Читать книгу I Pronounce Them - G. A. Studdert Kennedy - Страница 8

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The morning of the Fête was cloudless, and burnished bright with heavy dew, as a morning in English June can be when the weather is on its good behaviour. Robin jumped out of bed very early, and dressed in a tearing hurry. She almost forgot her prayers, but didn’t. She added a special thanksgiving for the morning and a prayer that she might dance very well, and to the Glory of God, as Uncle Jim said. Uncle Jim had prepared her for Confirmation, and had often talked to her about the redemption of Art. He explained how the Incarnation of Jesus Christ had lifted up the whole of human life on to a higher level. He took her to the great Cathedral, and she caught something of his enthusiasm, as he showed her the beauty and delicacy of the smallest and least important piece of carving in wood or stone, and impressed upon her that all this wonder of arch and aisle, and the riot of blazing colour in the windows, was just a perfect song of praise offered up about the altar which was the centre of it all. The Cathedral, he insisted, had not been built as a place to preach in; she could see how the pulpit stood aside, with a splendid gesture of humility, and pointed to the altar. The bread that was broken there represented in itself all our daily bread, and the means by which men earned it. All arts and crafts, all the humming busy world of work was laid upon the altar, and offered there to God, that He might take it, and make it what it was meant to be, His own Body, the means of expressing His Infinite Love for men. All good art, and all fine work, he declared, should be done to the Glory of God. That was what made this old work great, and much of our modern work so mean. The slow-witted, and probably illiterate, monks who had hammered out this perfection in patience were really poets writing in stone a silent song of deathless praise to the Saviour of the World. All this and much more he had poured out to her on one or two glorious mornings in July, when his own heart had been bursting with gratitude to God for life and love that promised to be perfect. It had made a deep impression upon Robin. She did not always understand, but she sympathized. She rather caught, than was taught, the inner meaning of it all. The Cathedral itself became a new place for her, she loved it as she had never done before, and went always to her Communion there. She asked Uncle Jim about dancing—was that an art? There was a difficulty in her mind because she could not see where dancing came into the universal worship of art and work. He replied enthusiastically that of course dancing was an art, the most primitive of all the arts, the real mother of them all. He told her that Mozart had always held that dancing was the Virgin Mother of music, and that religion itself had been born in the dance. He took her back to the childhood of the world and showed her how all the first feelings of awe and wonder at Nature, shuddering horror in the face of death, fierce excitement in time of war, and ecstasy at the approach of Love had first been expressed in the tribal dance. One thing above all remained fixed in her mind, and that was the legend, which he said was not altogether dead in Europe yet, that the Sun danced before God on Easter morning. When she objected that there was no dancing in religion now, he answered with a smile, “No, worse luck, nor much religion in dancing. Both have suffered from the divorce. Modern dancing is degenerate. It is still a sensuous pleasure, but has ceased to be a social art. In English cathedrals they used to dance until the fourteenth century, and many have danced here. At Paris, Limoges, and elsewhere in France the priests danced in the choir until the seventeenth century.” At that she laughed and said:

“I can’t imagine the Dean and Daddy and old Canon Craddock dancing, can you?”

“No,” he answered, smiling; “but seriously, if we really believed in the Resurrection I think you might dance the Dance of the Sun on Easter Day, Robin, and God would love it better than an anthem with twiddley bits in it.”

Robin remembered that now as she went downstairs. She had thought a good deal about it since she had begun to “Resurrect,” as she still called it, and the Golden Moth had become linked up in her mind with the Dance of the Sun on Easter Day. She went out on to the lawn, and, finding it still wet with dew, sat down upon a seat and took off her shoes and stockings. As a child she had loved the feel of the grass upon her bare feet, and she loved it still. Then round the sundial she danced out again the sorrow of Death and the joy of Resurrection. There were parts of it that she repeated again and again, partly for art’s sake and its perfection, and partly for the joy of doing it. She was absorbed in her work when she heard her father’s voice calling to her through the French window.

“Robin, breakfast’s ready, and I’m starving!”

