“Does she really dislike me?” asked Marcus. “Why should she? I have never done anything to her.”
Mrs. Sloane asked him if he hadn’t made the children rather fond of him.
“But surely she couldn’t mind that?”
“Why do you dislike her?”
“I don’t; but she is always trying to keep the children away from me.”
“I see very little difference between you,” said Mrs. Sloane; and after what she had said about Elsie, Marcus was obliged to say he was glad of that.
When Marcus reached the hotel he was met by the hall porter, who astonished him by saying: “I’m a family man myself, sir, you will excuse me—but will you go upstairs at once? I was told to say—directly you came in.”
Marcus went upstairs. Over the banisters at each landing hung an anxious housemaid. Each housemaid expressed her relief at seeing him, each begged him to hurry. Each assured him the lift was working. He had been in too great a hurry to remember the lift. When he got near his room a voice broke upon his ear—a long wail—the cry of one in great distress; the wail spoke loudly of Irish blood in the veins of her who wailed. It was the voice of his niece. Infuriated old women glanced at him through half-opened doors. “What had he been doing gallivanting about at night?” they seemed to say and no doubt they would have liked to add: “If he had left the mother he might at least stay with the child.”
“Shan’t,” he called, “I’m coming.” He passed lady’s-maids gathered together, and strode into Shan’t’s room. Then and there he decided that he had never seen a child cry—never imagined a child could cry—not the child of any one belonging to him—as this child cried. It was impossible that anything could cry so terribly. Tears poured down her face: her eyes were screwed up. It was a horrible exhibition showing a deplorable lack of self-restraint.
“Shan’t, stop!” He sat down beside her, he shook her gently—nothing made any difference. “I’m here, your Uncle Marcus is here—”