Читать книгу Cressage - A. C. Benson - Страница 11

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Norton had departed before Mrs. Goring's luncheon could take place, but though she had heard of his departure she asked Walter to come to luncheon and to bring his friend. This was favourably regarded by the Squire as a praiseworthy attempt to help to entertain his guest, as well as a respectful recognition of the honour of which the Gorings had been the recipient. In addition Mrs. Goring asked Mr. Selden, the pleasant but not highly intellectual Vicar of an adjoining parish, with his wife.

"As soon as luncheon is over, William, you must take Mr. Selden to see the garden and the Church," she said. "They always stay rather too long, the Seldens, poor things; but they must be as dull as ditchwater at Pogbourne. You must be responsible for him."

"But I have nothing in common with Selden, dear. He is entirely absorbed in agriculture and Church promotion, and I know nothing about either."

"You must consult him about something in the church; ask his advice about moving the organ."

"But I have no intention of moving the organ. Indeed, there is nowhere else that it can go."

"So much the better! It will give Mr. Selden something to think about. Meanwhile I shall have a good gossip with Mrs. Selden. I am going to give the two children a clear field."

"I don't quite like your planning this all out. Oughtn't these things to come spontaneously?"

"I know you think that marriages are made in heaven, but the foundations have to be laid on earth. Walter isn't one of those boys that can flirt and chatter at a lawn-tennis party. He would think it indecent."

"I'm afraid I think so too, dear."

"Walter is a tête-à-tête talker, William, like you, and requires time. Where would you and I have been if I hadn't taken you out that walk to Mountfield?"

"But I didn't flirt."

"No, you talked about the Revision of the Prayer Book, I remember. But I knew what you were up to!"

The Vicar held up his hands in horror, and drifted out of the room.

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On the day of the feast, Mrs. Goring felt like Napoleon on the eve of a campaign. The Vicar was depressed at the house being turned topsy-turvy, as he said, though no particular change was visible; but still more at the thought of having to give his undivided attention to Mr. Selden. In fact, he spent some time in the morning in turning over the pages of a Church History, in the hope that he might light on some suitable topics of conversation.

Fortunately for Mrs. Goring's plans, Walter was the first to arrive. "I'm afraid we have got a very dull party for you, Walter!" she said. "Mr. and Mrs. Selden are coming, and I have asked that nice girl whom I met at your house, Miss Worsley. The Vicar thought she was very shy, and as she has now got to run her father's house, I thought I would give her a little practice. You must promise to be kind to her."

Walter, who had been anticipating the party with considerable gloom, felt the air filled with a sudden brightness. He had found Helen Worsley singularly attractive, and he had been puzzling his head vaguely without any practical result, devising schemes to meet her.

"I think she is quite capable of looking after herself," he said. "I found her very easy to talk to the other day."

"Ah, that is the effect shyness has upon some people. It makes them desperate. When I was a girl I used to chatter like a parrot to strangers with a sense of inner misery; and then I used to be found fault with for being so forward."

The Seldens made their appearance, and with a mysterious nod and smile to Walter, Mrs. Goring took them in tow. Mr. Goring came in, in obvious heaviness of spirit, and the talk became highly parochial. Mrs. Selden was bursting with information about the illness of one of their chief parishioners, a farmer. "He has to have a water-bed after all," she said triumphantly. "I told Mrs. Janeway that it would come to that, but people are so superstitious about not recognizing that an illness is to be a long one. There's nothing like preparing for the worst."

"No, no," said Mrs. Goring, "let us be cheerful while we can. I always dislike the line of the hymn 'Live each day as if thy last'; think of the dismal condition to which we should be reduced if we all did that! Why, it wouldn't even be proper to have a little luncheon-party! We should all be on our knees in our bedrooms, and what should we feel like then? Mr. Selden would not be able to tell us about the crops and even William would be vexed at missing his game of picquet."

"I am sure the writer of the hymn in question didn't mean anything like that, Mrs. Goring," said Mr. Selden, a solid man with a complexion like a ripe plum. "I have always held it to refer to the punctual performance of daily duties. What do you think, Goring?"

