# Possession (de la Roche, February 1923)/Part 2/Chapter 8

Edmund had gone back to Halifax.
On the whole Derek was not sorry, for he had felt Edmund's presence as a restraint, if not an actual rebuke. Fawnie's table manners had offended Edmund, also her untidy finery, and her habit of popping morsels of food into the baby's mouth at meal time which, often as not, he put out again to hang on the frill of his bib. When Edmund had met Derek coming out of Fawnie's room he had turned his face away with a frown; more than once he had commented on Derek's carelessness in dress, and his need of a respectable haircut. Now he was gone, and Derek felt that this rather ignoble affair of his marriage might jolt on unhindered to whatever end might be.
As a matter of fact he was far from unhappy. Since his meeting with Grace he enjoyed a new serenity of spirit. Sitting alone on the beach at night with his pipe, he contemplated the lovely fact that she loved him—had refused Edmund because of him—perhaps Ramsey.
He would recall the moment when he had stood in the stable watching the meeting of the two horses, the warmed saddle across his arm. He would see her on the threshold sweet as the early sunshine. He would feel again that tremor of joy that had shaken him when they had confessed their love. He had not met her since, but Mr. Jerrold had been over several times, and had told of their happy rides along the shore road. They rode west as a ​rule, because it pained Grace to pass Durras, and there was always a struggle with Darby to get him by the gateway which he still regarded as his own.
Mr. Jerrold had recaptured his old cheerfulness. Things were not so bad as they might be. He and Gay were tremendously comfortable in the cottage. Their view was really finer than it had been at the big house. Gay could hardly tear herself away from her bedroom window at night—sat there watching the moonlight on the lake instead of going to her bed. She loved the cottage. She even liked the little stable. Would be out there first thing in the morning. He believed she was fonder of Darby than ever, since she had come so near to losing him.
Mr. Jerrold was colouring a meerschaum pipe, and, at different times, he lovingly displayed to Derek the satisfactory fashion in which it was adding tint upon tint. He also had given his annual party to the Mistwell band. Derek and Fawnie had watched the flare of their torches pass Grimstone as they sat in the basket chairs in the porch. And Mr. Jerrold had not failed to give the bandsmen their customary present of money.
"I must dig that twenty-five dollars up," he had said to his daughter. "I've never disappointed those poor beggars yet, and I shan't begin now. I'll do without something myself."
Derek was taking a renewed interest in the work of the farm, and he had a stout ally in Hugh McKay. No fall ploughing thereabout was done more thoroughly nor finished earlier. As the October nights grew cold, Derek would sit with him by the kitchen stove and talk fertilizers and manures by the hour. The little flock of sheep was excellent. One of the yearling rams had taken a first prize at the Brancepeth Fair. The handsome son of Gretta van Lowe had taken a second. The apples and pears had turned ​out well. There had been very little scabby or stung fruit; the dealer who bought them had paid cash on the spot. Snailem drudged steadily along with his hoe, in company with old Peek and two boys from Mistwell. Derek, himself, spent long days among the raspberry and blackberry canes trimming and cultivating. Even Fawnie had come to take an interest in the poultry. She ran, laughing with joy, to Derek one day to tell him that when wandering among the dense and neglected thimbleberry canes, she had come upon one of the bronze turkey hens with ten active poults, graceful and plump as partridges, which were being reared undisturbed on the sweet dark berries. Derek had left his cultivating, and together they had crept like children among the prickly canes, to peer at the elusive little fellows, who one moment would be swinging gaily on a spray, their great eyes shining, and the next be hidden, crouching among the leaves, while the mother, her proud head poised, watched the intruders with vehement disdain.
The white turkey had not been seen for many weeks. It was feared that she had either been stolen or killed. But one mild, foggy morning Derek and Fawnie almost stepped on her as she sat on a nest she had hollowed out for herself in the shelter of a pile of brushwood behind the orchard. "By George!" said Derek, "She's at it yet! That bird has been sitting ever since last spring, and had no luck at all. She's simply wearing herself out to no purpose. What shall I do with her?"
"Be rough with her," advised Fawnie. "Grab her by the neck. Pull some of her tail feathers out. Give her a good kick an' bust up her nest."
Derek took the bird by the neck and lifted her off the nest. "Why she's nothing but skin and feathers," he said "Poor thing! and look at that nest."
The untidy nest lay before them, broken shells mingled ​with the clutch of shiny, stained eggs. Fawnie took up one egg after another and shook it. "Slop," she said, curtly.
