Читать книгу Undertow - Arthur Hamilton Gibbs - Страница 7

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By pure reasoning, an idea once admitted becomes a fact. If, for instance, we grant that violence ought not to exist any more, then there is, inevitably, no longer any violence. The problem is resolved into a simple matter of time.

By the same process, once doubt had entered into the mind of Philip Jocelyn, he ceased to be a hulk on a mudbank. In principle, if not yet in fact, the lusty breezes of the open sea were already upon him. Evidence of it, at first, was nonexistent. Outwardly there was no difference in him. He conformed to the routine of the school as though unaware of the alteration of its status in his mind. He handled the small boys with the usual mixture of firmness and kindliness. He ate the unsucculent meals with the same deliberate inattention. His goings and comings to and from the town—except in the matter of doing altogether without beer and cutting down on tobacco until the book was paid for—were as gently inconspicuous as ever. The days slipped by, meaningless and alike as recurring decimals. And yet, when the name of the month had been altered on the calendar, and he went down to the bookshop one Saturday night with three new sketches in a folder, it became evident that one, at least, of the prison bars had been filed.

Old Mr. Sampson nodded thoughtfully as he looked the drawings over. “It seems to me,” he said at last, “that you’re improving. There’s a firmer touch here than usual.” He looked up with a smile. “I think we might almost put your price up to five shillings.”

Philip Jocelyn blushed with pleasure. “Good lord,” he said, “do you ... do you really think so? I mean, not about the price, but the ... the improvement?”

Mr. Sampson removed his glasses and wiped them on a white handkerchief. “You’re getting your effects with fewer lines. That’s what tells. In fact, if this shop were in London, I think they would fetch ten shillings. But of course, here ...” He shrugged his shoulders. “One of these days it might be worth your while to go to London. I could give you a letter to a colleague of mine, if you like. At least, you could show him some drawings.”

“That’s most awfully kind of you,” said Philip. “By Jove, it would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, if ...” For a moment his eyes were alight. Then he broke off, almost as though he had taken himself by the collar and pulled himself back. It was perfect rot to imagine that he could ever do anything halfway decent. Old Sampson was damn nice, but did he know anything about art? One had to study, to sweat blood. It was ridiculous, out of the question! ... But if these things would fetch their humble five shillings, it was at least a pace forward.

He gave a laugh and met the old gentleman’s eyes. “I’ll keep on working, Mr. Sampson,” he said, “and if ever I can feel that I deserve that letter, I’ll come and ask you for it. Believe me, I’m tremendously grateful to you for even suggesting it.”

“That’s all right,” said Mr. Sampson. “Don’t let me hurry you. But whenever you’re ready, it’ll be forthcoming.” He put on his glasses again and tucked the handkerchief back into his breast pocket. “By the way,” he added, “I’ve engaged a new assistant. She’s my niece, incidentally, and has been getting a business training in a bookshop in Winchester. You must meet her. Come over with me and I’ll introduce you.”

With the sketches in his hand he led the way across the shop. His pace, however, was unable to keep up with Philip Jocelyn’s glance. All that could be seen of the girl was the top of a head, dark, bobbed and curly, and a pair of foreshortened shoulders, bent over a counter strewn with Christmas cards,—much, thought Philip, as a slim boy herald might have looked as he went down on one knee to adjust his lord’s spur.

Mr. Sampson caught her attention. “Millie!” he said. “I want you to meet Mr. Jocelyn. Mr. Jocelyn, Miss Millicent Sampson.”

For no reason that he could analyze, Philip Jocelyn was conscious of a pang of disappointment as the girl straightened up. The curly bent head had held such an infinite suggestion of beauty; but the face under it did not fulfill it. She looked rather pale, as though she had anæmia and wanted feeding up.... He had got as far as that when she smiled at him and held out a long thin hand.

Almost startled, Philip took the hand. It was as though she had suddenly come to life. The smile changed her completely. It was so friendly and appealing, so honest and straightforward, so ... what was the word?

“How do you do,” he said eagerly. “I’m so glad you’ve come here.” Good lord, what on earth had made him say that? She’d think he was a perfect fool. Cover it up, quick! “It’s ... it’s really awfully picturesque if you ... if you care for that sort of thing.” He came to a fumbling halt, as conscious of himself as though he had caught one foot in the other and sprawled in front of her. And then, suddenly, he realised that he was still holding her hand. He dropped it abruptly. With a prayer of thanks, he heard Mr. Sampson begin talking again.

“Mr. Jocelyn’s up at the school,” he said, “and here are some of his sketches that we are going to sell for him.” He spread them out on top of the Christmas cards.

“Oh, please!” murmured Philip. He fingered his tie nervously, wishing to heaven that the old man had left the sketches on his desk; and yet fiercely glad that he had spread them out before the girl. At least, they gave him a sort of standing. If only she liked them! If only she had a sense of drawing, not of what he had tried to do, but simply of drawing, of art, of things beautiful! Could one expect that of anæmia, and Winchester? Of course not, absurd! And yet, dear God, let her! I don’t know why, but I beg You to let her! She ... She’s ...

The girl looked up from the drawings and fastened earnest eyes on Philip.

“I think they’re very pretty,” she said, “very pretty indeed!”

Her last word seemed to drop echoing down into an æon of silence. They stood there inanimate, unreal, like figures in a moving picture when the film jams.... Fool! He ought to have known. “Pretty.” ... That was all she had, poor little thing! Oh, God, it wasn’t fair! They had taken something away, cheated him, pushed him down into it again, down into ...

At last motion was given back to him. He passed a hand over his face. What on earth was the matter with him? Had he gone crazy? Who was she, anyway? He’d never seen her before in his life; how could it possibly matter what she thought, or didn’t think? This idiotic feeling had just swept over him like a wave of grippe or something.

He gave a laugh and moved abruptly. “Oh, do you really?” he said. “That’s awfully kind of you.... Well!” He turned to Mr. Sampson. “I’m afraid I must be running along. I have some work to do at school to-night. Good-by.”

He nodded vaguely in the direction of the girl, and then in four strides was across the shop. At the door he jammed on his hat and went out. The grinding of cart wheels and tingling of bicycle bells assailed his ears, stirred in him a sense of hostility. With a scowl at the people on the pavement who prevented him from walking fast, he stepped into the road.... Picturesque, eh? A mud heap. The abomination of desolation! And in all this mob who littered it there wasn’t one, not a single one, who had evolved beyond the word “pretty”! ... It was a confounded nuisance that Sampson had brought his underfed niece! Every time he went into the shop now, he’d have to contort his features into a smile and say some inane thing! The place was ruined! Why the devil hadn’t she stayed in Winchester? And, damn it, for a moment she’d ... she’d got under his skin, made him make a complete and abject fool of himself! “Pretty” ... Great God!

He flung in through the door of the Pig and Whistle, into the smell of corks and sawdust and corduroys and heavy shag tobacco. At least it was warm and there were many voices and the inviting click of billiard balls.

The barman caught his eye. Philip nodded. By the time he reached the bar, the tankard was ready for him, foam-tipped, cold.

The barman gave him a friendly grin. “Nice night, Mr. Jocelyn!”

Philip uttered a sarcastic laugh. “Yes,” he said, “a hell of a nice night! ... Oh, well.... Good health!” He raised the bitter beer to his lips.