“Yes, I gave them a fright,” he said. “I thought myself that matters were coming to a crisis; but it was a false alarm. You may tell your aunt that I am as well as ever, and as clear in my intellects as ever—such intellects as I have.”
“Nobody would doubt that, I think,” said St. Clair; and indeed Mr. Trevor flattered himself that nobody could doubt it. He was as clearly aware of the effect upon a stranger of his own keen eyes and vivacious wide-awake aspect as any one could be.
“There’s no telling,” said the old man; “some people think they can take me in—which is a mistake, Mr. St. Clair—a great mistake.”
“I should think so,” said St. Clair, with easy composure. “If you will let me, I will sit down,” he said; “if there is nothing to occupy you for the moment, I wonder if you will let me ask your advice about a little money I have?”
Again the malicious gleam awoke in old Trevor’s eyes, a mixture of suspicion, admiration, and interest moved him. Every man who had money interested him more or less; but if this was a dodge on Mrs. Stone’s part, the move was one which might have filled any like minded artist with admiration. He chuckled as he invited the confidence of his visitor; yet though he thought he saw through the deceit, he respected St. Clair all the same for having money to invest, even if it were not his own, but lent to him for the occasion; it threw a halo of interest round him in old Trevor’s eyes.
“So that’s the first of them,” he said to himself, when St. Clair took his departure; “that’s number one of the pack. Women are quick about it, they don’t let the grass grow under their feet. Rushton will keep quiet, he won’t let his lad show in my sight. But the women are bold—they’re always bold. And I wonder who my lady will bring forward?” The old man laughed; he was pleased by the thought of the coming struggle. It did not give him any concern that his young daughter should be left alone in the midst of it, to be competed for by so many hungry aspirants. “I’d like to be there to see the wolves at it,” he said aloud, with a grin on his face. At the sound of the voice over his head, little Jock turned round upon his rug. Wolves were in his way; from Red Riding-hood upward, he knew a great deal about them; he had heard them in the forest pursuing the travelers, and knew what the howl meant when it occurred in a story in the midst of the black winter night. He turned right round, with the “History of the Plague” in his arms, and faced his father, looking upward from the rug. “What is it about wolves?” said Jock.
No question could have surprised old Trevor more; he looked round him first in suspicion, to see where the voice came from then looked down upon the child with a gape of wonder. “Eh! do you know anything about wolves, my lad?” he said.
“Oh, a great deal!” said Jock, calmly; “I could tell you heaps of stories about them; the worst of all is that one about the woman and her children. I told it to Lucy, and she would not let me tell it out. Would you like me to tell it to you?”
Jock spoke to his father on very much the footing of an equal. They did not, as a rule, take much notice of each other; but the curious way in which they pursued their lives together had given the old man and the little boy a sort of tacit fellowship, not at all like the usual relation between father and child. Not once in two or three months was there any conversation between them, and this gave all the more importance to their occasional intercourse. “There was once a woman,” said Jock, “traveling through a wild, wild forest, and she had her three little children with her—quite little, little things, littler than me a great deal; when all of a sudden she heard pad, pad, something coming behind her. It wasn’t quite night, but it was getting dark, darker and darker every moment; and the old white horse got awfully frightened, and the forest was miles and miles long. She knew she couldn’t come to a village, or a house, for ever so long. And she heard them coming on faster and faster, sniffing and panting, and all after her, hundreds and hundreds of them; they’re like dogs, you know,” said Jock parenthetically, looking up from the rug, where he lay on his back, with the “History of the Plague” laid open on his breast; “they bark and they howl, just like dogs when you hear them far off in the woods; but when they’re after you, they go straight before them, like the wind blowing, and never make any sound.”
“And what became of the woman and the children?” said old Trevor, partly amused, partly impressed.