Читать книгу The Woman Who Stole Everything and Other Stories - Arnold Bennett - Страница 3
ОглавлениеIN THE HOTEL
Mr. Henry Kearns sat after lunch in the lounge of the hotel, where he had eaten alone. He was a man of fifty, with hair dark brown and silver grey, carefully brushed.
Although middle-aged by the clock of time, he felt himself quite honestly to be a decade younger than his years; and he proclaimed this feeling—common nowadays to all men of fifty—by the exhibition of certain dandyisms, such as the harmony of colour between his necktie, his handkerchief, and his socks, to show that in his own opinion he was not yet laid by on the shelf. Besides, the hotel was the most select in London. Better than any other, its servitors maintained the social traditions of the grand eighteenth century, which traditions divided mankind into flunkeys who exulted in humility, and nobles—from Chicago and elsewhere—who haughtily deigned to give orders to the flunkeys. The knee-breeches of the gigantic attendants in the lounge were a sufficient proof that no hint of the French revolution had ever slipped in through the revolving doors of the splendid portico.
A small group, wafted forward by the powerful bowings of a maître d’hôtel and several waiters, emerged from the music-haunted restaurant. It consisted of a young man and two elderly ladies. The young man was slim and elegant. Henry Kearns envied him his slimness and his youth. “Never,” thought the full-bodied Henry, “shall I be like that again!”
The elderly ladies, obviously sisters, were elaborately and fashionably clad. They moved with distinction in their short skirts, and the expression of their rouged and powdered faces—the dark eyes hard-glittering—showed the habit of unquestioned authority. They would have been a credit to any select hotel; and their fixed determination to be taken for ten years younger than they were, about fifty instead of about sixty, amounted to a certificate of force of character. For thirty years they had been steadily inspired by this ideal. They patronised their young man, but at the same time admitted the magic of his looks and his years. They marshalled their femininity to allure him. They willed themselves to believe that they could still allure a young man by the decayed vestiges of a beauty which had once been renowned. To Harry Kearns they were a spectacle—pitiable, tragic, disgusting.
“Why in God’s name can’t they be old with decency?” thought he, clinging to his own vestiges of masculine attractiveness. Yet at the same time he felt that every woman has sexual charm and that somehow they had it. And he yearned to be under the influence of sexual charm, realising all that he had missed in this respect, and rather glad that there was now a prospect, known to none but himself, of tasting at last sensations which hitherto had never been his. Nothing in life, he decided, really counted except women. He was mysteriously excited.
The young man stared at Henry Kearns in passing down the lounge; but the elderly ladies would not share his attention with any other phenomenon. He noticed their subtle protests against the roving of his young eye, and at once made amends and escorted them with exaggerated intentness to the lift. They took leave of him with condescension—masking wistfulness; he took leave of them with a non-committal deference; his back indicated a sure conviction that he held all the cards. They soared out of sight.
Then the young man moved towards the gentlemen’s cloak-room, hesitated, and returned to the lounge.
“Excuse me,” said he, somewhat nervously addressing the man of fifty. “Are you Mr. Henry Kearns?”
Mr. Kearns perceived instantly that the youth was not quite the man of the world always at ease in every situation.
“I am,” answered Mr. Kearns rather stiffly.
“I thought I couldn’t be mistaken—you’re so like your photograph. I’m your niece’s husband.” He smiled suddenly and delightfully.
“Not Nick!” Mr. Kearns exclaimed, and he, too, smiled suddenly and delightfully, and jumped up and seized the young man’s somewhat limp, hot hand.
“Sit down, do! This is most satisfactory. I’m so glad you spoke to me. How’s Cora?”
“Very well, thanks, so far as I know.”
They sat side by side. Mr. Kearns felt not a bit older than his nephew-in-law. He wondered whether his elegant nephew-in-law, who apparently achieved sartorial style without taking thought, would approve his necktie and handkerchief. They were both shy, constrained again: no smooth flow of chat. They talked, not glibly, in a few exchanges, of matters entirely devoid of interest, each privately estimating the other.
“And who were your guests?” Henry Kearns demanded, plunging rashly into the avuncular rôle.
“Those hags?” said Nick Ussher, with disdainful negligence. “They weren’t my guests; I was theirs. Just a couple of clients, very well off. For some reason they invited me to lunch. They’re staying here.” A pause. Nick continued: “I suppose you’re going down to Cander?”
“I’m going down there this afternoon.”
“Oh! This afternoon!” Nick had come to the conclusion that this uncle-in-law was a sympathetic human being. He went on, in a new, confidential tone: “I should have liked to have a chat, but I can’t stop now—sorry!”
“Urgent?”
“Well——” The young man was slightly blushing.
“See here!” Henry Kearns burst out, benevolently. “Come and dine with me somewhere to-night. I’ll go down to Cander to-morrow morning.”
Nick Ussher thought:
“This is the fellow that Cora takes after. Always changing his plans.” He said aloud, generously appreciative: “It’s awfully decent of you. But really I couldn’t—No!”
“Oh, stuff, my boy!” Henry Kearns familiarly insisted. “It simply doesn’t matter a damn whether I go to Cander to-day or to-morrow or next year. I’ll expect you about eight. Here. It’s as good as anywhere, I expect. And bring Cora. I know I ought to have let her know I was in town. But you know how you let things slide. Tell her she must come and forgive me.”
“Afraid Cora can’t come. The fact is, I believe she’s engaged to-night.”
Why did the boy say “the fact is”—a phrase which always means equivocation? A solicitor ought to know better than that. Then the phrase about Cora’s health, “So far as I know.” Why didn’t he know completely about his wife’s health?
“Something wrong,” thought Henry Kearns, apprehensive, as he replied lightly: “Well, come alone then.”
Nick Ussher accepted.
“I suppose you couldn’t make it eight-thirty?” Nick suggested. “I’m frightfully busy.”
“Of course I could. Eight-thirty be it.” Kearns thought: “I’ve let myself in for something.”
