Читать книгу The Way Home - Basil King - Страница 5

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At this time, too, Charlie Grace began to see his father as a man. Up to the present the latter had been as the first of the friendly protective elements that made up Vandiver Place—as the living, speaking energy of that happily-constituted whole in which Amiens Cathedral, the rectory, the bit of greensward, the brownstone fronts, and the row of grey, pillared houses were all component parts. Dr William Grace unified them and voiced them; but like the rest of Vandiver Place he had remained impersonal, something to be accepted, submitted to, loved even, but too vast and remote to be within the scope of an inquiring mind.

And now it was as if the dignified, portly man were advancing from the bas-relief of the background and showing himself all round. It was perhaps the boy's first registered observation concerning him, that he was dignified and portly. He had taken him so much for granted, hitherto, as never to have noticed that he was slightly concave in the back, but convex in the frontal outline. He carried himself with the air of one who has a great deal that is honourable to push ahead, and who pushes it ahead with justifiable pride. He could scarcely enter a room without seeming to say, "Here comes the rector of St David's." If he never used the words he inspired them, since, in those days, the rector of St David's could not help being a notable figure in New York. He was still more notable in the person of a gifted man in the prime of his maturity, who to the authority of learning added the charm of a handsome presence and a mellifluous voice. The congregation at St David's wouldn't have liked it if their rector had not held his head a little above other men. It was commonly said that he had the grand manner; and St David's as it used to be was a church to which the grand manner came as natural as its excellent quartette choir.

Charlie Grace had never been afraid of his papa, he had never, in fact, thought much about him. In as far as he was obliged actively to consider him it was in respect to making as little noise as possible when papa was in his study, to "behaving" at table, and to answering "N. or M." to the question, "What is your name?" as well as going on with, "My godfathers and godmothers in my baptism, wherein I was made," etc. etc., if called on to explain the provenance of this odd two-lettered appellation.

But there came a day when father and son began to notice each other a little more. Scanning his papa at breakfast one morning the boy saw that his papa was scanning him. He himself was quite innocently employed in taking notes on the parental features. "Isn't it funny," he was saying to himself, "when papa wrinkles up his forehead his eyelids never move. It makes him look kind of—funny." Supercilious was the word he wanted, as any of the brother-clergy could have told him, but funny was all he found. It was a word that filled a large place in his vocabulary. He applied it now to his father's heavy, handsome lids, to his large Roman nose, to his fading mutton-chop whiskers, and to his long clean-shaven upper lip, of which the central point slightly overhung the lower lip, tempering the solemnity of the face with a touch of naïveté.

It was a moment, however, in which the word funny was not wholly inappropriate, for the quivering of the corners of his father's long thin mouth, which drooped slightly as his own did, was certainly a little droll. Now and then, too, he caught a glance telegraphed between his father and mother which when interpreted made him think that "something must be up." The phrase, recently acquired from Remnant, was admirably significant of mystery in the air. He had used it on a number of occasions, and, with some elation in his little soul, had recourse to it again. "Something's up."

In the course of a few minutes it became clear that anything "up" that morning must be in connection with the letters of which a pile lay at his father's left hand. One of them had been passed to his mother, with the counsel: "Don't say anything about it." The boy was not so intent on his porridge but that he could see her read it with facial expressions of astonishment, which were reflected in the countenance of his father at the other end of the table. After she had handed it back she asked for it again, reading parts of it once more.

"It's the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of," she commented.

The boy's curiosity was almost unbearable, but he knew enough to apply himself to his porridge, and to take on an air of being lost in thought. Experience had shown this to be the method that produced the best results. But he was aware that his father shook his head, and made a motion with his lips which, had it broken into sound, would have said, "Sh-h."

After breakfast, as his parents passed into the hall, he saw his father nod backwards in his direction, while he said:

"Do you think it could possibly be—?"

"Not possibly," his mother replied, with conviction. "I remember everything that happened that morning. I didn't leave the room till—"

The boy caught no more, but he saw himself followed by curious looks. Within a day or two he caught Mr and Mrs Legrand glancing at him in the same way. As with his mother he entered the church for the forenoon service on Wednesday morning, Remnant, whom they passed in the porch, very stately in his beadle's gown, got a chance to whisper, "They're on to it, sonny," with a look of alarm, which, whether real or feigned, heightened the sense of mystery. Moreover, the idiom was new to the boy, and he had a taste for linguistic novelties. He weighed it and dissected it, pondering its monosyllables one by one, but without extracting their secret. When he found an opportunity, while his mother was turning up the hymn which Mr Wrench was preluding on the organ, he whispered:

"What does 'They're on to it' mean, mamma?"

