Читать книгу Adrienne Toner - Anne Douglas Sedgwick - Страница 5

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THE Chadwicks all had a certain sulkiness in their charming looks, and where in Barney it mingled with sweetness, in Palgrave, his younger brother, it mingled with brilliancy. It was Palgrave who, at the station, met the family friend and counsellor in the shabby, inexpensive family car. He was still a mere boy, home from Marlborough for the Easter holidays; fond of Oldmeadow, as all the Chadwicks were; but more resentful of his predominance than Barney and more indifferent to his brotherly solicitude. He had Barney’s long, narrow face and Barney’s eyes and lips; but the former were proud and the latter petulant. To-day, as he sat beside him in the car, Oldmeadow was aware of something at once fixed and vibrating in his bearing. He wanted to say something, and he had resolved to be silent. During their last encounter at Coldbrooks, he and Oldmeadow had had a long, antagonistic political discussion, and Palgrave’s resentment still, no doubt, survived.

Coldbrooks lay among the lower Cotswolds, three miles from the station, and near the station was the village of Chelford where Nancy Averil and her mother lived. Nancy was at Coldbrooks; Aunt Monica—she was called aunt by the Chadwick children, though she and Mrs. Chadwick were first cousins—was away. So Palgrave informed him. But he did not speak again until the chill, green curve of arable hill-side was climbed and a stretch of wind-swept country lay before them. Then suddenly he volunteered: “The American girl is at Coldbrooks.”

“Oh! Is she? When did she come?” Somehow Oldmeadow had expected the later train for Miss Toner.

“Yesterday. She and Barney came down together in her car.”

“So you’ve welcomed her already,” said Oldmeadow, curious of the expression on the boy’s face. “How does she fit into Coldbrooks? Does she like you all and do you like her?”

For a moment Palgrave was silent. “You mean it makes a difference whether we do or not?” he then inquired.

“I don’t know that I meant that. Though if people come into your life it does make a difference.”

“And is she going to come into our lives?” Palgrave asked, and Oldmeadow felt pressure of some sort behind the question. “That’s what I mean. Has Barney told you? He’s said nothing to us. Not even to Mother.”

“Has Barney told me he’s going to marry her? No; he hasn’t. But it’s evident he hopes to. Perhaps it depends on whether she likes Coldbrooks and Coldbrooks likes her.”

“Oh, no, it doesn’t. It doesn’t depend on anything at all except whether she likes Barney,” said Palgrave. “She’s the sort of person who doesn’t depend on anything or anybody except herself. She cuts through circumstance like a knife through cheese. And if she’s not going to take him I wish she’d never come,” he added, frowning and turning, under the peak of his cap, his jewel-like eyes upon his companion. “It’s a case of all or nothing with a person like that. It’s too disturbing—just for a glimpse.”

Oldmeadow felt himself disconcerted. Oddly enough, for the boy was capricious and extravagant, Palgrave’s opinion had more weight with him than Barney’s. Barney, for one thing, was sexually susceptible and Palgrave was not. Though so young, Oldmeadow felt him already of a poetic temperament, passionate in mind and cold in blood.

“She’s so charming? You can’t bear to lose her now you’ve seen her?” he asked.

“I don’t know about charming. No; I don’t think her charming. At least not if you mean something little by the word. She’s disturbing. She changes everything.”

“But if she stays she’ll be more disturbing. She’ll change more.”

“Oh, I shan’t mind that! I shan’t mind change,” Palgrave declared. “If it’s her change and she’s there to see it through.” And, relapsing to muteness, he bent to his brakes and they slid down among the woods of Coldbrooks.

For the life of him and with the best will in the world, he couldn’t make it out. That was Oldmeadow’s first impression as, among the familiar group gathered in the hall about the tea-table, Miss Toner was at last made manifest to him. She was, he felt sure, in his first shrewd glance at her, merely what Lydia Aldesey would have placed as a third-rate American girl, and her origins in commercial enterprise were eminently appropriate.

She got up to meet him, as if recognizing in him some special significance or, indeed, as it might be her ingenuous habit to do in meeting any older person. But he was not so much older if it came to that; for, after he had met the direct and dwelling gaze of her large, light eyes, the second impression was that she was by no means so young as Barney had led him to expect. She was certainly as old as Barney.

There were none of the obvious marks of wealth upon her. She wore a dark-blue dress tying on the breast over white. She was small in stature and, in manner, composed beyond anything he had ever encountered. With an irony, kindly enough, yet big, he knew, with unfavourable inferences, he even recognized, reconstructing the moment in the light of those that followed, that in rising to meet him as he was named to her, it had been, rather than in shyness or girlishness, in the wish to welcome him and draw him the more happily into a group she had already made her own.