She stopped at once, and snatching up her shoes and stockings, ran across the lawn, picking her way gingerly across the gravel path, and stood in the window laughing.

“Oo—the gravel hurts,” she said as she dropped her shoes and stockings, and leaning against the window sash, put one foot up to wipe the tiny pebbles from the sole.

“Of course it does, you little goose,” her father said as he went over, and, taking her in his arms, plumped her down in the big arm-chair.

“Put on your stockings.”

She sat there leaning back with a whole world of happy love shining in her eyes, and stuck out her feet in front of her.

“I don’t know that I want to, Daddy,” she said. “The carpet is quite comfy—and I do love my proper feet.”

There was between these two the peculiarly rich and perfect love that can grow up between a father and a daughter. He had hoped for a son, and had been secretly disappointed when baby Robin had been born. Her name, Roberta, was the result of that disappointment. But she had changed even that by calling herself Robin as soon as she could speak. He would not have changed her for ten sons now. She was the light of his eyes, and since the death of his wife, had grown dearer than ever. There had been a very deep and loyal love between husband and wife, but it had been of the prosaic humdrum kind. She was a conscientious, capable woman, and had mothered both father and daughter for their good. Robin would have been hopelessly spoiled had it not been for her, and the man would have spoiled himself. They both mourned her loss sincerely and long, but, although neither of them would have acknowledged it, a certain sense of fear and repression had gone from the home with her, and had never returned. Perhaps, had she been different, they would have been different, and their happiness would not now have been so fine or so complete. She had sowed that they might reap. There are many such lives, and she would have asked no better reward than to see them now, although she would have said, “Robin, my dear, put on your shoes at once, and come to breakfast, we shall be late with prayers, and it puts cook all out for the day.”

Robin jumped up and ran over to the sideboard.

“Are you going to have porridge or ‘geggs,’ Daddy?” she said.

“Porridge,” said her father, who had taken his seat and was looking at the Daily Mirror which was taken in for Robin but always read first by him.

She banged out the porridge on to a plate with a delicious whack, and going behind her father, put it down before him, and then stood with her arms about his neck, resting her chin on the top of his head, and looked over at the paper.

What caught her eye was “Sensational Divorce Case—Peer as Co-respondent.” Suddenly she thought of Uncle Jim, and remembered the pain in his face as he walked down the garden path with her, the pain which had made her say, “I’m sorry, Uncle Jim.”

“Will Uncle Jim have to be divorced from Phyllis, Daddy?” she asked.

“He won’t have to, darling,” said her father, after a pause, “but I think Jim will divorce his wife. She wants it.”

Robin suddenly felt as though a cloud had come over the sun, and it were raining. She turned away and went slowly over to get her own porridge. There was no joy in the whack now, it was just porridge again, not fun. She went back to her place and standing there said:

“I don’t understand how anyone could be so cruel—to Uncle Jim, he is such a darling.”

Her father said nothing. In his heart he hated the whole thing. He was distressed for his friend, and bitter against Phyllis, but what he hated most was that it should come near Robin. He knew he could not keep it from her. Jim Counihan was too close to them both. He was Uncle Jim in a sense more real than proper uncles often are.

He began to eat his porridge in silence, flinging the paper aside.

“Daddy,” said Robin after awhile, “do you think the Divorce laws are all wrong in this country?”

This was a facer—and he hesitated.

“Well,” he said, “this has nothing to do with Divorce laws really. No law could make Phyllis different from what she is. She never loved Jim. She never loved anyone but herself. She does not know how.”

“No—but Uncle Jim loved her. He just worshipped her,” said Robin.

“I know—and no law could alter that either. It is just cruel, anyhow, no matter what the laws are. Selfishness always is cruel, darling, and laws can’t make much difference.”

Robin considered this for awhile. Then, after she had taken away his porridge plate, and given him a sausage, she stopped by his chair, and asked:

“If Uncle Jim divorces Phyllis, can he marry anyone else?”

“He doesn’t want to,” evaded her father.

“No, but suppose he did. Suppose some day he met someone and loved her very much and she loved him—could he marry her?”

“No, he is a priest.”

“But is it different for priests, Daddy? Suppose he wasn’t a priest, could he?”