"On to what, dear?" his mother whispered back.

"That's what I don't know—and I don't know who they are."

"Hush, darling. Stand up. 'Brief life is here our portion,'" her sweet voice began, more loudly than she would have chosen, because as rector's wife she felt it her duty to lead the singing in the absence of the choir.

After service he tried to waylay Remnant, in search of further explanations; but Remnant, wearing a defiant air, was moving down the aisle in the train of Mrs Hornblower.

"You won't think me carping," the boy heard her say, "but my pew is certainly not kept as a lady's pew ought to be."

"Beg pardon, Mrs Hornblower," Remnant declared stoutly, "but that pew's been swept twice since Sunday. There can't be dust in it. If there is, it's dust I don't know anything about."

"Then it's dust you should know something about. I think you should know something about it. Will you do me the kindness to look?"

The boy backed away. On rejoining his mother he found her in conversation with Mrs Legrand. Other people stood about the church, talking together in twos and threes. When they were gone he should get his word with Remnant.

"Mamma," he whispered, when his patience was near an end, "isn't no one ever going home?"

"Hush, darling. They're coming into the house. Papa is going to read something. And so, as I was saying, I said to Miss Smedley, said I—"

"Mamma, may I come in when papa reads it?"

"No, darling. Don't interrupt mamma. I said to Miss Smedley, said I—"

"Oh, let him come," Mrs Legrand broke in. "If it's what you think—well, it will be such fun. Don't you know it will?"

He thought Mrs Legrand more adorable than ever. He looked up wistfully into her rosebud face, trying to read there some key to the secret in the air. "Are you on to it, Mrs Legrand?" he couldn't help asking, before his mother could begin again.

The bride giggled and gasped at once. "On to it? On to what? You don't think," she added, turning to his mother, with renewed laughter, "that he can be throwing dust in all our—?"

"I'm so bewildered I don't know what to think." Mrs Grace replied. "Run along, darling, and tell Bridget we're coming."

Crossing the grass plot he overtook Mr Legrand on his way to the rectory. In this tall, thin, American graduate of Oxford, carefully dressed according to English clerical standards, Charlie Grace recognized a friend. He was the sort of friend into whose hand one could slip one's own and speak confidentially.

"Hello, old man," the assistant rector said, jovially, when first greetings had been exchanged. "How's business?"

"They're on to it, Mr Legrand," the boy ventured, looking up into the ascetic face to see what the effect would be. "Remnant told me so," he faltered, when he saw the young clergyman's comic look of surprise.

"Yes; so he told me. Regular inspiration, wasn't it? All's well that ends well; only be careful what you do another time. It mightn't work so neatly. Eh?"

This was disappointing. It put him in a worse position than before. His preoccupation in trying to find a way out of it was such that he scarcely noticed the assembling of the ladies in the drawing-room nor his father's little speech. He had all he could do, as he stood between Mr Legrand's long, thin, friendly knees, to puzzle out the problem as to who they were who were on to it, and what they were on. He became subconsciously aware that his father ceased to speak in his own person, and was reading from what seemed to be a letter. The fact had no significance for a little boy occupied with important matters of his own until the repetition of certain names forced his attention. Bertha and Georgie and Tommy were spoken of in connection with hats, reefers and boots in such a way as to leave no doubt that the letter so breathlessly listened to by some twenty ladies and two men, including the reader, was from the Colorado Plains.

Then, all of a sudden, the force inherent in figure of speech got in its work. Remnant's idiom explained itself as vividly as it could have been set forth in Webster. They were on to it. What else could that mean but that they were on to...? He felt himself growing scarlet from the toes upward. His knees clave together. His heart pounded. His mouth went dry. One by one the various articles in the missionary box were disposed of in terms of gratitude. The stationery, the ink, the candies, the tooth-brushes, each had its word of recognition. The little boy clung for comfort to the fact that nothing as yet had been said of Freddy Furnival's train. Perhaps the more trifling contributions would go unmentioned! But no! the train received its meed of thanks, and then...

He knew the minute of retribution had overtaken him. He felt it coming for some minutes in advance. The clarions of judgment seemed to be ringing when his father read on:

"'But what shall I say of the wig?'"

The wig? There was a movement of skirts among the ladies. The wig? There was no wig. Whoever heard of such a thing? A wig indeed. There must be a mistake. It was the handwriting. It must be pig or dig or something of that sort. Mrs Legrand, who as the assistant's wife was in the secret, looked back at the ladies seated behind her for the fun of seeing their expressions. Charlie Grace was kept from absolute collapse only by the support of Mr Legrand's sharp knees.

