Читать книгу Undertow - Arthur Hamilton Gibbs - Страница 8

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On Sundays the boys had to be marched down the hill to church. Although they were nothing but restless little animals, indifferently washed behind the ears, on whom the solemn prayers intoned by the vicar made less impression than the brisk chirping of a sparrow which had built its nest in one of the church windows, nevertheless the rules of society and the school both demanded that the habit of having their souls saved should be forced upon them at a tender age. From eleven to twelve-thirty each Sunday, therefore, while their soft haunches became numbed upon the iron-hard seats, they fidgettingly endured, with neither complaint nor comprehension, this continuation of, perhaps, unconscious sadism on the part of their elders and betters.

On this particular Sunday the only pleasant feature about church from their point of view was that it was “old Jocelyn’s” turn of duty,—and old Jocelyn was “pretty decent.” He didn’t nag a fellow for eating sweets or even going to sleep during the service, provided you didn’t snore and woke in time to stand up when the rest of them did.

From the consideration of their salvation, however, it was well that they had no idea of what was passing through the mind of their teacher as he sat there, chin in hand, a very model of religious attention while the vicar’s bowdlerizations of other men’s repetitions of still other men came rolling in waves of empty sound from the pulpit.

Philip Jocelyn’s mind was fastened upon Millicent Sampson. She was sitting just over there, beside her uncle, and out of the corner of his eye Philip studied the contour of her chin, the curl of hair beneath the curve of her hat,—a black hat of that nice soft velvety stuff, rather jaunty too. There was something about the girl ... or was it, after all, to do with himself? No, because none of the other girls in the town.... Then perhaps it was some sort of chemical reaction which, in juxtaposition to himself, this Sampson girl had brought about. That seemed the only plausible explanation when you thought about it; because, physically, she wasn’t at all the kind of girl that he would have expected to think about twice,—not a bit good-looking, and yet, in spite of that, she was ... disturbing. Yes, disturbing!

The thought of her, the visualization of her, he had to admit, had pursued him all the preceding evening like a pleading wraith, like a stray mongrel puppy, large-eyed and slinking, at whom one throws stones half-heartedly, with a sneaking feeling of compassion.

Stray pup? He frowned thoughtfully. Wasn’t everybody, more or less, a stray pup in this life, looking for the unattainable? Why throw stones at her for an unfortunate word? It was nothing but damned intellectual snobbery, perhaps simply wounded vanity ... and after all anæmia wasn’t her fault. He’d behaved like an outsider, going off like that last night! She’d be more than justified if she never spoke to him again. The thought stopped him, pricked him to a reluctant admission of the superficiality, the untruth, of his beatings about the bush. “No, by Jove!” he said to himself. “I’ll make her speak to me again, just to see ...”

Throughout the rest of the service he became as fidgetty as any one of the boys. He kept on looking over at her with a sense of anxiety; and began to plan the best way of getting his infernal kids together and marching them out so that he might synchronize with her exit. If she got away without his speaking to her, it might make all the difference somehow. You could never tell about these things. Some psychological hardening might set in, some obstacle might arrive from nowhere, something might happen to either of them,—and then the moment would be gone. The organ had barely crashed into the opening chords of triumph at the conclusion of the service before Philip Jocelyn leaned over and tapped the end boy in the pew on the shoulder. “Lead on,” he said, “and form up in the road outside the churchyard!”

He sat in his own seat waiting, till the last boy was on his way down the aisle, and then, with an assumption of great politeness, let the knot of grown-ups behind the boys proceed first. The maneuver was successful. As he bent down to pick up his stick, purposely forgotten, he saw Mr. Sampson and his niece rise and pass out of their pew into the aisle. By the time he had rattled the stick once or twice unnecessarily and straightened up with it in his hand, they were almost level with him. As though surprised, he raised his eyebrows, nodded and waited for them.

“Good morning!” he said, loudly enough to drive his words through the roar of the organ. “Lovely day!” His eyes were on Mr. Sampson, but, without waiting for an answer, he moved them and looked into those of the girl.

Millicent smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Jocelyn,” she said.

Once again her smile had its effect. Philip’s anxiety was not only dissipated but into its place there sprang a feeling of expansiveness, of self-content, not entirely unmixed with tolerance. By all rights she ought to have been angry with him, to have given him a nasty dig for the way he had behaved last night. Any woman of brains would have done so,—any woman, that is, not so anæmically inclined.

“Did you enjoy the sermon?” she asked.

Philip Jocelyn shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t even hear it,” he said. “I was too busy thinking about ... something else. Did you?”

Millicent shook her head. “I suppose it’s a dreadful thing to confess, but I only prevented myself from going to sleep by the most heroic effort of will.”

Philip nodded approvingly. Really, she wasn’t so bad after all. He leaned towards her and lowered his voice. “The vicar’s an awfully nice old thing, but one has to admit that he approaches the senile. Twenty years ago, perhaps, there might have been something to bite on in his sermons, but now ...” He spread an expressive hand; and then, as he observed that the door was only a few paces away, he went on hurriedly. “Look here, I sha’n’t be able to stop and talk because I have to lead my infants back to school. But I shall be free in the afternoon. Won’t you come and have tea with me?”

Millicent glanced at him quickly, plainly taken by surprise. For a moment she hesitated. Then she said, “Thank you. I think it would be very nice.”

“Do you really?” said Philip. “Then let’s meet at the Old Brown Cosey at four-fifteen?”

“Very well,” she said.

All unconsciously, at her agreement, Philip Jocelyn ceased to look so exactly like an assistant schoolmaster. His shoulders became a shade squarer, his tread firmer, his grasp on his stick tighter, his whole aspect perceptibly less sloppy. The change was suggestive of an old three-master rolling along in mid-ocean under dirty canvas, with peeling paint work, suddenly breaking out a string of colored bunting at her masthead.

“That’s delightful!” he said. “I shall be ... looking forward to it.” He held out his hand, desiring the feel of those cool fingers again, if only for a moment, because ... well, hadn’t they struck a sort of bargain, and ... oh, damn it all, why not ... just because he wanted the feel of them, even if they were in church.

When she gave them to him he became self-conscious. She might be guessing what was in his mind. In a rush of panic, he said, “I must really dash after the boys. Good-by. Till four-fifteen.”

He edged sideways past the remaining people between him and the door; and when he gave the boys the order to march there was a new snap in his voice.