Читать книгу The Laslett Affair - Edward Harold Begbie - Страница 7

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Mrs. Laslett had been used to luxury, that is to say, very great luxury, for more than twelve years; but she still found an almost childish pleasure in her magnificent limousine, just as she had never lost the thrill of putting on new garments or buying an extravagant piece of jewellery.

Therefore when, very expensively dressed, she crossed the pavement from the hotel to her motor-car, at the door of which stood the porter and the chauffeur, while Stephen was already at the wheel, she brightened up, felt that she would enjoy this football match after all, and pleasantly responded to the thunderous stir of Piccadilly and to the stares of curious people who slowed down their paces to watch her progress.

Seated in the car, with a fur rug tucked well round her knees, she expressed the hope, laughingly, as if it were a thing not to be expected, that Stephen would drive carefully; after that, settling herself down to look at the movement of the world from her window, she began to think of the wonderful adventure which was now opening before her, as if by magic—a meeting with the man who knew women through and through.

“I think I must smoke,” she exclaimed, opening her vanity-bag, as the car glided forward after a scarlet omnibus, with little muddy taxi-cabs shooting by it one after another. “I feel desperately the need of being soothed. I don’t know what’s coming to my nerves: they seem to have gone back to that Christmas Eve feeling, when I hung up my stocking and half believed in Santa Claus coming down the chimney. It’s a sort of tiptoe, breathless feeling.”

But with her cigarette lighted, she ceased to prattle, ceased even to look out of the window, and soon sank into a reverie which lasted until Stephen drew up the car at the gates of the famous ground at Twickenham—a reverie as romantic and sentimental as ever translated a Victorian girl into the world of enchanted make-believe.

A crowd always dissipated Mrs. Laslett’s thoughts, however important those thoughts might be. Something in her disposition streamed out from the centre of her being and mingled itself gratefully in any concourse of human beings bent upon pleasure. She loved the pressure of people in the foyer of a theatre, or at a fashionable garden-party, or at a race-meeting, or in a casino, just as a night-club or a restaurant could never be too crowded for her satisfaction. So, on this occasion, she no sooner found herself at Twickenham, thronged by eager and happy people pressing forward to their seats, than her love-sick desire for the sympathetic friendship of Leo Daga vanished clean out of her mind, and she entirely forgot that only a few minutes ago she had expressed a real reluctance to come to Twickenham at all.

“Now, isn’t this delightful!” she exclaimed to Phillida, with the pack of people crowding her in all directions. “Give me life and I’m satisfied. What I can’t stand is the dead-alive. Stephen, don’t go so fast. You’ve got the tickets. Goodness me, what a crowd! Shall we ever find our places?”

When those places were found—very good places they were too—she began by taking a general and undiscriminating survey of the entire ground, simply seeing masses of human beings, and feeling in her blood the stir and thrill and amusement of so much seething vitality. It was splendid, this spectacle of pleasure-loving humanity. The roar of voices broke in upon her observation from time to time like the smash of waves on shingle, giving her for the moment a sensation which was pleasantly akin to fear.

The spectacle of two old gentlemen meeting on the ground, meeting joyously and evidently with glad unexpectedness, caught her excited eyes. She watched them shake hands—no formality in their case—and saw how they fondled each other’s arms, and smiled, and laughed, and swayed towards each other as they stood talking. The faces of these old gentlemen were extraordinarily gentle, wonderfully charming. How courteous they were to each other—affectionate and yet courteous—and how gracious were all their movements and gestures. Old friends. The meeting of old friends.

She became suddenly angry with these two old men, and exclaimed to herself, “Old humbugs!” and looked away from them.

“There are very few women here,” she said aloud, turning to Phillida.

“I don’t know; there are a lot of girls over there.”

“So there are. Who’s Stephen speaking to?”

“Some one he met at Ciro’s last night.”

“I thought perhaps it might be the Mr. Jodrell he was talking about at lunch.”

“Oh, dear no! Hugh Jodrell’s not a bit like that. Besides, he wouldn’t be in one of the stands! Whatever can you be thinking about?”

“Well, I told you I know nothing about football. I’m beginning to find it even more boresome than I thought it would be.”