"Allow me," the rector said, with an air of lofty amusement. "'But what shall I say of the wig? Who among our kind friends at St David's could have heard of the illness through which I lost my hair? It is a matter of which my wife and I rarely speak even between ourselves; and still less should I think of setting it down among our needs. To do so would have struck me as unseemly. It would have provoked derision. But now that you have divined my requirements, I may confess that my want of a wig has been sore. That which I had when I came out to the plains was blown from my head during one of the worst of last winter's storms—a storm which overtook me as I was riding home from Proctor, some twenty miles away. Since then my position has been one of considerable discomfort, not only for lack of the material covering, but because my appearance in our improvised places of worship has been such as to excite the smiles of a people none too reverent at any time, and therefore the more prone to see the grotesque in church. While I have never blamed them, I have felt that no miracle would help me more, either for my person or in my work, than one which would provide me with the article in question. It is surely the Lord Who has put the thought of it into the heart of whatever kind friend may have sent it—for, except my wife and children the Lord alone has known of my necessity. It has been necessity none the less keen for being ludicrous, and if I seem too prolix in my thanks it is because I can do nothing else than look on the kind donor as an inspired instrument.. .'"

"My soul and body!" was the indecorous exclamation forced from the lips of Mrs Hornblower, as the boy's rush for the door almost carried her to the carpet.

It was one of those crises in which flight is the only adequate resource, in which the only refuge safe enough is in concealment from the eyes of men. Fortunately he knew of such a shelter in the trunk-room, at the top of the house. Many a time during the course of a stormy lifetime had he hidden himself there, in moments of special shame or indignation, for purposes of communing with his own heart or of defying fate. Now he lay down there again, in a nest between two packing-cases, with a pillow of old illustrated papers. He would have been glad to be blotted out, to leave no mark on time, no record within the memory of humankind. He didn't cry. There was nothing to cry for. The occasion was one transcending tears. Neither did he repent, since there was nothing in particular, except his own folly, to repent of. He only burned—burned all over—burned with a veritable fire of humiliation at having made himself ridiculous, at having exposed his reputation for ever, in the eyes of Fanny Hornblower, on the tongue of Hattie Bright, and in twenty ways in respect to Freddy Furnival, to association for life with so despicable an object as a wig.

When his mother found him he refused to come down to the midday dinner. He didn't want any dinner. He never wanted to eat again. He would be content to stay in his attic for ever and ever. If she would only go away and leave him he would be glad to starve to death. People starved to death on desert islands; he knew that; and what could be more like a desert island than a forsaken attic at the top of a rectory in New York? It would be a desert island if nobody never, never came near him any more, and that was what he asked for.

His mother knelt down on the dusty floor beside him. "My precious, it's all right. You didn't do any harm. It was quite the other way round. You heard what the letter said—how glad Mr Waters was to get it. We all think it's wonderful. It is wonderful. Of course, you shouldn't have taken anything out of the Girls' Friendly chest, when it didn't belong to you. But if it was God who put it into your heart, darling—"

"It wasn't. It was Remnant. He told me to dive down my hand and—"

"Well, it was wonderful. And poor Mr Waters in such need of it! An inspired instrument, was what he said. And you should have heard the rest of the letter too, darling—how Mrs Waters trimmed the wig up, and made it fit her husband's head, and found a way to fasten it on, just like a hairdresser you know, and everything. I must get papa to read it to you."

"I don't want to," he cried desperately. "I'm not going down to dinner, mamma. I'm going to live up here. Don't bring me nothing—nothing at all—unless," he relented, "unless there's going to be chicken-pie. Julia said there was going to be chicken-pie."

"There is, darling. Now get up, like a precious. Don't be foolish. Come along with mamma who loves you, and can't do without you."

No tears came till they were descending the second flight of stairs. Even then it was not so much tears as a convulsive sob. He clutched at his mother's skirt, and refused to go farther.

"Mamma."

"What is it now, darling?"

"You won't let them call me Wiggy Grace, will you?"

"Call you—what?"

"Call me Wiggy Grace. If it was Freddy I'd call him Wiggy Furnival. But, oh, mamma, don't let them. Promise me you won't let them."

"Of course, I won't let them, dear. They'll never think of such a thing."

And they never did. Whether the incident made less talk than the hero of it expected, or whether it never reached the ears of Freddy Furnival and Hattie Bright—he wouldn't have so much minded gentle Fanny Hornblower—he was never twitted with his part in it. As time went on nothing but the more amusing elements of the episode remained of it. But though the story became legendary whenever a missionary box was sent out by the ladies of St David's Church, Charlie Grace could never be induced to tell the tale himself.