Читать книгу HILDA LESSWAYS - Arnold Bennett - Страница 28

So overset was she by the dramatic surprise of his challenging remark, and so enlightened by the sudden perception of it being perfectly characteristic of him, that her manner changed in an instant to a delicate, startled timidity. All the complex sensitiveness of her nature was expressed simultaneously in the changing tints of her face, the confusion of her eyes and her gestures, and the exquisite hesitations of her voice as she told him about the coincidence which had brought back to her in his office the poem of her schooldays.

He came to the bookcase and, taking out the volume, handled it carelessly.

“I only brought these things here because they’re nicely bound and fill up the shelf,” he said. “Not much use in a lawyer’s office, you know!” He glanced from the volume to her, and from her to the volume. “Ah! Miss Miranda! Yes! Well! It isn’t so wonderful as all that. My father used to give her lessons in French. This Hugo was his. He thought a great deal of it.” Mr. Cannon’s pose exhibited pride, but it was obvious that he did not share his father’s taste. His tone rather patronized his father, and Hugo too. As he let the pages of the book slip by under his thumb, he stopped, and with a very good French accent, quite different from Hilda’s memory of Miss Miranda’s, murmured in a sort of chanting—“Dieu qui sourit et qui donne.”

“That’s the very one!” cried Hilda.

“Ah! There you are then! You see—the bookmark was at that page.” Hilda had not noticed the thin ribbon almost concealed in the jointure of the pages. “I wouldn’t be a bit astonished if my father had lent her this very book! Curious, isn’t it?”

It was. Nevertheless, Hilda felt that his sense of the miraculousness of life was not so keen as her own; and she was disappointed.

“I suppose you’re very fond of reading?” he said.

“No, I’m not,” she replied. Her spirit lifted a little courageously, to meet his with defiance, like a ship lifting its prow above the threatening billow. Her eyes wavered, but did not fall before his.

“Really! Now, I should have said you were a great reader. What do you do with yourself?” He now spoke like a brother, confident of a trustful response.

“I just waste my time,” she answered coldly. She saw that he was puzzled, interested, and piqued, and that he was examining her quite afresh.

“Well,” he said shortly, after a pause, adopting the benevolent tone of an uncle or even a great-uncle, “you’ll be getting married one of these days.”

“I don’t want to get married,” she retorted obstinately, and with a harder glance.

“Then what do you want?”

“I don’t know.” She discovered great relief, even pleasure, in thus callously exposing her mind to a stranger.

Tapping his teeth with one thumb, he gazed at her, apparently in meditation upon her peculiar case. At last he said:

“I tell you what you ought to do. You ought to go in for phonography.”

“Phonography?” She was at a loss.

“Yes; Pitman’s shorthand, you know.”

“Oh! shorthand—yes. I’ve heard of it. But why?”

“Why? It’s going to be the great thing of the future. There never was anything like it!” His voice grew warm and his glance scintillated. And now Hilda understood her mother’s account of his persuasiveness; she felt the truth of that odd remark that he could talk the hind leg off a horse.

“But does it lead to anything?” she inquired, with her strong sense of intrinsic values.

“I should say it did!” he answered. “It leads to everything! There’s nothing it won’t lead to! It’s the key of the future. You’ll see. Look at Dayson. He’s taken it up, and now he’s giving lessons in it. He’s got a room over his aunt’s. I can tell you he staggered me. He wrote in shorthand as fast as ever I could read to him, and then he read out what he’d written, without a single slip. I’m having one of my chaps taught. I’m paying for the lessons. I thought of learning myself—yes, really! Oh! It’s a thing that’ll revolutionize all business and secretarial work and so on—revolutionize it! And it’s spreading. It’ll be the Open Sesame to everything. Anybody that can write a hundred and twenty words a minute’ll be able to walk into any situation he wants—straight into it! There’s never been anything like it. Look! Here it is!”

He snatched up a pale-green booklet from the desk and opened it before her. She saw the cryptic characters for the first time. And she saw them with his glowing eyes. In their mysterious strokes and curves and dots she saw romance, and the key of the future; she saw the philosopher’s stone. She saw a new religion that had already begun to work like leaven in the town. The revelation was deliciously intoxicating. She was converted, as by lightning. She yielded to the ecstasy of discipleship. Here—somehow, inexplicably, incomprehensively—here was the answer to the enigma of her long desire. And it was an answer original, strange, distinguished, unexpected, unique; yes, and divine! How lovely, how beatific, to be the master of this enchanted key!

“It must be very interesting!” she said, low, with the venturesome shyness of a deer that is reassured.

“I don’t mind telling you this,” Mr. Cannon went on, with the fire of the prophet. “I’ve got something coming along pretty soon”—he repeated more slowly—“I’ve got something coming along pretty soon, where there’ll be scope for a young lady that can write shorthand well. I can’t tell you what it is, but it’s something different from anything there’s ever been in this town; and better.”

His eyes masterfully held hers, seeming to say: “I’m vague. But I was vague when I told you I’d see what could be done about your mother—and look at what I did, and how quickly and easily I did it! When I’m vague, it means a lot.” And she entirely understood that his vagueness was calculated—out of pride.

They talked about Mr. Dayson a little.

“I must go now,” said Hilda awkwardly.

“I’d like you to take that Hugo,” he said. “I dare say it would interest you.... Remind you of old times.”

“Oh no!”

“You can return it, when you like.”

Her features became apologetic. She had too hastily assumed that he wished to force a gift on her.

“Please!” he ejaculated. No abuse this time of moral authority! But an appeal, boyish, wistful, supplicating. It was irresistible, completely irresistible. It gave her an extraordinary sense of personal power.

He wrapped up the book for her in a sheet of blue “draft” paper that noisily crackled. While he was doing so, a tiny part of her brain was, as it were, automatically exploring a box of old books in the attic at home and searching therein for a Gasc’s French–English Dictionary which she had used at school and never thought of since.

“My compliments to your mother,” he said at parting.

She gazed at him questioningly.

“Oh! I was forgetting,” he corrected himself, with an avuncular, ironic smile. “You’re not supposed to have seen me, are you?”

Then she was outside in the din; and from thrilling altitudes she had to bring her mind to marketing. She hid under apples the flat blue parcel in the basket.