They were all sitting round the plentiful table, set with home-made loaves and cakes, jams and butter, and a Leeds bowl of primroses; Miss Toner just across from him, Barney on one side of her—his was an air of tranquil ecstasy—and little Barbara on the other, and they all seemed to emanate a new radiance; almost, thought Oldmeadow, with an irritability that was still genial, like innocent savages on a remote seashore gathered with intent eyes and parted lips round the newly disembarked Christopher Columbus. Mrs. Chadwick, confused, as usual, among her tea-cups, sending hasty relays of sugar after the unsugared or recalling those sugared in error, specially suggested the simile. She could, indeed, hardly think of her tea. Her wide, startled gaze turned incessantly on the new-comer and to Oldmeadow, for all his nearly filial affection, the eyes of Eleanor Chadwick looked like nothing in the world so much as those of the March Hare in Tenniel’s evocation of the endearing creature. Unlike her children, she was fair, with a thin, high, ridiculously distinguished nose; but her mouth and chin had Barney’s irresolution and sweetness, and her untidy locks Meg’s beauty. Meg was a beauty in every way, rose, pearl and russet, a Romney touched with pride and daring, and the most sophisticated of all the Chadwicks; yet she, too, brooded, half merrily, half sombrely, on Miss Toner, her elbows on the table for the better contemplation. Palgrave’s absorption was manifest; but he did not brood. He held his head high, frowned and, for the most part, looked out of the window.

Oldmeadow sat between Palgrave and Nancy and it was with Nancy that the magic ended. Nancy did not share in the radiance. She smiled and was very busy cutting the bread and butter; but she was pale; not puzzled, but preoccupied. Poor darling Nancy; always his special pet; to him always the dearest and most loveable of girls. Not at all a Romney. With her pale, fresh face, dark hair and beautiful hands she suggested, rather, a country lady of the seventeenth century painted by Vandyck. A rural Vandyck who might have kept a devout and merry journal, surprising later generations by its mixture of ingenuousness and wisdom. Her lips were meditative, and her grey eyes nearly closed when she smiled in a way that gave to her gaiety and extraordinary sweetness and intimacy. Nancy always looked as if she loved you when she smiled at you; and indeed she did love you. She had spent her life among people she loved and if she could not be intimate she was remote and silent.

But there was no hope for Nancy. He saw that finally, as he drank his tea in silence and looked across the primroses at the marvel of the age.

Miss Toner’s was an insignificant little head, if indeed it could be called little, since it was too large for her body, and her way of dressing her hair in wide braids, pinned round it and projecting over the ears, added to the top-heavy effect. The hair was her only indubitable beauty, fine and fair and sparkling like the palest, purest metal. It was cut in a light fringe across a projecting forehead and her mouth and chin projected, too; so that, as he termed it to himself, it was a squashed-in face, ugly in structure, the small nose, from its depressed bridge, jutting forward in profile, the lips, in profile, flat yet prominent. Nevertheless he owned, studying her over his tea-cup, that the features, ugly, even trivial in detail, had in their assemblage something of unexpected force. Her tranquil smile had potency and he suddenly became aware of her flat, gentle voice, infrequent, yet oddly dominating. Sensitive as he was to voices, he saw it as a bland, blue ribbon rolled out among broken counters of colour, and listened to its sound before he listened to what it said. All the other voices went up and down; all the others half said things and let them drop or trail. She said things to the end: when the ribbon began it was unrolled; and it seemed, always, to make a silence in which it could be watched.

“We went up high into the sunlight,” she said, “and one saw nothing but snow and sky. The bells were ringing on the mountains beneath; one heard no other sound. I have never forgotten the moment. It seemed an inspiration of joy and peace and strength.”

“You’ve walked so much in the Alps, haven’t you, Roger?” said Mrs. Chadwick. “Miss Toner has motored over every pass.”

“In the French Alps. I don’t like Switzerland,” said Oldmeadow.

“I think I love the mountains everywhere,” said Miss Toner, “when they go so high into the sky and have the sun and snow on their summits. But I love the mountains of Savoy and Jura best.”

It vexed him that she should. She was a person to stay in and prefer Switzerland. “Joy and peace and strength,” echoed in his ears and with the words, rudely, and irrelevantly, the image of the pink glazed tube with the gilt stopper. Miss Toner’s teeth were as white as they were benignant.

“I wish I could see those flowers,” said Mrs. Chadwick. “I’ve only been to Vevey in the summer; oh, years and years ago. So dull. Fields of flowers. You’ve seen them, too, of course, Roger. All the things we grow with such pains. My Saint Brigid anemones never really do—though what I put in of leaf-mould!”

“You’ll see anemones, fields of them, in the Alpine meadows; and violets and lilies; the little lilies of Saint Bruno that look like freesias. I love them best of all,” the bland, blue ribbon unrolled. “You shall go with me some day, Mrs. Chadwick. We’ll go together.” And, smiling at her as if they had, already, a happy secret between them, Miss Toner continued: “We’ll go this very summer, if you will. We’ll motor all the way. I’ll come and get you here. For a whole month you shall forget that you’ve ever had a family to bring up or a house to take care of or anemones that won’t grow properly—even in leaf-mould.”