Phillida laughed. “That’s good! Why, it hasn’t even begun yet.”

Mrs. Laslett seated herself, and after some moments narrowed down her observation, contemptuously and impatiently, to two old gentlemen immediately in front of her. They were very old indeed, these two; one a clergyman with a thin line of white whiskers descending from his ears; the other, a soldier, some general or field-marshal, perhaps, who wore a big threatening white moustache, and had large generous eyelids which blinked incessantly, and a prominent chin decorated by a miniature imperial.

Mrs. Laslett wondered how old they were; over eighty, she thought, and perhaps nearer ninety. Wonderful how they kept their vitality!

These two old creatures were talking, with an extraordinary fire of animation. The clergyman was leaning forward, and half-turning to the soldier, and as he spoke he used a woollen-gloved hand to emphasise his words by beating it on his knee; the soldier, keeping his eyes rigidly in front of him, flung his head sideways from time to time, thrusting out his two hands which rested on a stick, and almost barked his words at the clergyman over the edge of a noticeably tall collar.

What were they talking about?

Mrs. Laslett, merely to divert herself, leaned forward to overhear them.

“It doesn’t matter what you say,” declared the clergyman, “I know what was the result of that match. Oxford won by a goal to nothing.” The voice was charming in tone, and the accent that of a scholar, but the speaker was evidently exasperated.

“I say that it was a goal and try,” countered the soldier. “I’m entitled to my opinion, I suppose?”

“I saw the match myself, and I say most solemnly and confidently——”

“You’ll back your memory against the Official Programme and the Rugby Football Annual?” demanded the soldier.

“Certainly.”

“Ha!”

The clergyman, irritated by that scornful “Ha!” which was very military in tone, affected to smile, even to laugh, but became extremely serious and a little tremblingly persuasive, as he turned to the now thoroughly annoyed soldier, and declared, “My dear fellow, I tell you I saw Isherwood score the try and saw him convert it into a goal—saw him with my own eyes. That was the first ’Varsity match. It was played on the Parks at Oxford on the 10th of February 1872. Isherwood, who was at Rugby, scored the try, and converted it. I saw it. And there was no other score. That I’ll swear to.”

There was a pause for a moment, in which the old soldier’s stick went backwards and forwards rather violently, and then he demanded over the side of his tall collar, slowly and emphatically, not looking at his antagonist, “Can you explain to me how it is that in the unchallengeably accurate pages of the Rugby Football Annual the result is given, as I say it was, a goal and a try? That’s all I ask you. Can you explain it?” He swung suddenly round and glanced at the parson.

The parson said, “I haven’t the smallest misgiving in my mind about that match. I was there. I’ve discussed it a hundred times with Lushington and W. O. Moberly. My dear fellow, I assure you that——”

Mrs. Laslett, smiling like a girl of sixteen, turned to Phillida and said, “These two old dears in front of me are fighting like a couple of gamecocks over something that took place in 1872!”

A shout of welcome from the enormous crowd drew her attention to the turf in front of her, now cleared of human beings. The players were streaming out into the wintry air, some of them hugging themselves for warmth, others striding quietly forward as if it were as warm as summer. Mrs. Laslett thought it very undignified and grotesque that they should have numbers on their backs.

The air about her now became full of names. Every one except the two old men in front, who were still arguing, appeared to be engaged in identifying the players. A few of the younger people behind her were naming some of those players in a familiar way, as if to tell the world that they knew these famous men, knew them intimately.

“That’s Big Jack Butcher,” cried Stephen to Phillida. “Look, over there. Isn’t he a whopper? The fellow following him is Watkinson, one of their three-quarters.”

“Where’s Hugh Jodrell?” asked Phillida; “I can’t make him out.”

“Wait a moment. There he is! Look; the centre of those three on the left. Good old Jod! By gad, he’s trained to a hair. You can see that, can’t you? Fit as a racehorse. Finest sprinter in all England, best three-quarters in the whole world; good old Jodder! A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift!”