“Well, he could according to law, my dear, but he couldn’t because he is a Christian. Christ has forbidden divorce.”

“You mean that no Christian ought ever to be divorced and marry again?” said Robin. “Then I suppose Charlie Roberts could never marry Maisie, could he?”

“Not unless Will Smith dies.”

“Poor Maisie, and poor Uncle Jim.”

She sensed somehow that her father did not want to talk about this any longer, and changed the subject abruptly.

“You have a funeral this afternoon, haven’t you, Daddy?”

“Yes, old Mrs. Morris at half-past two,” said her father—“and that reminds me, how are you going to get out to the Fête? I shall not be able to come until late, and I must have the car, if I am to come at all.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Robin. “Peter Craddock said he would drive me out.”

When she had met Peter outside the Cathedral on the Sunday before, he had asked if he could do anything for her on the day of the Fête, and Robin, knowing that her father had a funeral that day, had said he might perhaps drive her out in the “Bolshie,” as she had christened the car. Peter had been delighted and had promised to be waiting by half-past two.

Robin had made no secret about her friendship with Peter, and had often told her father that, as it was on the way to the works, he had taken her down with him to the studio. He knew that her mother would have told her to be careful, and it had often been on the tip of his tongue to say something to her, but he shrank from it. After all, it would only put ideas into her head and she was young. Young people nowadays went about with one another quite freely—and it was absurd to worry about it. Canon Craddock had told him only the other day what a splendid lad Peter was, and had confided to him his joy about his Communions.

“The war shook him up a bit,” the old man had said; “it did that with a lot of young fellows. But he’s getting over it nicely now and settling down again. He’s got a head on his shoulders, too,” he had added. “He is working on some new invention of his own, and if he gets it out, from what he tells me, it should be worth a good bit to him.”

Mr. Peterson had been glad to hear this and remembered it now.

“Well, my dear,” he remarked, “that will be splendid. I can come out about tea-time and drive you back after the dance. It comes last of all, doesn’t it—because of the light?”

“Yes,” said Robin, “it cannot be until about half-past eight.”

“I’m at the Deanery for lunch to-day—and I will be busy all morning. What are you on for? Are you going to dancing this morning?”

“No—Miss Grayson said I was to rest. I’ve got something to do with my moth wings and costume, and shall just sit still and do it up in my den.”

The morning seemed a long one to Robin. She found it very hard to rest. It clouded over a little about eleven, and that made her dreadfully anxious about the weather. She could not get Uncle Jim out of her head, and he was all mixed up with Maisie. Then Peter came in, and Friendship and Love, and the Dance, and Death, and the Resurrection, and then Love again. How could people fall in love and then be cruel to one another? Why, did Phyllis marry Uncle Jim if she didn’t love him? He was not rich. Then the sun peeped out, and she jumped up in joy. It was going to be fine after all. As is the way with the young, when the clouds cleared off the sky the shadow was lifted from her heart, and she was gay again. She ran down to the kitchen to get a snack before she got ready to go.

The sky was cloudless and the sun blazing down when, at half-past two, she ran out of the gate to find Peter, and the resplendent “Bolshie” waiting. She had on a simple white frock and a large straw hat, and looked more like a happy child than ever, Peter thought.

The Fête was at Farnley Court, about ten miles out of Ranchester along the main London road.

“Are you in a hurry to get there?” Peter asked, when he had settled her into her seat and was adjusting the engine. “If you aren’t, I thought we might go the long way by the hills. It would be fine over there this afternoon.”

“No,” Robin said, “I’d love to go the long way. I need not be there until tea-time anyhow, so we have lots of time.”

Peter wanted very much to have a long time with her to himself. He had received a letter that morning which meant that he must leave Ranchester the next day and return to Bristol. It seemed likely, moreover, from the letter, that he would have to fly a machine over to France near the end of the week, and might be required to stay for some time at Hardelot Plage, near Boulogne. Some very important experiments in aeroplane construction were being tried out there on the great expanse of hard sand. These experiments included tests of his own invention and he was required to be present. Now that his time at home had been brought to this unexpected close, he realized how good it had been, and how much little Robin had come to mean to him, and he wanted her to himself.