"This has got to stop," Derek said. "Throw those pieces of broken bricks on the eggs and then an armful of brushwood, then I'll put her down."
The white hen looked down from Derek's arms at the demolition of her hopes. She made no protest, but the pale pink of her wattles took a deeper hue. She blinked. When all was destroyed Derek set her down. He did not pull out her tail feathers nor kick her, but he gave her a shake, and a push with his foot, and said: "Now, be off with you! and try to think of something besides sitting. There are other things in the world, believe me."
She stood poised for a moment on tiptoe, flapping her pale unused wings, then, with a harsh, croaking cry, she began to run from them into the fog. An eerie figure, she disappeared into its ready embrace with that one cry of frustrated instincts. The flock of sheep, suddenly emerging from nowhere it seemed, parted their ranks hurriedly to let her pass. It was her last supreme gesture. Derek never saw her again.
Derek's house was not kept as it had been in Mrs. Machin's time. Fawnie had an unbelievable talent for disorder, and, as the baby spent most of his day in the kitchen, Phœbe allowed her dishes to pile up until the table and dresser were hidden beneath them. To Derek she seemed always to be sitting nursing him while he thumped on the table with a spoon or slobbered over an apple which he gnawed with his four ridiculous milk-teeth. Often noisy quarrels occurred between mistress and maid.
"Oh, for any sake let me get one thing done before you're after me about another!" Phœbe would shout, and ​she would knock her mop against the legs of the furniture, and slop dirty water in all directions.
"Phœbe!" Fawnie would cry, "I'll have Mr. Vale throw you into the street if you ain't respecful."
"The street, indeed! I'd shouldn't have far to seek for a better situation than this. I've a cousin in Australier that would pay my passage out to-morrow if I crooked my finger. I'm more than a bit tired of Canader as it is. If it weren't for baby. . . ."
Sometimes they were amicable and made huge pots of jam which almost always boiled over or burned. The baby was given sticky spoons to lick.
One noonday Phœbe bounded in radiant. Vale had come in to dinner, but it was not ready.
"I've been talkin' over the fence to Bob Gunn," she announced breathlessly. "He's leaving Chard's today. Him and Mr. Chard had a row. The gulls has et all his fish and he's blamed Bob for it. 'I heard them mewling and] whimpering at daybreak this morning. There's been a terrible to-do. Ho! ho! I'd ha' given a month's wage to see Mr. Chard's face." She danced a few roystering steps in her red woolen slippers.
"Whatever is she talking about?" Derek turned to Hugh.
Hugh was smiling broadly. "It happened like this, sir. Mr. Chaird had bought a catch of some wee fish that's no much guid from the Mistwell fishermen. They ca' them moon-eyes, I think. He'd got a waggon load to use as fertilizer on his strawberry beds. Bob put the horses away and left the waggon standin' by the beds, ready to begin spreading this morn. When daylight came a gull spied the lot and flew off to tell his friends. The whole flock came. I haird them makin' a great noise mysel' when my head was still under the blanket. Every gull grabbed a fish and then anither. Ye can picture how they'd circle and swoop. ​When Chaird came hurrying from his bed there wasna so much as a scale in the waggon."
"And there was the gulls overhead laughin' to split their sides," cried Phœbe.
"And all the wee fish in their maws," added Hugh.
Derek smiled, not without malice. "I should like to have seen that," he said. "So Gunn is to leave?"
"Ay. He'd like to come back here, I believe."
"After the kicking I gave him? He's a hardy socialist."
"I dinna think your kicks made him sae sore as Chaird's continuous pricks and jibes."
"Well, I won't take him back."
"We won't," put in Fawnie, "have any help here that's saucy or lazy. Get about your work, Phœbe. I don't pay you for hangin' over the back fence, gossipin.' Get the meat out of the oven before it's black, and stew the tea."
Matters between Fawnie and Phœbe were bound to come to a head. They did so with calamitous force and abruptness.
Derek never discovered what the quarrel was about. The breaking of the spout off a teapot was mentioned, also the alienating of Buckskin's affections. He had kicked and screamed when his mother had picked him up, and had held supplicating arms out to Phœbe. Derek heard the torrent of words as he neared the house. The maid was in the kitchen, the mistress in the dining room, and they hurled abuse through the intervening pantry, with a ferocity only ended by Phœbe's going into hysterics and Fawnie's snatching up the bread-knife.
