Читать книгу Quicksands - B. M. Croker - Страница 4

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Professor Septimus Puckle must have been considerably over sixty years of age, a burly, slouching figure, moving with a ponderous and pompous gait; he had a grey beard, two shallow little brown eyes, and a dome-shaped head covered by a soft cap—he also wore a roomy suit of creased black-and-white flannel, and elastic-side boots. In these days, Lizzie, his niece, seemed elderly to me—possibly she may have been about forty. Her figure was remarkably pretty, and her sharp, clever face was illuminated by a pair of bright eyes which shone steadily behind a pince-nez. Perhaps her manner was somewhat abrupt and authoritative, but Lizzie was a capable and cultivated woman, with a level head and warm heart.

“So here you are!” began the professor; “we have come out to look for you.”

“Thanks awfully,” replied my brother, “but there’s not much fear of being lost in these parts, as apparently there is only one road.”

“Oh, we have others—several others,” protested Lizzie. “Where is Kipper?” now looking about. “We must be getting back to tea, as I have a choir practice at half-past five,” and she screamed “Kipper! Kipper! Kipper!”

After a momentary delay, Kipper emerged from under the bridge a deplorable object, dripping with muddy water, and immediately proceeded to shake himself in our vicinity.

“Get away! get away!” shouted the professor, making a drive at him with his stick.

“Oh, poor boy!” I interposed, “he has been hunting rats, and having such a happy time.”

“Yes, that’s all he thinks of, the horrid brute. I hate the sight of him,” declared his master.

“Uncle Sep loved him till you came, Eva, and cut him out in Kipper’s affections.”

We had now turned homewards, that is to say, in the direction from where the dagger-like spire of Beke church rose from the plain, and were walking four abreast, adapting our pace to the professor’s self-conscious waddle, with the humbled Kipper skulking in our wake.

“Yes,” continued Uncle Sep in his deep, scholastic voice, “I don’t mind telling you, when the fellow was a pup I tolerated him, took him round the garden, suffered him to lie at my fire, and even gave him milk; and for thanks, he tore up my new slippers and several most important papers. I even forgave him that!” emphasising such generosity with a large, fat hand. “But when Eva arrived he simply turned me down, ignored my existence, never answered when I called him, no, no more than if I was a piece of furniture; to be dropped by a dog makes one rather small!”

“I am sure you could never feel that!” protested Ronnie with dangerous frivolity.

“Well, but, Uncle Sep,” hastily interposed Lizzie, “you know Eva takes Kip for long runs over the marshes, she brushes him, makes up his dinner—your friendship was merely passive.”

“He was glad enough of it once,” rejoined the injured patron; “but two can play at that game. Now I never open a door for him—on principle.”

“So you have your innings!” exclaimed my irrepressible brother, “and I am sure you have something else to do than wait on a cold-hearted terrier. By the way, how do you put in your time? Do you play golf?”

“Golf? No—do I look like golf?” The professor halted, and leaning both hands on his stick, challenged an opinion.

“Well, no,” admitted Ronnie. “You look more like fishing—lots of sitting—eh?”

“I sit at my desk, my good sir, I fish for ideas. I write poetry, articles, reviews. ‘My mind to me a kingdom is’—I require no outside interests.”

“No; but what about outside exercise?”

“Exercise!” repeated the professor; “the world is crazy on that subject. I was brought up to a sedentary life; even at school I never went in for games, but was always keen on brain work. For years I was Lecturer and Professor of Classics and English Literature. Now I have retired my time is my own. I am enjoying the luxury of leisure, and I don’t mind telling you that in my lighter mood I write plays.”

“Plays!” echoed Ronnie, staring at the professor with blank incredulity. “By George, do you?”

“Yes, I have one now, a four-act comedy, under consideration at the Metropolitan Theatre. Just at present I am hard at work on the history of Slacklands and our local folk-lore.”

The mere mention of the subject loosened the professor’s tongue, and all the way home—and almost without drawing breath—he held forth on this topic in a full, monotonous voice, and with a fierce determination that would brook no interruption. Ronnie, poor victim, was helpless, so to speak, benumbed, by such an unusual experience; and I could not help smiling to myself as I glanced at his face of furious boredom. Our arrival at the village of Beke put an end to the lecture. The professor could not well continue declaiming and ranting in public—as was his custom in his own garden—and the sight of the first cottage was the signal for our release. Beke, a dreary old village, which had seen better days, consisted of one long, clean street, lined with irregular red-roofed houses, some of a great age. Half-way up the thoroughfare stood the church, a notable edifice, with flying buttresses, surrounded by the tombstones of its dead parishioners. Facing the church was the “Beetle Inn,” a crooked black-and-white hostelry, which kept the only fly in the country; farther on, the Parsonage and “The Roost” confronted one another; the latter, a trim, red, Georgian residence, was approached by a brick path across a small enclosure, at present gay with a multitude of pink and lilac phlox.