As they passed down the High Street a man came suddenly out of a shop and bolted across the road almost under the wheels of the “Bolshie.” Peter pulled up with a fierce indignant shriek of the horn.

“Oh! it’s Uncle Jim,” said Robin. “I’m so glad you didn’t run him down. I wonder if he is going to the Fête. He was not sure when I asked him on Monday.”

She was waving and calling him as she spoke. He heard the horn, and turned round when he landed safe on the other side of the narrow street.

Peter was not pleased with him, and it was mutual, he was not pleased with Peter. Just after the war was over Canon Craddock had come to see Jim about his son, and confessed to some anxiety about him. He had nothing definite to go on, but he had heard stories and was worried. Jim had comforted him by saying that many of the boys were unbalanced just then, but that they would come out all right in the end. Nevertheless he did not really like the man, and somehow the sight of Robin alone with him made him uneasy and worried. He did his best to disguise his feelings as he stood beside the car.

“That was a near one,” he said, “I’m so sorry I was not looking where I was going.”

“Glad I was able to pull up in time,” Peter said politely, but without enthusiasm.

“You’ll get killed one of these days, Uncle Jim, if you bolt about like that. Are you coming to the Fête to see me dance? I do want you to,” Robin said with all her love and pity for him shining in her eyes.

“I want to badly,” he replied, “but I have a lot of visits to pay, and I do not know how to get out.”

“Daddy will be driving out about tea-time. Call in and ask him to wait for you. He’s got a funeral and couldn’t come now. That’s why Peter is taking me,” she said, smiling at Peter.

He felt more kindly disposed now that he was certain they were not going to pick the parson up.

“Making myself useful, sir,” he said.

Jim smiled back. “Right! I will call and ask Bob to give me a lift. I must get off now, or I won’t be finished in time. Good-bye!”

He waved his hand and was gone, walking rapidly down the street.

“Isn’t there some trouble between him and his wife?” Peter asked presently when he had got through some traffic into the open again.

“Yes,” Robin answered sadly, “she ran away and left him. I cannot understand how she could do it. He worshipped her and he is far the nicest person I know.”

“Poor devil, what a mess,” said Peter grudgingly. He did not want to talk about the wretched parson and his wife, and began to tell Robin about the letter, and why he had to go back to Bristol next day.

“I am sorry,” she said.

“So am I, little girl; I shall miss you dreadfully, and the ‘Bolshie’ will not behave himself half so well without you.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Peter.”

He looked at her, and she looked shyly away, but there was a real cloud on her face, and he was well content.

“You do like me a little then, Robin?”

He dropped one hand off the wheel and took hers and squeezed it. She did not return the pressure, but neither did she take her hand away. She just left it there like a child does.

“I like you very much indeed, Peter,” she said, looking in front of her and smiling happily.

“Better than the parson?”

“Oh, Uncle Jim’s different—quite different. I have always loved him—he’s daddy’s greatest friend, and I have known him since I was a baby.”

This satisfied Peter. The cloud of ill humour passed away and he became the utterly charming boy again. Somehow he did not want to press her further. The relation in which they stood of friendship with a hint of love, which he knew she did not altogether understand, was so perfect that for the time there was no temptation to disturb it. “She’s only a child still,” he thought, “but she will be a wonderful woman some day,” and the thought of the future thrilled him.

They had a gloriously happy drive, and when they got to the top of the White House hill, they stopped the “Bolshie,” and ran, hand-in-hand, through the heather to get a view from the top of the bank at the side of the road. The panorama of pastoral England that lay spread out beneath them repaid them for their race up the bank as they stood panting on the top. “Look, there is Farnley Court,” said Robin, pointing with her left hand because the other was in his—“and how plain you can see the Cathedral.” The two great towers of Ranchester stood crystal clear but strangely small with the river like a silver ribbon shining through the trees.

“I wish we could stop here and have tea, don’t you?” said Peter.

“It would be lovely, but I might miss my dance.”

“You could dance with me instead.”