Derek took the knife from her, and, turning it about, gave her knuckles a smart rap with the handle. He then hustled her into the hallway and locked the door upon her. He realized then that she had tried to bite him, and he had a sudden desire to follow her and give her the whipping ​she deserved. instead, he listened to what was going on in the kitchen. He could hear gurgling moans, then a splash of water, splutterings, and Phœbe's voice—"She'll kill me. Oh, take me away! Take me away!"
Then Snailem's voice came—"Another spell like that and I wouldn't give a brass fardin' fur her."
"Are ye better, my dear?" from Hugh.
"Ay. But keep her offen me."
Derek listened, pale and disturbed. He would lock Fawnie up, sooner than let Hugh and Phœbe go. After a bit Hugh rapped at the door, and, at Derek's bidding, entered.
"We're off, sir," he said. "We'll bide here in this house no longer."
"Hugh," said Derek, quietly, "You don't know what you're saying. Phœbe has got you excited. She'll be herself again shortly."
"No," replied Hugh, doggedly. "We're quittin'. I saw an advairtissment in the paper yesterday for man and wife on a farm in the Saskatchewan. We'll get married and go straight out there. If it's no that job it'll be anither. I've had the West in mind for some time. This is no place for Phœbe. Mrs. Vale is always after her."
"Think it over, Hugh. You'll feel different to-morrow."
"I'll no!" shouted Hugh. "We want our wage, and we're quittin'!"
"Well, quit, and be damned to you," said Derek, shortly. "You can catch the afternoon train to York. Go on that."
Hugh stalked from the room. He and Phœbe began to gather up their belongings in the kitchen. Tin trunks were shifted about upstairs. Snailem washed, and dressed, and brought Mike harnessed to the fruit waggon to the side door. He and Hugh carried down the boxes, Phœbe following, her head bent, and an hysterical smile on her ​face. She looked so different in her checked ulster and green velvet hat that she seemed a stranger. Hugh's well-knit figure was clad in a decent blue serge suit, and he wore a cloth cap, well pulled down. He smoked continuously, as though to brace himself, not even relinquishing his "fag," when Derek handed him his cheque.
"I'm sorry to part with you this way, Hugh," said Derek.
"Ay," muttered Hugh, and turned away.
He got into the waggon and sat on one of the boxes, while Phœbe settled herself with Snailem on the seat.
The cows left the shore meadow where they had been pastured, and slowly descended the bank of the stream, which now trickled thinly over its chalky bed, forming little transparent pools, and nourishing shiny clumps of coarse watercress. It was past the hour for milking, and the cows lowed protestingly as they splashed across the stream. Phœbe had always been most prompt about the milking. Now Vale let down the bars and opened the door of the byre. He could not understand Snailem's lateness. He made up his mind that if Snailem came home the worse for liquor he would be very sharp with him. Probably threaten to dismiss him.
He had adjusted the chains, and watered the cows, when he heard a horse tramping into the stable. A moment later a man entered the byre, a pitchfork in his hand. It was old Peek.
"Where is Snailem?" asked Derek, suspiciously.
Peek came close to him and said with a wavering grin: "He's gone. Gone for good, with them others. He said he couldn't stand the thought of Grimstone without Phœbe, and he didn't fancy a winter in the country anyways. I happened to be at the station when he was getting his ​ticket and he asked me to please drive Mike home, and to tell you he'll return the eight dollars he got off you, as soon as he gets a job."
"The robber!" said Derek, bitterly. "He got me to advance the money so he could buy himself a pair of boots in Mistwell. I ought by rights to get the police after him. . . . But I'm glad he's gone. He was a poor tool. I believe I'm well rid of him."
"And the things he used to say about you and your missus at the barber's shop was scandalous. I used to say to him, 'Snailem, it's a dirty bird that fouls its own nest.' God's my witness, Mr. Vale, I said that to him time and again, and he'd say—"
"I don't want to hear what he said. Can you do this milking for me while I bed down the stock?"
Then and there he employed Peek and his half-grown grandson to work steadily by the week, and sleep at home.
Now he felt honestly glad to be rid of Snailem. The thought of his untidy face with its eternal ooze of tobacco juice was repugnant. Peek was a decent old chap, his grandson willing and strong. The fall work was in excellent shape. He should get on very well with outside help till spring, and, by George, he would make Fawnie do her part!
While Peek milked he strode to the house to look for her. He had unlocked the door into the hall long ago.
