Читать книгу Lyre and Lancet: A Story in Scenes - Anstey F. - Страница 4

In a First-class Compartment.

Spurrell (to himself). Formidable old party opposite me in the furs! Nice-looking girl over in the corner; not a patch on my Emma, though! Wonder why I catch 'em sampling me over their papers whenever I look up! Can't be anything wrong with my turn out. Why, of course, they heard Tom talk about my going down to Wyvern Court; think I'm a visitor there and no end of a duke! Well, what snobs some people are, to be sure!

Lady Cantire (to herself). So this is the young poet I made Albinia ask to meet me. I can't be mistaken, I distinctly heard his friend mention Andromeda. H'm, well, it's a comfort to find he's clean! Have I read his poetry or not? I know I had the book, because I distinctly remember telling Maisie she wasn't to read it – but – well, that's of no consequence. He looks clever and quite respectable – not in the least picturesque – which is fortunate. I was beginning to doubt whether it was quite prudent to bring Maisie; but I needn't have worried myself.

Lady Maisie (to herself). Here, actually in the same carriage! Does he guess who I am? Somehow – Well, he certainly is different from what I expected. I thought he would show more signs of having thought and suffered; for he must have suffered to write as he does. If mamma knew I had read his poems; that I had actually written to beg him not to refuse Aunt Albinia's invitation! He never wrote back. Of course I didn't put any address; but still, he could have found out from the Red Book if he'd cared. I'm rather glad now he didn't care.

Spurrell (to himself). Old girl seems as if she meant to be sociable; better give her an opening. (Aloud.) Hem! would you like the window down an inch or two?

Lady Cantire. Not on my account, thank you.

Spurrell (to himself). Broke the ice, anyway. (Aloud.) Oh, I don't want it down, but some people have such a mania for fresh air.

Lady Cantire (with a dignified little shiver). Have they? With a temperature as glacial as it is in here! They must be maniacs indeed!

Spurrell. Well, it is chilly; been raw all day. (To himself.) She don't answer. I haven't broken the ice.

[He produces a memorandum book.

Lady Maisie (to herself). He hasn't said anything very original yet. So nice of him not to pose! Oh, he's got a note-book; he's going to compose a poem. How interesting!

Spurrell (to himself). Yes, I'm all right if Heliograph wins the Lincolnshire Handicap; lucky to get on at the price I did. Wonder what's the latest about the City and Suburban? Let's see whether the Pink Un has anything about it.

[He refers to the Sporting Times.

Lady Maisie (to herself). The inspiration's stopped —what a pity! How odd of him to read the Globe! I thought he was a Democrat!

Lady Cantire. Maisie, there's quite a clever little notice in Society Snippets about the dance at Skympings last week. I'm sure I wonder how they pick up these things; it quite bears out what I was told; says the supper arrangements were "simply disgraceful; not nearly enough champagne; and what there was, undrinkable!" So like poor dear Lady Chesepare; never does do things like anybody else. I'm sure I've given her hints enough!

Spurrell (to himself, with a suppressed grin). Wants to let me see she knows some swells. Now ain't that paltry?

Lady Cantire (tendering the paper). Would you like to see it, Maisie? Just this bit here; where my finger is.

Lady Maisie (to herself, flushing). I saw him smile. What must he think of us, with his splendid scorn for rank? (Aloud.) No, thank you, mamma: such a wretched light to read by!

Spurrell (to himself). Chance for me to cut in! (Aloud.) Beastly light, isn't it? 'Pon my word, the company ought to provide us with a dog and string apiece when we get out!

Lady Cantire (bringing a pair of long-handled glasses to bear upon him). I happen to hold shares in this line. May I ask why you consider a provision of dogs and string at all the stations a necessary or desirable expenditure?

Spurrell. Oh – er – well, you know, I only meant, bring on blindness and that. Harmless attempt at a joke, that's all.

Lady Cantire. I see. I scarcely expected that you would condescend to such weakness. I – ah – think you are going down to stay at Wyvern for a few days, are you not?

Spurrell (to himself). I was right. What Tom said did fetch the old girl; no harm in humouring her a bit. (Aloud.) Yes – oh yes, they – aw – wanted me to run down when I could.

Lady Cantire. I heard they were expecting you. You will find Wyvern a pleasant house – for a short visit.

Spurrell (to himself). She heard! Oh, she wants to kid me she knows the Culverins. Rats! (Aloud.) Shall I, though? I dare say.

Lady Cantire. Lady Culverin is a very sweet woman; a little limited, perhaps, not intellectual, or quite what one would call the grande dame; but perhaps that could scarcely be expected.

Spurrell (vaguely). Oh, of course not – no. (To himself.) If she bluffs, so can I! (Aloud.) It's funny your turning out to be an acquaintance of Lady C.'s, though.

Lady Cantire. You think so? But I should hardly call myself an acquaintance.

Spurrell (to himself). Old cat's trying to back out of it now; she shan't, though! (Aloud.) Oh, then I suppose you know Sir Rupert best?

Lady Cantire. Yes, I certainly know Sir Rupert better.