"I believe that a resigned cheerfulness is indicated," said Mr. Goring, with an air of profound gloom. "It is a warning against the thoughtless jollity which makes havoc of our serious intentions."

"Well, we must resign ourselves to a little cheerfulness for the next hour or two," said Mrs. Goring, "and it will be all the nobler if we do it against the grain."

At this moment Helen came lightly into the room, treading like a nymph of Botticelli. She caught Walter's eye, and one of those little viewless messages of welcoming delight seemed to flash between them. Mrs. Goring embraced her and presented her to the Seldens. Mrs. Selden was happy to meet her--she represented a new channel of attractive gossip. Mr. Selden, who was of an amorous type, made a little bow and turned a darker shade of roseate purple.

"You find us all very serious, Helen," said Mrs. Goring, "thinking of the vanity of human hopes."

"Does that mean that I am late?" said Helen. "I have a very good excuse; but as no one would believe it, I won't mention it."

"You would find us all very credulous," said Mr. Selden.

"Never mind," said Mrs. Goring. "I know exactly the sort of excuse Helen means. Not an excuse, but a chain of unfortunate facts; like the long story which the Archdeacon would tell William on the doorstep at Bidborough when the Bishop was waiting in his carriage to take the Archdeacon to the station."

"The Archdeacon is far too confidential," said Mr. Goring.

"Did you hear that the Archdeacon was thought of for the Deanery of Carlisle?" said Mr. Selden. "I know for a fact that his name was before the Premier; I should not consider him at all a suitable man. I agree with Goring. The Archdeacon is not discreet. He is very far from discreet."

Luncheon was now announced; and Walter found to his vexation that he was between Mrs. Goring and Mrs. Selden, while Helen was between Mr. Goring and Mr. Selden. Mrs. Goring however, moved by her William's piteous aspect, kept the talk general. She asked Mr. Selden what changes and appointments would be made upon the Bench in case of the Archbishop's death. Mr. Selden propounded no less than three alternative schemes, and when he seemed inclined to prolong the discussion, Mrs. Goring said that she couldn't bear to hear more--she was growing envious, as it did not appear that however the cards were shuffled, either her dear William or Mr. Selden himself had any chance of being appointed to a Bishopric; and she switched the conversation on to Mrs. Selden, by asking her to tell them what the Duchess had really said to Lady Jane Fisher when she opened the Bidborough Bazaar. Mrs. Selden had heard so many versions of the story, that Mrs. Goring said they could only decide on which was the most likely, and that they were obliged, considering what the Duchess was, to select the most disagreeable.

By this time Mr. Goring was in a state of deep moral disapproval, and Mrs. Goring asked Helen whether it was true that her father, after her success at Cressage Garnet, had decided that it was necessary that she should be presented at Court--to which Helen replied that it was the other way. That her father had been thinking of getting her presented at Court, but that now he no longer thought it necessary. Mr. Selden did not feel sure that it would be respectful to laugh at this, but said with a Gargantuan archness, "Why not both, Miss Helen?"

However, to Walter's huge relief, luncheon, which to his sensitive imagination seemed to have lasted for several hours, suddenly ended with a kind of snap. The Vicar carried off Selden to look at something in the Church. Mrs. Goring and Mrs. Selden settled down over some coffee to a rich gossip. "Don't mind us," said Mrs. Goring to Walter, waving a valedictory hand. "We are going to discuss the peccadilloes of our respective flocks and the ineffective methods of our respective husbands. Take Helen out and show her something--young people have an extraordinary fondness for the open air; you might go up to the top of Aldon hill through the woods." Helen rose up blithely, and they hurried out together.

"Well, what did you think of that party?" said Walter. "You and I seem to be always 'like guilty creatures sitting at a play.'"

"I'm lost in admiration of Mrs. Goring," said Helen. "We were all just her marionettes; she pulled the strings and we danced."

"Well, we can pull our own strings now."

"I'm not so sure!"

"What do you mean by that?" said Walter.

"Don't be suspicious," said Helen. "I only mean that it was benevolence and not stupidity on Mrs. Goring's part. She thought we might have had enough of her play and would like one of our own."