Outwardly “The Roost” was insignificant, within both roomy and comfortable. The walls were wainscoted, the fireplaces of generous space. The doors of the principal rooms were of rich South American mahogany, and most of the furniture was quaint and old-fashioned: in former days “The Roost” had been the abode of taste and leisure. Now, alas! times were sadly changed.

The professor had ample leisure but no taste; his niece had a cultivated taste but no leisure—all her spare hours were dedicated to the parson and the parish.

Undoubtedly these changes had been anticipated, for a deeply cut carving on a panel in the passage said:

“All terrene things by turns we see

Become another’s property.

Mine now must be another’s soon,

I know not whose, when I am gone;

An earthly house is bound to none.”

A glass door at the back of the hall opened upon an unexpectedly large garden, gently sloping to the sluggish river; here there were long gravel walks—worn bare by the professor’s pacing—bordered with box and old standard roses. Here was also a notable mulberry tree, several rustic seats, and a sundial on which was inscribed, “Time will tell.”

That evening a full white moon illuminated the land, and after dinner Ronnie and I effected our escape, and strolled to and fro arm in arm along the professor’s pet walk; this would be our last hour together.

“I cannot stand that slovenly old bore,” said Ronnie. “Did you notice the ink on his fingers and the crumbs in his beard? I don’t know which is the worst—his drivelling talk or his appearance. I wonder he hasn’t driven you mad long ago. I’ve only been here two days, and already my reason is tottering. Does he never stop talking?”

“Sometimes,” I replied, “when he is not pleased and sulks.”

“Is it really true that he writes plays?”

“Yes, for his own entertainment. They are never accepted. He spends lots of money on dramatic agents, typewriting, and so on, and, as a great favour, he generally reads the plays to me.”

“You long-suffering martyr! I should certainly kick at that.”

“They are not so bad; it is his poetry that I cannot endure—so sickeningly sweet, it makes me feel positively squeamish! Sometimes he brings it to meals and reads it between the courses, and says, ‘Lizzie and Eva, you must really hear this, it is delicious.’”

“What lunacy!” cried Ronnie. “It seems to me you would be just as well off in an asylum for idiots.”

“By no means,” I objected; “the professor is as dull as a wet Sunday, but Lizzie is immensely clever, a thorough musician, speaks French like a native, and has no end of certificates. She was governess in the family of a Russian Grand Duke before she went to Torrington. Besides, I am really fond of her; I think she finds Uncle Sep trying at times, and after he has read me a play she will say, ‘Now don’t pretend you liked it, Eva—speak the truth. Tell him it is just wordy rubbish! I implore you not to encourage him; as long as he writes letters and poetry for the Slacklands Post it is all right, but the plays burn a hole in his pocket.’ He is really not a bad old boy—rather simple and weak, in spite of his fierce eyebrows—anyone, even a child, can lead him by flattery.”

“I wish I saw my way to leading you out of this hole,” said Ronnie; “my visit has been a shocker; if they would only have you at Torrington—but I suppose that as long as those girls are unmarried you will be what I may call ‘reserved.’”

“I have no wish to go to Torrington,” I replied. “Beke may be dull, but here I don’t live in fear and trembling of anyone. I wonder why Aunt Mina, who detests me, is so friendly to you?”

“I think I can answer that,” rejoined Ronnie. “I am a Lingard—quite the family type—ears and all. I am self-supporting, I have four hundred a year, I have done pretty well for myself so far, and I am in a crack regiment. Also I can shoot and dance, make myself useful in a house party, and do not—like my pretty sister—extinguish the girls or fascinate Bev—quite the contrary, so far as he is concerned; moreover, should anything happen to that long-necked young pup, I am the next heir. When I told Aunt Mina I was coming here she was inclined to be apologetic, and said she was so sorry that Torrington did not agree with you, and that she had settled you at Beke solely on account of your health and education, as they had found you extraordinarily young and unformed for your age. Tell me, Sis, how do you put in your time when you are not doing lessons?”