He put his arm about her and they did a fox-trot together on the soft green turf.

“We must go,” said Robin laughing.

As they started to run down, she stumbled, and he put his arm about her to save her. Just for a moment she lay in his arms with her little laughing face turned up to his. He stooped and kissed her gently on the lips. “You’re a darling,” he said huskily.

They were silent but very happy as they sped down the hill towards Farnley Village, a cluster of black and white houses, and thatched cottages that could be seen at the bottom.

When they got to Farnley Court Robin was immediately claimed by Lady Compton and carried off to see the place where the “Golden Moth” was to dance.

Sir Edward Compton, a big, heavy-faced man with a drooping white moustache, who had made a fortune and honestly paid for a title by his own business ability, talked aeroplanes to Peter and took him in to tea. He was financially concerned in commercial flying and had heard something about Peter’s patent. Peter was interested in spite of himself, and explained the advantages of his invention clearly and well, though all the time he was thinking of Robin. He was conscious that she had come into the tent for tea, and had met her father and Jim Counihan. She was standing now, with her arm through her father’s, talking eagerly to Jim. He heard her say:

“Oh, but you must stay for the dance, Uncle Jim.”

He could not hear the parson’s reply.

Then just as he was explaining a difficult technical detail he heard her say:

“But why not? Of course Daddy can take you back as soon as ever it is over, and I can come home with Peter.”

At this point his attention wandered so far from what he was saying to Sir Edward that he had to explain all over again.

Presently Robin ran over to where they were sitting.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, Sir Edward,” she said smiling.

“A very pleasant interruption, my dear,” he replied, thinking what a lovely child she was.

“I just wanted to ask Mr. Craddock if he could take me home to-night after it is over. I do want Mr. Counihan to stay for the dance, and he is afraid I will be kept and will not get away at once, and he must go back to someone who is ill.”

“Could you, Peter?” she added, turning to him.

Peter assured her with a twinkle in his eyes that he would be delighted, and, after apologizing again for her interruption, she ran off back to the other two. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she had persuaded Counihan to stay, and that it was all settled.

For some time he saw no more of her. The tableaux and dances had been arranged by Miss Grayson and Robin was busy helping her to get things ready. Sir Edward introduced him to one or two other men and they to their wives, and Peter found himself the centre of quite a circle of people who were interested in the young inventor and aviator. It was flattering to his vanity, and he enjoyed himself. He was at his best and was charming as he could be when he was satisfied, and he was well pleased with himself now because he was the centre of attention, and also because he was going to drive Robin home.

The tableaux began at eight o’clock, and, just before then, she ran up to him, and asked if he would get some people to help him and arrange the chairs round the green mound in one corner of the garden.

“Of course I will—we’ll have ’em round in no time,” he said.

“You’re a brick, Peter,” she said, and then she laid her hand gently on his arm and added, “I’m so glad you’re going to take me home, as it’s our last night.”

She ran off behind the screens of trelliswork and shrubbery which had been put up as a green room, and he went off well content to beat up helpers and arrange the chairs.

The Dance of the Golden Moth was the success of the evening. “The child is a real artist,” Peter thought as he watched the golden figure weaving poetry out of motion in the blinding light.

In one corner of the garden, overshadowed by three huge old elm trees, there was a natural mound on the top of which there was a sundial with ivy climbing round it. On the top of this a limelight had been fixed which cast an amber glare upon the gap in the shrub-covered trellis through which the Moth came. A hush fell on the spectators as, after fluttering nearer and nearer to the light, the struggle of fear and fascination expressed in every motion, she stood with outspread wings and half-closed eyes, and then, with a shudder half terror, half ecstasy, sank down on the moss-covered stones and lay still. And when, after lying a moment or two motionless and crumpled up, she began slowly and with perfect grace to awaken and arise, until she stood at last radiant and quivering with life to await the kiss of God—the hush remained for awhile, and then they rose and recalled her again and again.