Mrs. Laslett caught some of these words, but felt none of Stephen’s enthusiasm. Stephen was very young; at times, absurdly young. She knew that she would understand nothing of the game, and would be only confused by attempting to identify any of these thirty young men in different coloured jerseys, or to watch their bewildering movements. Why should she be bothered by attending to them? More interesting to her was the immense spectacle of these thirty or forty thousand people crowding the ground on every side, as if life itself hung upon the result of the players’ antics with a ball. Yes, these people were worth watching; but the game—well, she might just as well look at two people playing Mah-Jong, or whatever it was called.

Voices came to her, “Oxford’s the lustier eight.” “Smithson’s the man for the blind side of a scrummage.” “Egerton’s a greatly improved wing three-quarters.” “No one’s faster than Jodrell.” “Cambridge has got the cleverer back division.”

What a strange power games possessed to maintain some people’s interest in life! And she herself couldn’t understand that interest, could not begin to imagine it. No doubt Stephen would still be looking at a ’Varsity match fifty years hence, probably quarrelling with some other old veteran over the result of this afternoon’s contest. She began to feel isolated from humanity. A feeling came to her that she would like to understand games, would like to have the same feelings as all these keen people about her.

She heard a whistle blown, noticed that the roar of voices suddenly died down to a murmur, and glanced towards the turf so beautifully smooth and green even under a grey sky and in that murky air. Well, the game had begun, she supposed. Some one had kicked the ball, and there it was now bouncing up from the ground. Some one ran to catch it; all the others ran after him, some quickly and some slowly; and then—for her, absolute confusion. Yet the roar of voices rose again, tumultuous, terrific, and Stephen’s shout came to her like a battle-cry.

What a problem Stephen presented to her mind! Here was a handsome young man, with his pockets full of money, the heir to many millions of money—here was this good-looking young son of fortune, with innumerable pretty girls longing for a smile from his eyes, shouting at a football match, like a mere schoolboy! How differently, if she had been in his shoes, would she have ordered life! Goodness, what a time she would have had!

She sat back in her place, closed her eyes, shivered a little, and presently found her thoughts travelling in a direction which satisfied her. She imagined herself back in the hotel, and imagined that the dark expressive eyes of Leo Daga, so full of secrets, were suddenly raised to look at her across the restaurant. Bliss! If Ann Vaudrey could come to dine that very night! She would ring her up directly she got back. Why hadn’t she rung her up before she started?

Once or twice the roar of voices was so great that she opened her eyes, but only to see the same confusion of moving figures on the misty ground, and to see that confusion end in the boring event which Stephen called a scrum. How often that shrill whistle blew in her ears, as if something really exciting had occurred, and yet when she opened her eyes it was always to see only some tiresome pause in this tiresome game.

She began to tell herself a story, just as she had told herself stories as a child. She met Leo Daga in this story, and he was drawn to her at once, and they made secret plans to be alone together, and she said to him, when they were parting, “I married for money; I have been faithful to my husband; I have been a good mother; and I’m not happy. What is it that I want? Why am I not satisfied? Why should love seem to me the most desirable and necessary thing in life? You who understand women, you who know our cravings, tell me why I want so tremendously—to commit a big sin?” There the story hung, astonished at its own daring, too bewildered to frame Leo Daga’s answer.

Suddenly Stephen’s voice rose to a shout. “By gad, he’ll get through! What a breakaway! That’s Thompson. He’s devilish fast. Gad, he has sold Carter a dummy. Ah! Jodder will collar him. He’s funking a straight path. Good old Hugh! Run, man, run! No, by heaven, he’s missed him. Oh, Hugh, Hugh! It’s no use. By gad, he’s through. He’ll score. Nothing can save it. He’ll score——”

The rest was drowned in a shout so tremendous that every nerve in Mrs. Laslett’s body tingled.

“For pity’s sake, tell me what has happened,” she shouted to Phillida.

Phillida shouted back, “Oxford has got through and touched down.”

She tried hard to understand what followed, and did at least perceive that the ball was kicked wide of the goal-posts, concluding from Stephen’s scream of infernal joy that Cambridge had done something very creditable, in which it was her duty to rejoice.

“Come,” she said to Phillida, “that was much better, wasn’t it?” She was perhaps a little ashamed of that daring pronouncement in her story—I want so tremendously to commit a big sin.