"Fawnie!" he called loudly from the dining room. "Come here!"
He heard her descending the stairs, and in a moment her face, bright and calm as an unruffled bird's, appeared in the doorway.
"Look here," he said, "You've got to come and feed the poultry, and put the turkeys out of the poultry house. ​You've driven all the servants from the farm, so you must turn in and help yourself."
"How jolly!" she said. "I come this instant moment. I'll kill those turkeys surely."
"Don't feed the hens too much," he admonished, as they walked back to the barn. "The last time you fed them, they were all but crop bound with corn."
"I will make them drunk on silage," she said, gaily, "and I will teach them to sing a song of joy because Phœbe is gone. Oh, she is a bad one, that Phœbe. I peeped in her box as it stood on the back porch, and, what do you s'pose? She had taken two of the blue and gold cups and saucers—one apiece for them."
"I hope you took them out."
"I did, Durek. And I put in their place a sticky tin pie plate that she wouldn't scrape clean yesterday."
"Fawnie," said Derek, taking her hand. "I say it in all solemnity, you are more than a match for anyone I know."
The stock had been fed and bedded for the night; the poultry safely housed; the milk separated and set away to cool; old Peek was gone; and Derek stood leaning against a pillar of the porch, while his wife prepared the tea. He gazed at the quiet lake, at the pale star of the lighthouse just winking out against the sombre red of the sky. He saw the little gnarled trees on the bluff twisted into fantastic postures—the sport of Grimstone. And here was he who had come to Grimstone with a grand gesture of possession—its sport, too—bent to its will—his Indian wife cooking in the kitchen—his Indian son kicking on the bed. . . . His son was beginning to cry, as well as kick. "Coming, Buckskin!" he shouted, and went to him.
Fawnie was surprisingly competent in the affairs of the ​house. The living rooms looked no untidier than when under Phœbe's care. Buckskin's face was often clean. She cooked for Derek simple, yet quite eatable meals, and together they made a steamed pudding from a recipe in the Brancepeth Era, that turned out so well that they made themselves sick eating it. Mrs. Orde came from Mistwell twice a week to wash and scrub.
As the winter drew in and there was less to do, Derek left the work to the Peeks and lay in bed in the mornings till he felt like rising. Fawnie had learned to cook his bacon without burning it, and he would sit comfortably at his breakfast, the morning paper which Peek had brought propped up before him. But he read it with little interest. He was degenerating into a healthy animal with no horizon beyond the borders of its pasture. Now that Reciprocity had been defeated, he gave no further thought to the affairs of the country nor was interested to know what the new government was doing. He heard, unmoved, stories of Chard's success and of Hobbs' aggressive administering of the Durras estate. He had dismissed half of the labourers and was getting an equal amount of work from the remaining half, so Peek said, and so Hobbs himself confirmed when he came to call one wild November night, and sat by the open fire with them while the waves thundered on the shore and the gale drove the flames down the chimney.
Derek sat in the middle in the full firelight, the flames brightening to clear ruddiness his full fair face; Hobbs, on the right, his features sharpened by the darting shadows, his muddy legginged legs stretched on the hearth, his light eyes feasting on the beauty of Fawnie's face, as she sat opposite. Her eyes, glowing beneath the folds of dark hair, carefully encircled about her brow, were bent on the two blond men with a look of pensive, yet triumphant, ex​perience. Hobbs's attitude towards her was deferential. He seemed to have forgotten the time when he had haled her before Mr. Jerrold for trapping one of his hares. Derek liked him for this, and when he went to the door with him, invited him to come again.
Moved by the friendliness of the moment, Hobbs told Derek that he had just become engaged to Miss Pearsall.
Derek was astonished beyond measure at the news. But he kept a sober face, and congratulated Hobbs earnestly. Yet when he awakened in the night and thought of the union of that posturing, affected girl, and that hard-bitten, fierce man, he shook the bed with cynical laughter.
Late in November came the first snowfall, a deep, yet exquisitely, fragile snowfall, that made a new enchanted world. The bare orchards were weighed with glittering fruit, the windows of the house peered forth like astonished eyes beneath lowering white brows. Peek's deep footprints from the barn were little blue caverns. Yet the sun was warm, and the sky a turquoise blue. The snow certainly could not last.
"I'll tell you what we'll do, Fawnie," said Derek. "We'll get out the little red sleigh; and I'll wrap you and Buckskin in the buffalo robe, and we'll drive to Brancepeth. I need some new shirts and a pair of boots. Do you know, I haven't bought myself a blessed thing since I left Halifax!"