It was a very bright-eyed, shy, but joyous Robin that stood in the big marquee afterwards to receive congratulations from everybody. Uncle Jim had whispered, “That was really beautiful, my dear, God would love it,” as he hurried off with her father to the car, and that made her happy. Sir Edward Compton was enthusiastic and pressed her to drink champagne, but she refused and drank iced lemonade like a schoolboy with joy in every gulp.

“A charming unspoiled child,” Lady Compton remarked to her husband, “and a real artist.”

Presently Robin caught sight of Peter making his way towards her through the crowd. He had been stirred to the very depths of him by the dance, and admiration was shining in his eyes. She met them shyly but with a thrill that made her heart dance for joy. She looked forward to their drive home.

“We must hurry, Peter,” she said. “Dad has gone with Mr. Counihan.”

It was a lovely moonlight night, but turning cold, and when Peter had wrapped her up in her fur coat and tucked her into the car, Robin realized that she was tired and a little sleepy, but utterly, perfectly happy.

“You needn’t hurry really, Peter,” she said as they turned through the gate. “I wanted to get away.”

“I’m not going to,” he replied. “I wish we could go back over the hills again, but I suppose we mustn’t.”

Robin laughed. “No, I don’t think we can, but you can drive nice and slowly.”

They talked very little. Robin was too happy to talk, and in Peter’s mind there was a conflict. He had been thrilled by the dance and passion was awakening in him. He had dreams of stopping the car in some quiet place and making this glorious child kiss him as though she meant it. But there was a finer element in his passion, it was full of tenderness, and the nearest approach to humility of which he was capable. She had touched all that was best in him, and he never carried out his half-formed plan.

Only when the road was clear he slowed down and taking her hand in his held it gently.

“Happy, little girl?” he said.

“Very happy, Peter dear,” she answered with a little pause before the last word that made him squeeze her hand tight.

The drive was like a dream for both, and it seemed as though only a moment or two had passed when they found themselves turning the corner into the close.

“Come in for a little while,” Robin said.

Peter was only too glad, and followed her into the hall.

“Daddy,” she called, “here’s Peter come in to say good-bye.”

There was no answer.

“He must have waited to bring Uncle Jim back. He often comes in late for a talk with daddy. Let’s go out into the Deanery garden.”

There was a gate into the big garden of the Deanery from the Rectory and Robin often sat there. Her favourite spot was an old fountain that stood in the middle of the Rose garden. There a very fat, oddly disproportioned, but deliciously pagan and impertinent, cupid blew water like a blast of defiance out of a trumpet which he held tip-tilted to his lips. His roguish face, with one weather-eaten eye, was turned up as if in play to the ancient towers of the Cathedral, that glittered white in the moonlight, and seemed to bestow upon the little fellow the good-natured tolerance of dignity to impudence.

“Isn’t he a darling?” Robin said.

“Yes,” said Peter, but he was not looking at the cupid.

They stood there hand-in-hand and silent for a time. Peter could not speak. The temptation to awaken her was strong upon him, he wanted the woman that was to be to kiss him before he said good-bye. But his better nature was still uppermost, and stood between him and his desires.

Presently he put his arm about her and bending down laid his cheek against hers for a moment.

“You’ll write to me sometimes, Robin dear?”

“Of course I will, Peter, and I shall miss you dreadfully.”

He rested his hand upon her shoulder, and touched the tip of one small ear.

“I’m not fit to be your friend, Robin,” he said, “but you don’t know how much it will help, if you will try to like me a little.”

“I like you very much now, Peter,” she said, looking up at him bravely, “better than anyone else I know.”

Just then she heard her father calling, “Robin—where are you?”

“I must go,” she said, facing Peter, and looking up into his eyes. “You—you may kiss me, if you like.”

For a moment passion was almost master of him and he swept her into his arms and kissed her hungrily. She did not kiss him back, but yielded to him without resistance.

Very gently she broke away. “Good-bye, dear,” she said, and ran through the gate.

Peter stood by the fountain very still for a while and prayed that he might be a better man. God knows why our best prayers so often remain unanswered, perhaps it is because we do not pray them for long enough. God’s story of unanswered prayers will be the strangest and most tragic tale that ever has been told. This prayer will be recorded there. It was not answered. Peter never was in all his life as good as that again.