"All your remarks are like nuts with a double kernel," said Walter.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, not very much; but don't you know when people talk who interest you, you want to interrupt them every moment. One thing I wanted to say was this: does it seem possible to you that you and I will ever talk like those people--using so many words to say what you don't want to say, and what nobody else wants to hear."

"Yes, I suppose we shall be like that," said Helen, musing. "But do you really think that it matters much what people say? Take my father--he always talks in the same sort of way, but I always know perfectly well whether he is pleased or displeased."

"Is he often displeased?" said Walter. "I should have thought he was a very successful and contented man."

"Yes, he seems so, said Helen, and he is always good to me; but I think he is an ambitious man and hates always having to be polite and to agree with what his employers say. He would like to play first fiddle, instead of being always patronized."

"Now for the second question," said Walter. "You said, 'don't be suspicious'; do you think I am suspicious?"

Helen turned and surveyed him with a look of amusement. "I think that perhaps you are inclined to think people mean more than they say, but then you live with clever people. The people among whom I live say whatever words come into their heads, and mean something quite different."

"That must be rather confusing."

"Not if you watch people more than you listen to them. Now while you were sitting at lunch, I saw what you were thinking half the time."

They had left the lane they had been following, and had turned into a grassy path which wound up through the wood, a narrow path which brought them into closer proximity. Walter was strangely and suddenly affected by the nearness of this delicately made creature so close beside him, so fresh and fragrant, who stepped so lightly, smiled so responsively, and talked as if she had known him all her life. The girls he had met hitherto had seemed to him self-conscious and affected, incalculable creatures who seemed to be always expecting something. Helen seemed to expect nothing.

The trees closed in more and more about them. Walter holding back an insistent branch for Helen to pass, found her close to him, her breath almost on his cheek, her white teeth, her parted lips. He had an insane impulse to clasp her in his arms, but she passed by in smiling silence. He felt that he must say something to her, must feel sure of her. The next minute she was holding back a bough for him.

"On the whole I don't like a wood," said Helen in a matter-of-fact voice, "except to look at. It seems to me rather impertinent, and as if it didn't like being interrupted."

"We are nearly out," said Walter; "you can see the light through the trees."

A minute later they stepped out on to the turf of a bit of down, that ran up to an old grassy earthwork.

"This is lovely," said Helen; and then with a sudden cry of delight, "Oh, Mr. Garnet, do look here--you can see right down into the Vicarage garden--that's the top of the Church tower--and look, those two little things like beetles on the lawn are the two Vicars. I can see at this distance that Mr. Goring has nothing to talk about."

Walter laughed. "And look there--you can see the chimneys of our house--that's the gate-house. How superior it makes one feel to see human beings crawling about in their shut-in valleys and gardens."

"And then there's the wide, wide world," said Helen, pointing to the plain. "But I'm not sure how much I like that; it is all rather too big for me. I think I prefer the two beetles. Look at Mr. Selden--he's telling off the points of what he is saying on his finger-tips. I'm sure he has got hold of a new arrangement about the Bishops. But just look at all these hills. I had no idea that there were all these little green mountains. What fun we might have, scrambling up them all."

They climbed up to the earthwork, and sat side by side surveying the scene.

"When do you go back to Oxford?" said Helen suddenly.

"Oxford?" said Walter. "Oh, I'm not going back there any more."

"Not going back?" said Helen. "Why, I thought you were to be Master of your College or something."

"No, I am going abroad--almost immediately."

"It must be horrid to be suddenly torn away from all your friends."

"No, I have very few friends. Norton is really almost the only one I ever want to see again."

Helen was silent for a moment, considering Walter seriously--his eyes fell before hers.

"You surely don't mean that?" she said at last.

"Yes, I do; does it surprise you?"

"Why, yes," said Helen. "I thought that the reason perhaps why you made so few friends down here was because you had so many much nicer ones at Oxford."

"There's only one person here I want to make friends with," said Walter rather clumsily. "No, I'm not going to say anything silly; I really want a friend very much. I seem to have so much I want to say and so many questions I want to ask; but the moment I get to that point with any of my Oxford friends, they seem to freeze up."

But Helen was silent and wore a somewhat troubled air.