“Oh, I dust the china, practise, go for long walks with Kipper, poke round the village among my friends, and play tennis with the Soadys, who sometimes give me a mount. On wet days I help Clarice to clean the silver, and besides all this I read a lot. I’ve unearthed no end of old books in a closet, some horribly musty, and printed with those long S’s. I’ve just been devouring a fearsome tale, called ‘Sir Lancelot Graves’—it’s all about a ghost in armour.”

“Oh, bother ghosts and books!” interrupted Ronnie impatiently. “Have you no people of your own class around here?”

“There are one or two big places,” I answered, “but the Darlingfords and the De Veres would not dream of visiting at ‘The Roost.’ Lizzie was only a finishing governess, and Uncle Sep was never a real professor; he is called that hereabouts, and he likes it, and has come to believe in it himself.”

“And have you no variety at all?” Ronnie’s tone was despairing.

“Yes, twice a year we spend a riotous fortnight in London. We stay at a Bayswater boarding-house that calls itself a private hotel, which the Puckles always patronise. Lizzie and I stare into windows and compare opinions, do a little shopping and go to concerts. Sep spends most of his time in theatres and worries managers with his plays.”

For some moments after this announcement Ronnie sat beside me in dead silence, then suddenly he sprang to his feet and began to walk to and fro along the professor’s well-beaten track; at last he came to a halt and said:

“Eva, I had no idea of all this! You always write such cheery letters—even that time in London you were mum. It is thundering bad luck that I’m obliged to be off so soon. However something has got to be done. Uncle Horace must find you a more suitable home. Look here, I have just hit on an idea! I shall suggest your going out to India as a P.G.—paying guest, you know—lots of girls do that, and Anglo-Indians are glad enough of the coin now that everything is so expensive. Of course the people you go to must be top hole—that is understood. Aunt Mina is a wonderful woman for references and position, and I believe you will get along famously; you can dance and sing and ride, and chatter nineteen to the dozen. You and I will be on the same continent, which will be a change. I shall offer to pay your passage, and I expect Aunt Mina will be so glad to be rid of you that she will give you a ripping outfit—what do you think of my idea?”

“Oh, Ronnie,” I exclaimed, “it is too splendid for words. How did it enter your head?”

“It came into my head just now as I walked up and down and saw you crouched here on the garden seat, and thought of you cooped up in that gloomy old house, with the sham professor, the clerical governess, and the great empty, ugly country that cuts you off from all the world—and you only nineteen! Before I go to sleep this very night I shall write Uncle Horace a letter that will make things move.”

“I doubt if your letter will move Aunt Mina or remove me! Ronnie, wouldn’t it be lovely if I could go out and keep house for you—I am such a clever manager?”

“My dear, crazy child, if the colonel were to hear you he would have fits. He bars married officers and——-”

“Is married himself,” I interrupted impatiently.

“Well, the fact is, she married him. Away from the regiment, he fell a prey, like Samson minus his hair. She was an old maid, a squiress, with a long pedigree and a large fortune. She was sick of her village and schools, and of unflinching determination to see the world; she met ‘James’ at a dinner party, and, so to speak, nailed him! She’s a rattling good sort I must confess, entertains a lot, mothers what she calls ‘her boys,’ and keeps us as well as she can under her own eye.”

“And he?”

“Is wrapped up in the regiment, its past glories, its present fitness, and its future exploits. ‘James,’ as we call him, is as hard as flint, and as tough as boot leather; the orderly room and parade ground are his real home; he looks black on married couples and, if possible, hurls them to the depot. If a subaltern were to adventure on matrimony, all I can say is, that I would be sorry for him—and if I were to turn up with a pretty sister I expect it would be a case of a court-martial!”

“What a narrow-minded, detestable tyrant!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, but very civil in civil life; he plays a good game of billiards, and is prominent in square dances with ‘Burra mems.’ Apart from soldiering he is delightfully tame, and will, so to speak, eat out of your hand.”

“What is a Burra mem?” I inquired.

“You will know soon enough when you get east of Suez.”

“Ah, if I ever do, perhaps you will see that my presentiment will come true, and that we shall be together always.”

“No such luck,” rejoined Ronnie. “Even if I do succeed in transplanting you I am afraid it will be a case of ‘so near and yet so far,’ though, of course, wherever you may be I shall fly to see you. Now I am off to write a scorcher to Uncle Horace.”

“It is awfully good of you, Ronnie, but I am afraid you will find you have only wasted your time and a penny stamp,” I replied as I followed him into “The Roost.” Nevertheless, in spite of my dismal forebodings, that night I lay awake for hours thinking over Ronnie’s plan, and when at last I fell asleep I dreamt of India.