and said simply:
"I'm glad to be going back with you, Mark. Thank you for coming."
CHAPTER VIII
THE young Gales stood at the window of Mark's study, watching the leaden sky. At three o'clock in the afternoon it was already nearly dark, and the wind was rising.
"It'll come any minute now," Sebastian said comfort-ably.
"What fun! A white Christmas!" said Gina.
"It'll put an end to hunting," said Sebastian, and they hugged each other.
It was two days before Christmas, and Julie had been immersed in preparations for the past twenty-four hours, for she was expecting guests,
"What are the Careys like?" anxiously asked Sebastian, who hated guests.
"Oh, you remember—quite nice," Gina replied. "He's in the Judge's line of business."
"Law? That means another stiff."
"How unfair!" she exclaimed. "Mark isn't a stiff."
"Stuffy then. He never does anything we do."
"He isn't stuffy either. And he can't do everything we do. He's lame."
"Oh, well, have it your own way. You like him now, don't you, Ginny?"
She thought for a moment. "Why now?" she hedged.
"Well, darling, really—' You know you were the one who used to kick and talk about being under obligations," Sebastian laughed.
"There'll always be that," she said quickly. "But as a person, he's rather extra special, don't you think? I do admire him terribly."
"Dear love us! Why?"
"Can't you see for yourself? He's so just, and reliable and kind."
"So are heaps of people."
"I don't think they are," she said slowly. "Just people aren't always kind. Besides, he's reasonable and, I should think, understanding."
"You only think he is, Ginny, because he likes you," Sebastian observed shrewdly. "It's perfectly obvious that he's awfully fond of you. Which is more than he is of me."
Gina laughed. "It's funny, but you and I seem to have changed places," she said. "You always used to be telling me what a good sort Mark was; now I seem to be telling you."
"Well, it's only really the old story, isn't it?" he said with a good-natured shrug. "You can get more out of Mark, and I can get more out of Julie. It's the law of sex."
"I hate that spirit," she muttered savagely.
"What spirit?"
"Well—just out for what you can get."
Sebastian stared at her. "Good lord, Ginny! But what other way should we feel towards Mark and Julie?" He said it with such genuine amazement that his words lost some of their significance, and Gina only answered restlessly: "Oh, well, it's a rotten point of view. What do they get?"
"Why should they get anything? They're only doing their dut
y."
"It isn't Mark's duty."
"It is. Julie's his only sister. She hasn't any money and she's got us to support. Mark has plenty of money and no one to support. He did the obvious thing."
Gina clenched her hands suddenly and frowned. "But the point is—" she began in exasperated tones, then she saw her brother looking at her with a wide smile on his face, his green eyes tilted in 'amusement.
"Georgina, you're almost quarrelling with me!" he said, and she was silent. Sebastian would never see it her way. He was not made like that. She wished she was like him; it would have saved her a lot of unhappiness.
She looked out of the window over the bleak, wintry garden. "It's beginning," she said.
They stood watching the first flakes of snow spinning this way and that in each gust of wind that scurried round the house. Gina glanced behind her at the firelit room, and thought how pleasant it looked with its deep chairs and Mark's books flanking the fireplace. A friendly, rather shabby, wholly masculine room, and infinitely preferable, in Gina's eyes, to the more modern drawing-room which Julie had done up upon their arrival at the Barn House. She remembered with 'a warm glow of gratitude that memorable supper by the fire and Mark gracing the occasion with champagne.
Sebastian, following her backward gaze, thought only of the number of times he had been compelled to sit at that desk under Mark's kindly but unrelaxing tuition, and he heaved a sigh of thanksgiving that this at least was behind him. He had taken his examination about a fortnight ago, and had come back rather impressed with Oxford, though he took care not to let anyone know it. Julie, once she had relieved her feelings at his expense, upon their return from Ireland, had been charming to him. She was more prepared to be annoyed with Gina for complicating matters by chasing after Sebastian without a word to anyone. It was, she said, just the kind of thoughtless, exasperating thing Gina would do, obliging Mark to drop his work and waste two days fetching them both back.
Gina replied that she had seen no need for Mark to come in person. She had only wired for the fare home, and if he liked to spend unnecessary money in going himself, that was his funeral. But privately she wondered why he had bothered, and came to the rather irritating conclusion that he must still treat them as children.
In a burst of resentment she had said to him last weekend, "You owe me a tenner, Judge."
It was so unusual for her to demand money of him that he raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"Oh, how's that?"
"I had to pawn something for my fare to Ireland."
"My dear child! Why didn't you tell me before?" he exclaimed. "I'd no idea—"
"How did you think I got the money? That it fell like manna from heaven?" she replied tartly.
He reddened like any boy. "I'm terribly sorry. I'm afraid it never entered my head that you naturally wouldn't have any money. You know, Gina, you ought never to have rushed off like that without telling anyone.
Anything might have gone wrong, and Sebastian might not even have been there. You must never—"
"All right, uncle!" she said, using her favourite retort when he became elderly.
He couldn't resist a dig. "However did you bring yourself to ask me for hard cash?"
But she didn't rise. "You owed it to me. It isn't a gift." she said calmly. "I pawned my possessions in your interests, therefore you pay."
He smiled a little grimly, then asked her for the pawn ticket, and. told her he would get her things back for her.
It was snowing hard when they all arrived at tea-time. While Julie brought her guests to a blazing fire, Mark caught Gina for a moment in the hall, and tossed her a small packet.
"Here are your valuables, you naughty child. How dared you go and pawn my handsome gift as soon as you got it?" he said, teasing her.