Spurrell (to himself). Oh, you do, do you? We'll see. (Aloud.) Nice cheery old chap, Sir Rupert, isn't he? I must tell him I travelled down in the same carriage with a particular friend of his. (To himself.) That'll make her sit up!

Lady Cantire. Oh, then you and my brother Rupert have met already?

Spurrell (aghast). Your brother! Sir Rupert Culverin your – ! Excuse me – if I'd only known, I – I do assure you I never should have dreamt of saying – !

Lady Cantire (graciously). You've said nothing whatever to distress yourself about. You couldn't possibly be expected to know who I was. Perhaps I had better tell you at once that I am Lady Cantire, and this is my daughter, Lady Maisie Mull. (Spurrell returns Lady Maisie's little bow in the deepest confusion.) We are going down to Wyvern too, so I hope we shall very soon become better acquainted.

Spurrell (to himself, overwhelmed). The deuce we shall! I have got myself into a hole this time; I wish I could see my way well out of it! Why on earth couldn't I hold my confounded tongue? I shall look an ass when I tell 'em.

[He sits staring at them in silent embarrassment.

In a Second-class Compartment.

Undershell (to himself). Singularly attractive face this girl has; so piquant and so refined! I can't help fancying she is studying me under her eyelashes. She has remarkably bright eyes. Can she be interested in me? Does she expect me to talk to her? There are only she and I – but no, just now I would rather be alone with my thoughts. This Maisie Mull whom I shall meet so soon; what is she like, I wonder? I presume she is unmarried. If I may judge from her artless little letter, she is young and enthusiastic, and she is a passionate admirer of my verse; she is longing to meet me. I suppose some men's vanity would be flattered by a tribute like that. I think I must have none; for it leaves me strangely cold. I did not even reply; it struck me that it would be difficult to do so with any dignity, and she didn't tell me where to write to… After all, how do I know that this will not end – like everything else – in disillusion? Will not such crude girlish adoration pall upon me in time? If she were exceptionally lovely; or say, even as charming as this fair fellow-passenger of mine – why then, to be sure – but no, something warns me that that is not to be. I shall find her plain, sandy, freckled; she will render me ridiculous by her undiscriminating gush… Yes, I feel my heart sink more and more at the prospect of this visit. Ah me!

[He sighs heavily.

His Fellow Passenger (to herself). It's too silly to be sitting here like a pair of images, considering that – (Aloud.) I hope you aren't feeling unwell?

Undershell. Thank you, no, not unwell. I was merely thinking.

His Fellow Passenger. You don't seem very cheerful over it, I must say. I've no wish to be inquisitive, but perhaps you're feeling a little low-spirited about the place you're going to?

Undershell. I – I must confess I am rather dreading the prospect. How wonderful that you should have guessed it!

His Fellow Passenger. Oh, I've been through it myself. I'm just the same when I go down to a new place; feel a sort of sinking, you know, as if the people were sure to be disagreeable, and I should never get on with them.

Undershell. Exactly my own sensations! If I could only be sure of finding one kindred spirit, one soul who would help and understand me. But I daren't let myself hope even for that!

His Fellow Passenger. Well, I wouldn't judge beforehand. The chances are there'll be somebody you can take to.

Undershell (to himself). What sympathy! What bright, cheerful common sense! (Aloud.) Do you know, you encourage me more than you can possibly imagine!

His Fellow Passenger (retreating). Oh, if you are going to take my remarks like that, I shall be afraid to go on talking to you!

Undershell (with pathos). Don't —don't be afraid to talk to me! If you only knew the comfort you give! I have found life very sad, very solitary. And true sympathy is so rare, so refreshing. I – I fear such an appeal from a stranger may seem a little startling; it is true that hitherto we have only exchanged a very few sentences; and yet already I feel that we have something – much – in common. You can't be so cruel as to let all intimacy cease here – it is quite tantalising enough that it must end so soon. A very few more minutes, and this brief episode will be only a memory; I shall have left the little green oasis far behind me, and be facing the dreary desert once more – alone!

His Fellow Passenger (laughing). Well, of all the uncomplimentary things! As it happens, though, "the little green oasis" – as you're kind enough to call me —won't be left behind; not if it's aware of it! I think I heard your friend mention Wyvern Court! Well, that's where I'm going.

Undershell (excitedly). You —you are going to Wyvern Court! Why, then, you must be —

[He checks himself.

His Fellow Passenger. What were you going to say; what must I be?

Undershell (to himself). There is no doubt about it; bright, independent girl; gloves a trifle worn; travels second-class for economy; it must be Miss Mull herself; her letter mentioned Lady Culverin as her aunt. A poor relation, probably. She doesn't suspect that I am – I won't reveal myself just yet; better let it dawn upon her gradually. (Aloud.) Why, I was only about to say, why then you must be going to the same house as I am. How extremely fortunate a coincidence!

His Fellow Passenger. That remains to be seen. (To herself.) What a funny little man; such a flowery way of talking for a footman. Oh, but I forgot; he said he wasn't going to wear livery. Well, he would look a sight in it!