"Darling," replied Fawnie. "I'm surprised at you. As long as you have things for your own back you never notice that baby and I are naked. As a matter of fac', I'm nakeder than I was when I bought those last clothes, for they are wore out and my old ones, too. Winter is here and baby and I are naked. I s'pose I mus' go out to work like Mrs. Orde and make money to buy clothes."
"You do look shabby, and the kid, too," he returned, ​ignoring her threat. "Well, wrap yourselves up warmly, and we'll buy clothes for everybody."
The gelding was wild to go. He sent little clots of snow on to the buffalo robe, and even against their faces. The air was like wine, the lake lay tranquil and bright below, its smooth surface only disturbed by the wet black heads of a flock of wild ducks swimming sharply near the shore. Durras flew past; then the Jerrolds' cottage. Derek gave one swift look at the little stable. Even the weather-vane on its gable was draped in white. Buckskin crowed and kicked with joy at the merry jingle of the sleighbells.
Brancepeth was a newborn village, white and pure, and only half awake. People in the street stopped to stare at the dashing red sleigh, and at dark little Mrs. Vale showing her white teeth in an assured smile.
Derek let her go into the milliner's shop alone. He sat outside holding the restive horse, and looking down with amusement at the round-faced infant beside him who stared from under his woollen cap with greenish blue eyes so like his own. Plainly he was fascinated by the aspect of the butcher's shop, next door to the milliner's. For a beautiful roe hung there by her heels, her disembowelled body stiff and taut, her pink tongue between her teeth, touching the pavement. And, as though that were not enough, there hung at the other side of his door, a burly black bear, his great paws with their curving claws pressed together as if in prayer.
"Deer!" said Derek, pointing with his whip, "Bear! Gun shot them."
Buckskin twitched from head to foot with excitement. He made inarticulate sounds of joy.
Fawnie came to the door of the millinery shop with a blue hat on her head. Did darling like it? Darling thought it was horrible and said so. It made her sallow. Then she ​came wearing a red one with black wings. Not so bad; but it was a little brown one he chose with a fur band; just like a little French hat, the milliner followed Fawnie to the door to say. It certainly became her, and she wore it when she left, carrying her old one in a paper bag.
At the dry goods store she bought a brown coat with a fur collar, a plaid skirt, two blouses (she did not trouble much about underwear), and a pair of brown boots. There were things bought for Buckskin that only a woman knew how to buy, but Derek strode in himself, with the child on his arm, and bought him a little rabbit skin coat and a cap with earlugs.
Their presence created an agreeable excitement in the shops, for everyone knew their story, and customers and clerks alike craned their necks to catch a glimpse of that handsome young Mr. Vale and his Indian wife.
In the chemist's window a pyramid of pink soap caught Fawnie's eye. She must have some, and a new sponge for the baby. Derek waited outside while she made her purchases. . . .
They were opposite The Duke of York as the town bell struck the hour of noon. Of his own accord the horse turned in towards the stables. Fawnie said she was starving, and Derek realized that he himself was very hungry. He looked her over critically. In her dark ulster and little fur-trimmed toque she looked well-dressed, and incredibly lovely. Her cheeks were flushed with health and pleasure, her eyes had the brilliance of some furry forest animal's peering from under a bush. Her mouth and chin made him smile, they were so disdainful.
"How should you like," he asked, "to go in and have some dinner?"
"It would be jolly." But she showed no surprise.
"What about the kid?"
​"You get me a room, darling, and I'll nurse him and lay him on the bed while we eat our dinner."
They left the horse with an ostler, and went into the low hall of the tavern. Fawnie, carrying Buckskin, mounted the stair, a servant with a dangling key following her, and Derek turned into the bar. It was well filled—a large comfortable bar, clean, smelling of ale and freshly burning hemlock. A porter was on his knees before the stove. As Vale drank his ale he watched the languid movements of the fellow. The porter, seeming to feel his gaze, looked up, and Derek saw it was Bob Gunn.
Bob's beady black eyes twinkled, whether with a friendly or malicious light, Derek could not tell.
"Well, how do you like your new job?"
"Fine. The pay's fair, the food's guid, and the commaircial men are free eneuch wi' their tips. It's better than fairm life anyway."
"But the hours are even longer."
