“The army!” murmured the small woman wringing her hands softly, “it is sad, it is hard on us. I do think, dearest, we might have been more successful in our children.”
“Our child,” interrupted her husband.
Her eyes clouded and she repeated hesitatingly, “Yes, our child—Gwen’s abilities are considerable.”
“Yes,” said her father with unmixed satisfaction, “my hopes rest on Gwen, her abilities are indeed most gratifying.”
For one fleeting moment, which she blotted from her memory with shame, her mother almost wished they weren’t; she might then be easier to get some knowledge of, and not be quite so alarming.
CHAPTER X.
The function was arranged for a certain Wednesday in February, the day before Dacre was to leave for school, and the children had been given formal notice to appear in the drawing-room at three o’clock. They were now waiting in the school-room speculating on the event. They knew it must be something very unusual from the fact of the drawing-room, of all places in the world, being appointed as the scene of action.
It was at the end of a dismal six weeks of holidays, mostly spent, by reason of colds, between the nursery and the school-room. Indeed, it had been the very flattest bout of holidays the two had ever yet endured.
Dacre’s object being attained, there was no further use for organized “cussedness” so he had relapsed into his ordinary state of gusty wickedness, which being natural was nothing very especial in the way of a pastime, and quite unlike the six months’ excitement of his raid on society. There was nothing to supply the place of this now, nothing—neither cricket, football, nor even riding—so small wonder that life was pretty much of a blank to the boy.
It was even worse for Gwen, the mover and the mainspring of the enterprise. When she found herself landed victoriously on the threshold of her goal, with her conscious triumph there got mixed other sensations of a most unpleasant nature. The horrible feeling of flat inaction after the whirl of action, that plays havoc with all great conquerors, seized on her, and did the same by this little one, and then she had none of the fêtes and the follies that follow hot on the heels of other conquerors for their consolation. She felt the most miserable victor breathing, her soul was brimming with bitterness, and the overflow vented itself largely on Dacre’s luckless pate.