Later in the afternoon, however, when she was comfortably telling herself that the match now would soon be over, she came to the conclusion that things were not going well for Cambridge. She heard Stephen say repeatedly, “This is awful!” or “This is the very devil!”—and saw him take out his watch and heard him exclaim, “Only eight minutes more.” She began to look at Stephen, so handsome and alert, and to feel sorry for him.

“Is anything very wrong?” she asked Phillida.

“Oxford’s score is a try,” Phillida explained; “there’s only a few minutes’ more play; and the ball’s in the Cambridge half.”

“The Cambridge half is this end of the ground?” asked her mother, very intelligibly.

“Yes.”

“And this, I imagine, is another scrum?”

“Yes.”

“God, this is awful!” muttered Stephen, breathing very hard; “only five minutes!”

Mrs. Laslett said, “Why does Stephen take things so seriously?—it is very absurd of him. He’s suffering, poor boy. Fancy suffering about a game! What does it matter?”

Before Phillida could reply there was another of those tremendous shouts which made Mrs. Laslett’s nerves tingle. “Well passed, by Jove!” shouted the old clergyman in front of her, leaping up. “Great work,” bawled the old soldier, leaning on his stick and staggering to his feet. “Hugh’s caught it!” yelled Stephen. There was a shout like thunder, “Jodrell! Jodrell!” All round the ground, “Jodrell! Jodrell!” Stephen’s voice rang like a shriek in his mother’s ear, “Jodrell! Jodrell!”

“Finest pass I ever saw in my life,” shouted the old parson, dancing on his feet.

“It was very good, certainly,” allowed the old soldier.

Even Mrs. Laslett could understand now what was happening. Jodrell had caught the ball from a half-back, and was running with it, running like a hare from the scrum, running to the other end of the ground, running with his head thrown back, his right arm working like a piston, outdistancing every one else, breaking clean ahead from every other man on the field—except one, the big man by the posts on the far side of the field, who was advancing quite slowly and calmly to meet him.

Yes, Mrs. Laslett understood, and thrilled. She felt her body grow tense and knew that she was holding her breath, but did not realise that she was running with Hugh Jodrell. She became angry and indignant. Why does Hugh Jodrell run straight towards that great big person advancing towards him? Why not avoid him? How stupid of Hugh Jodrell to risk an encounter. Surely to goodness there is plenty of room on either side of him!

A moment before her knees were working like a sewing-machine in sympathy with Jodrell’s magnificent run; now they were frozen stiff, and her whole body was locked in a paralysis of fear. The meeting of those two men! How awful it must be. She imagined black hatred in the heart of Big Jack Butcher, and delirious terror in the mind of Hugh Jodrell.

There was a roar of thunder all round her, a clash of voices that seemed to possess the whole earth, shot through with cries and yells that swept her forward on a wave of inexpressible emotion. The meeting of those two men!

Suddenly came absolute silence. She couldn’t breathe. She shivered like a leaf. Stephen’s mutter reached her, wrenched out of him, between his teeth, “Watch for Jodder’s swerve!” Then—what happened? Those two men on the field seemed to her to crash together, and there was a flash in the air which she could not follow, and then—pandemonium.

For some reason or other, every one in the stand seemed to go mad, particularly Stephen; even the two old men in front of her were shouting to each other, crying and laughing, rolling about, clasping each other by the hand, saying that they would not have missed that for anything on earth. Missed what? Good heavens, would no one tell her?

Something of enormous importance had occurred, that was clear, and something, she imagined, which was quite wonderfully splendid for Cambridge. She felt that she must share in it. She had an overwhelming desire to understand exactly what had happened.

She turned to Phillida, and caught her by the arm, shaking it. Phillida’s face came round to her, and Mrs. Laslett gasped with astonishment, for Phillida’s face was as white as paper, and her eyes were streaming with tears.

“Didn’t you see?” said Phillida, laughing and crying. “Every one thought Hugh Jodrell was going to dodge at the last moment; but he didn’t; he charged straight at Butcher; and just as Butcher flung himself forward to collar Hugh by the knees, Hugh jumped clean over him, clean over his body, and touched down right in the middle of the Oxford goal!”