Somehow the story did not make him braver. He had no sword, and his
clothes were not of the finest silk threaded with gold. He was a small
boy in a patched sailor-suit, with a bandage round his head and a dirty
face--cold, hungry and buffeted by a day of storms. He wished he could
stay there in the shadow until he died, and never have to fight anyone
again, or screw himself to face his father, or live through any more
rows. But it seemed you didn't die just because you wanted to. All
that happened was that you grew colder and more miserable, knowing that
the row would be a great deal worse when it came. Goaded by this
reasoning, he crept down the area steps to the back door which, by a
merciful chance, had been left unlocked, and made his way on tiptoe
along the dark stone passage to the kitchen.
It was a servantless period. But there was a light in the servants'
living-room, and the red comforting glow of a fire. The bailiff lived
there. Robert could hear him shuffling his feet in the fender, and
sniffing and clearing his throat as though the silence bothered him,
and he were trying to make himself at home. For a moment Robert longed
to go in and sit beside him, not saying anything, but just basking in
the quiet warmth, protected by the presence of the Law which seemed so
astonishingly tolerant in the matter of the Stonehouse shortcomings.
For the bailiff was a good-natured man. He had endeavoured to make it
clear to Robert from the beginning, by means of sundry winks and
smiles, that he understood the whole situation, which was one in which
any gentleman might find himself, and that he meant to act like a
friend.
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