Her eyes, as they rested on her hostess, seemed to impart more than her words. They imparted something to Oldmeadow. He had not before conjectured that Eleanor Chadwick might be bored or tired, nor realized that since Barbara’s birth, fourteen years ago, she had not left Coldbrooks except to go to London for a week’s shopping, or to stay with friends in the English country. He had taken Eleanor Chadwick’s life for granted. It seemed Miss Toner’s function not to take things that could be changed for granted. It was easy to do that of course, when you had a large banking account behind you; and yet he felt that Miss Toner would have had the faculty of altering accepted standards, even had she been materially unequipped. She and Mrs. Chadwick continued to look at each other for a moment and the older woman, half bashfully, seemed, with what softness, compelled to a tacit confession. She’d never known before that she was tired. Springs of adventure and girlishness within her were perhaps unsealed by Miss Toner’s gaze.

“And where do the rest of us come in!” Barney ejaculated. He was so happy in the triumph of his beloved that his eyes, their sleepiness banished, were almost as brilliant as Palgrave’s.

“But you’re always coming in with Mrs. Chadwick,” said Miss Toner. She looked at him, if with a touch of tender humour, exactly as she looked at his mother; but then she looked at them both as if they were precious to her. “I don’t want you to come in at all for that month. I want her to forget you ever existed. There ought to be waters of Lethe for everyone every now and then, even in this life. We come out, after the plunge into forgetfulness, far brighter and stronger and with a renovated self to love the better with. Afterwards—after she’s had her dip—you’ll all come in, if you want to, with me. I’ll get a car big enough. You, too, Miss Averil; and Mr. Oldmeadow; though he and Barney and Palgrave may have to take turns sitting on the portmanteaus.”

“Barney” and “Palgrave” already. Her unpretentious mastery alarmed almost as much as it amused him. He thanked her, with his dry smile, saying that he really preferred to see the Alps on his legs and asked, to temper the possible acerbity, “Do you drive yourself?” for it seemed in keeping with his picture of her as an invading providence that she should with her own hand conduct the car of fate. He could see her, somehow, taking the hairpin curves on the Galibier.

But Miss Toner said she did not drive. “One can’t see flowers if one drives oneself; and it would hurt dear Macfarlane’s feelings so. Macfarlane is my chauffeur and he’s been with me for years; from the time we first began to have motors, my mother and I, out in California. Apart from that, I should like it, I think, with the sense of risk and venture it must give. I like the sense of high adventure—of ‘Childe Roland to the dark tower came’; don’t you, Palgrave? It’s life, isn’t it? The pulse of life. Danger and venture and conquest. And then resting, on the heights, while one hears the bells beneath one.”

This, thought Oldmeadow, as he adjusted his glass the better to examine Miss Toner, must prove itself too much, even for Palgrave to swallow. But Palgrave swallowed it without a tremor. His eyes on hers he answered: “Yes, I feel life like that, too.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Mrs. Chadwick, and Oldmeadow blessed her antidote to the suffocating sweetness: “I’m afraid I don’t! I don’t think I know anything about risks and dangers; or about conquest either. I’m sure I’ve never conquered anything; though I have been dreadfully afraid of ill-tempered servants—if that counts, and never let them see it. Barbara had such an odious nurse. She tried, simply, to keep me out of the nursery; but she didn’t succeed. And there was a Scotch cook once, with red hair—that so often goes with a bad temper, doesn’t it? Do you remember, Barney?—your dear father had to go down to the kitchen when she was found lying quite, quite drunk under the table. But cooks and nurses can’t be called risks—and I’ve never cared for hunting.”

Miss Toner was quietly laughing, and indeed everybody laughed.

“Dear Mrs. Chadwick,” she said. And then she added: “How can a mother say she has not known risks and dangers? I think you’ve thought only of other people for all your life and never seen yourself at all. Alpine passes aren’t needed to prove people’s courage and endurance.”

Oldmeadow now saw, from the sudden alarm and perplexity of Mrs. Chadwick’s expression, that she was wondering if the marvellous guest alluded to the perils of child-birth. Perhaps she did. She was ready, he imagined, to allude to anything.

“You’re right about her never having seen herself,” said Palgrave, nodding across at Miss Toner. “She never has. She’s incapable of self-analysis.”

“But she’s precious sharp when it comes to analysing other people, aren’t you, Mummy dear!” said Barney.

“I don’t think she is,” said Meg. “I think Mummy sees people rather as she sees flowers; things to be fed and staked and protected.”

“You’re always crabbing Mummy, Meg. It’s a shame!—Isn’t it a shame, Mummy dear!” Barbara protested, and Barney tempered the apparent criticism—peacemaker as he usually was—with: “But you have to understand flowers jolly well to make them grow. And we do her credit, don’t we!”

Miss Toner looked from one to the other as they spoke, with her clear, benignant, comprehending gaze, and Mrs. Chadwick stared with her March Hare ingenuousness that had its full share, too, of March Hare shrewdness. She undertook no self-justification, commenting merely, in the pause that followed Barney’s contribution: “I don’t know what you mean by self-analysis unless it’s thinking about yourself and mothers certainly haven’t much time for that. You’re quite right there, my dear,” she nodded at Miss Toner, adding in a tone intended specially for her: “But young people often exaggerate things that are quite, quite simple when they come.”