"Please don't look at me like that," said Walter. "I haven't said anything absurd, have I?"

"Absurd? No, of course not," said Helen; "but you have taken me so much by surprise. You see, I have been brought up to regard the Manor as the last word in--what shall I say?--exclusiveness. And then we hear of you at Oxford carrying all before you; and then I meet you and find you quite nice, and then this fairy prince suddenly says that he hasn't any friends, and wants me to step in. It's too much like Cophetua and the beggar-maid¹. I have always thought very meanly of the beggar-maid. What business had she to take up at once with that pursy old King? She couldn't have had time to think whether she cared about him."

¹ King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid (1884) Burne-Jones, Sir Edward Coley, 1st Baronet.

"Yes," said Walter; "but it isn't in the least like Cophetua and the beggar-maid. It's too bad to make us all out to be ogres, and then to say you couldn't have anything to do with an ogre. It is just the other way round. You have ever so many more reasons for enjoying life than I have, and I only want you to give me something of which I am in very great need--and which you can give."

"But it is much more serious and difficult for me than for you," said Helen. "I hardly know you--you hardly know me. We aren't by way of meeting often; how can we meet, as things are? I can't make a serious sort of compact like this offhand."

"No," said Walter. "I see that. I shouldn't have sprung it on you if I hadn't been going away. But you seemed to me the moment I met you to be just the one sort of friend I wanted--who would understand things and be amused by them, not want everything explained, or wish to be made a fuss of."

"I'm not so sure about that," said Helen.

"Oh, you know what I mean," said Walter. "But what you don't know--and it is very awkward for me to tell you--is the way in which my people consider all the girls I see; and the relief is to find someone who hasn't got all these stuffy ideas. . . . I'm putting all this very badly, I know, but I'm too much in earnest about it all; I can't bear to miss this great chance."

"I certainly never thought I should have to feel sorry for you," said Helen, "and I'll go in blindfold--but mind, it is blindfold; and we are both free to back out if it doesn't fit."

She put her hand lightly into his and gave it a little soft pressure.

Then she went on lightly: "Good Heavens, what have I done? I feel as if I must at once begin a serious course of reading. What is your line at Oxford?"

"Oh, philosophy and so on."

"Would it be of any use to read up a book in our School-room called Philosophy in Sport? It's a dreadful sort of story. The unhappy boy opens the door and is told he has been employing a lever and has it all explained to him with diagrams."

"Oh, don't make fun of me," said Walter in a melancholy tone.

"I won't," said Helen, "though I thought that humour was one of my three charms, or was it only two? You will very soon be repenting of our bargain, you will see."

"You wouldn't laugh if you knew what a different person will go down the hill from the person who came up it!"

"That is like Jack and Jill. Is the water spilt already? But mercy, look at the time--it's four o'clock. When does the luncheon-party stop?"

"When it becomes a tea-party," said Walter. They raced down the hill. "May I write to you from abroad?" he said.

"Certainly not."

"But we must do something."

"We must love one another," said Helen. "Well, you might write once--but I must think about that. The post-office is the centre of village gossip. You have made me feel very clandestine."

"I may call you Helen?"

"I don't suppose I can prevent you."

"And you will call me Walter?"

"Not yet--I must get used to all these glories. Oh dear, I am afraid I have been very rash!"

"Helen!"

"How curious it sounds!"

They found Mrs. Goring at tea. "What on earth has been happening, Walter?" she said.

"Only three words and a view," said Walter.

"The right words, I hope?" said Mrs. Goring.

"Mr. Garnet has been explaining the view to me," said Helen; "he pointed out the Manor chimney."

"That was very unselfish," said Mrs. Goring. "But now that you are here, I must just ask if you are staying for dinner? I have sent your car away once, Helen. But here it is coming up the drive."

Helen was packed in, and Mrs. Goring was tactful enough to let the two say their good-bye unobserved. "I hope you have had a better afternoon than I have," she said to Walter. "That good woman has stuck me as full of gossip as a pin-cushion of pins. William is lying down, reading Thomas à Kempis. I suggested Punch in vain. Don't disturb him. I heard Thomas à Kempis fall on the floor half an hour ago."