"Ay, but there's something doing. Something to see. I'd liefer hear a stoker off one of the lake vessels curse, than listen tae Chaird's whingin' and whinin'. I'd liefer clean up the floor of the bar than dig in the freezing airth all day makin' drains, or hoe out weeds that are up again before your back's turned. Then you hear interestin' talk here, politeeks, religion, science, and the status of women in the wairld. There's nae sich thing as a dull hour." He was sitting on his heels, a stick of hemlock in his hand. He now looked up in Derek's face with his twinkling eyes. "By the way, we had a relation of yours in here lately."
"A relation of mine?" repeated Derek, mystified.
"Ay, Jammery. He was wanting a drink but, of course, we had tae order him out as he is on the Indian List. He objected, and contended that he was white. He looks pretty white, and speaks well, but he's connected with ​them, so the bartender wouldn't take any risks. They'll be refusing you a drink next thing I'm thinking, Mr. Vale." His twinkle was altogether malicious now.
Suppressing a desire to kick him more thoroughly than he had done before, Vale paid for his ale and went out to find Fawnie. She was standing, a motionless little figure, just outside the dining room door.
The waitress, a plump young girl with an excellently white neck, led them to a table, and leaned over Derek to take the order. Fawnie solemnly unfolded her bluish white damp table napkin, folded in the shape of a bishop's mitre. Derek ordered soup, roast pork and apple-sauce. "Remember," he whispered, when the girl had gone, "to keep that knife away from your mouth, and just break small bits off your bread."
Fawnie nodded obediently. She behaved like a good child. They had but well begun when a robust voice greeted Derek, and looking up, he beheld Mr. Ramsey.
"Well met," he said cheerily. "This is an unexpected treat. May I sit down and have my dinner with you? You know I take most of my meals here, and I find it very pleasant."
He shook hands with them and sat down. "Yes, Katy, some roast pork. And a bit of the nice juicy rind. And don't be sparing with the apple-sauce. I find I cannot flourish without plenty of apple-sauce."
While the Vicar ate with gusto he talked buoyantly of things in general. He was glad they had won the election. The fruit market was safe, thank goodness. . . . His pullets were beginning to lay. But he had lost a fine cockerel last week from limberneck. Strange disease. Head flopping all over the place. . . . Did Derek see much of the Jerrolds? Mr. Jerrold had certainly been hard hit by the sale. But he was plucky. They had happy ​times in the cottage every Sunday afternoon. He always took tea with them on Sunday. . . . And Hobbs! One could scarcely imagine Miss Pearsall caring for him. She was so extremely refined. But Love laughed at Manners. Really, he was an unmannerly little rascal himself. . . . Hobbs had been to church twice lately. After all Miss Pearsall would make a charming mistress for Durras.
Derek saw that Mr. Ramsey was giving sharp glances at Fawnie's face. He turned and looked at her himself, and almost dropped his fork in horror at what he saw. Evidently when she had been at the chemist's she had bought some atrocious face powder and in the seclusion of the bedroom had wantonly smeared her cheeks with it. It must have been intended for a strawberry blonde, for it was a light pink with a strong hint of mauve that stood out on her dusky face with terrible effrontry.
Derek, flushing red himself, whispered to her fiercely: "Go upstairs and rub that powder off your face. Get it every bit off, and fetch the baby. We're going."
"But I haven't finished my pudding."
"Do as I tell you."
Fawnie rose, and with bent head glided from the room. The Vicar moved near to Vale. "Poor child," he said, "they have given her the wrong tint. . . . Now there is a powder," lowering his voice confidently, "I've read about it in the advertisements—for really dark skin. It's called Rachel, I believe. If she got that I believe it would answer nicely."
"Rachel"—repeated Vale, comforted by the Vicar's sympathetic attitude.
"Yes, Rachel. Probably pronounced in the French way Rachelle. . . . I think your wife is charming to look at; and full of intelligence, one can see. I'm sure you have never regretted that I advised you in this matter."
​"Everything's all right," replied Vale, uncomfortable again.
They waited at the bottom of the stairs for Fawnie, who came down carrying the baby.
The powder had been washed off, and she was radiant with pride in the child in his snowy new rabbit-skin coat and cap. The Vicar stared at him in astonished admiration. And, indeed, he had the composed air of a princling. His golden-brown skin, his long greenish eyes, the bright curl on his forehead were charming.
"You must bring him to me and have him christened," said Mr. Ramsey.
"All right," said Derek. "His name is Buckskin."