"It was the only thing of any Value I possessed," she returned lightly. "I always wear it. Thank you, Mark. Sorry I had to rook you."
"You like your beads, then?"
She nodded. "You know I do."
He watched her untie the little parcel, and take the necklace from its case. "Here, let me," he said, as she fumbled with the clasp, and he went and stood behind her.
He snapped the clasp together, and dropped both hands to her thin shoulders, holding her so that she was unable to get away from him. Instantly her whole body stiffened, and she began to fight him.
"No, no! Let me go!" she said with panic in her voice, and he released her at once. She wheeled round to face him, and he saw that her eyes were frightened.
"Why—Gina!" he said gently, and colour flamed into her pale face.
"I—I'm sorry," she said in embarrassed tones, and went quickly into the drawing-room.
He stood where he Was for a moment, looking after her, and wondered thoughtfully what man had caused that violent reaction in the child, for the instinctive alarmed little struggle told its own tale.
He followed her into the drawing-room, where Julie was already dispensing tea before a leaping fire. She Was at her best, gracious and relaxed, for she was fond of Philippa Carey, a charming, vague creature, whose air of distraction covered 'a very shrewd intelligence. She was about Julie's age, and her husband shared chambers with Mark.
"We're dragging you to all the local festivities," Julie was saying. "On New Year's Eve there's a dance at the Pratts to which we've been bidden with a party. Then there's the Charity Ball at Eastcliff on the fourth. If it freezes hard enough, they hope to have a skating party at Clevelands on Boxing Night."
After tea there was a general move to disperse. Julie took Philippa up to her room, and the two men retired to Mark's study. Sebastian went to the piano to work at a syncopated carol he had been inspired to do by the prevailing Christmas spirit, 'and Gina stood listening to him in the cold hall, while she pulled back one of the curtains at the long window, and stared out at the ghostly spinning flakes in the darkness.
"I wish the Swann wasn't coming," she said once.
"He's a nuisance—" a bit of the Dead March crept into the carol, "—we needn't bother about him though."
"You needn't," said Gina, too low for Sebastian to hear; then with a little wriggle she pulled the curtain across the window again, and swung herself on to the top of the piano, where she issued directions and suggestions on the music for the next hour, until, both of them too cold to play there any longer, they went back to the drawing-room, where Philippa Carey was roasting shovelfuls of chestnuts in the fire.
II
It was still snowing the next day, and the country was dazzling with a brilliant snow-light, the huge flakes slowly whirling now, dark against the sky. It stopped altogether after lunch, and Gina took Dogsbody for a walk, to escape Victor, who, arriving late last night, had not as yet had time to catch her alone.
Presently Gina met Evan exercising his bull-terrier, and he greeted her uproariously, pelting her with snow and chasing her, until she fell laughing into a small drift.
"What 'a gorgeous colour you've got! It completely changes you," he cried as he pulled her out. He dragged her closer, and she thought he was going to kiss her again, quickly, dispassionately, as he had upon that summer's day in the cornfield. But his face, so near her own that she could see the tiny gold hairs on his upper lip, which he hadn't managed to shave entirely clean, coloured faintly, and, his blue eyes suddenly serious, he let her go rather abruptly.
"Come back to tea, and I'll run yon home in the car afterwards," he said, turning and walking beside her.
He brought her back after tea and came in for a drink.
"A beau!" said Philippa rapturously when he had gone. "And so beautiful! I don't blame you, Gina, for falling." "But has she fallen?" teased her husband.
"Have you fallen?" asked Philippa.
Gina looked across at Mark and smiled, but found he didn't return it. "Perhaps," she said lightly.
"Well, if she hasn't fallen for him, he has for her, that's quite evident," Philippa said decidedly. "And X for one don't blame him."
&nb
sp; "Nor I," said Carey gallantly.
"Nor I," said Mark, and smiled then.
Gina, rather overwhelmed by such wholesale flattery, laughed a little uncertainly 'and ran out of the room.
"She's rather delicious, your little dependent," said Philippa. "I don't believe she knows she's attractive."
"Don't for heaven's sake ever let her hear you call her that," said Mark quickly. "Gina's terribly sensitive about that side of our relationship."
"You're very fond of her, aren't you, Mark?" she said after a little pause.
He was silent for a moment before he answered softly, "Yes, I'm very fond of her."
Victor and Julie came in from 'a last-minute's shopping expedition to the village, and Julie held out her frozen hands to the blaze.
"It's cold as charity," she said, shivering a little in her fur coat. She looked upset, and glancing at Victor's sulky face, Mark guessed they had been quarrelling. For the hundredth time he wondered what it was that she saw in the man, and, looking again at Swann, supposed there was something in his rather flashy, animal good looks which might appeal to a woman of Julie's type.
It was so cold that Julie had the seldom-used big fireplace in the hall filled with blazing logs, and in the evening they rolled back the rugs and danced.
After dancing twice with Elliot Carey and Sebastian, Gina couldn't refuse Victor without drawing attention to the fact, and she revolved mechanically in his arms with a stony little face, which was not unnoticed by Mark.
"Still angry with me, after all this time?" Swann asked softly above her head.
She made no reply.
"Sulky too? Dear, dear, this is serious!"
Still she didn't speak.
"Don't you think, my dear," he continued with a change of tone, "that you're carrying it too far? Suppose I admit that I behaved badly? Well, shall I say I'm sorry? Now will you thaw a little?"
She was at a loss how to deal with him. "I don't think your apologising can ever make us friends," she said a little uncertainly, and he suppressed a smile.
