Читать книгу Ancestors - Gertrude Atherton - Страница 7

The “Jack,” whose more distinguished patronymic was so gayly caracolling down the road to posterity, had arrived, and after dressing hastily, sought his mother. Her hair was done, her gown laced; she dismissed her maid at once, and while her eyes melted, in the fashion of mothers, she embraced her son with something more than maternal warmth: a curious suggestion of relief, of stepping out of her own personality and leaving it like a heap of clothes on the floor. This attitude had occasionally puzzled her idol, but he was too masculine to analyze. She was his best friend and a delightful person to have for a mother; her soul might be her own possession undisturbed. He admired her almost as much as he did himself, and to-night he kissed her fondly and told her gallantly that she was looking even more beautiful than usual.

“It is all this white after the dead black,” said Lady Victoria, smiling appreciatively. “I am thankful that prolonged mourning is out of date; it made a fright of me and was getting on my nerves.” She wore no jewels save a high diamond dog-collar and a few sparkling combs in her hair, but she made a superb appearance with the long white sweep of shoulders and bust, her brilliant eyes and smart tailed gown of black chiffon and Irish lace. Her arms, no longer rounded as when artists had fought to paint her, were but half-revealed under floating sleeves, and her fair tapering hands were even younger than her face.

She opened a large black fan and moved it slowly while looking intently at her son’s bent profile. “Something has gone wrong,” she said. “Have you seen Julia Kaye again?”

“No, I was invited to Maundrell Abbey last week, but couldn’t manage it, of course. And I knew she was to be here. Nothing has gone wrong—but I had rather a shock this morning. I met Zeal at the club. He looks like a death’s head. He vowed he was taking even better care of himself than usual, but his chest is bad again. He talked about going to Davos—the very word makes me sick! In the next breath he said he might go out to Africa. Can’t you hurry on his marriage?—persuade Carry that it is her duty to go with him?”

“I should have no difficulty persuading Carry. The rub is with him. Compulsory asceticism has bred misogyny, and misogyny scruples. He says that he has sins enough to his account without laying up a reckoning with posterity. If it were not for you I should agree with him. I feel like a conspirator—”

“There is no reason why his children should be consumptive. Carry’s physique is Wagnerian, and she is just the woman to look after her children herself. Zeal’s health was thrown to the dogs by a weak indulgent frivolous mother, and what she left him he disposed of later when he made as great an ass of himself as might have been expected. He is a hypochondriac now and would keep a close watch on his heir’s health and habits; you may be sure of that. He ought not to be in London now—it is stifling—went up for some business meeting or other—seemed to wish to avoid details. I hope to heaven he has not been relieving the monotony of his life by some rotten speculation. I begged him to come down here, but he wouldn’t—says that his hand is no longer steady enough to hold a gun—it’s awful!—worse because I’m not merely fond of him and regretting the possible loss of a good friend—I have felt like a beast all day. But I can’t help it. For God’s sake write and persuade him to go to Davos at once—and picture the delights of a pretty and devoted nurse. I feel as if I had ashes in my mouth—and yesterday I was so happy!” he burst out, with the petulance of a child.

“I will write to-night,” she said, soothingly. “He has a very slow form of consumption; I have the assurance of his doctors. And at least he has committed himself with Carry, and announced his intention to marry as soon as a sojourn somewhere has made him feel fit again. You know how much better he always is when he comes back. Put it out of your mind to-night. I want you to be as happy as I am. Everybody is talking of the brilliance of your campaign—”

“Much good brilliance will do me if I am to rot in the Upper House!”

“Put it out of your mind; don’t let apprehension control you for a moment. Believe me, will-power counts in life for more than everything else combined, and if it isn’t watched it weakens.”

“All right, mummy. You are never so original as when you preach. So Julia Kaye came down this afternoon? Talk about will. Mine should be of pure steel; I have ordered her out of my consciousness these last weeks at the point of the bayonet. She has written me exactly three times. However—those letters were charming,” he added, with the sudden smile that transfigured his face, routing the overbearing and contemptuous expression that had won him so many enemies; friends and flatterers and the happy circumstances of his life had combined thoroughly to spoil him. “Do you maintain that will can win a woman?” he added, sharply.

She was the woman to laugh outright at such a suggestion. “No, nor that it can uproot love, although it can give it a good shaking and lock it in the dark room. I doubt if you love Julia Kaye, but you will find that out for yourself. You might bring her to terms by flirting a little with your American cousin—”

“My what?” He opened his eyes as widely as he had ever done when a school-boy.

“Of course—I forgot you know nothing of her. She wrote me from Ambleside—I infer she has been ‘doing’ England; and as her credentials were unimpeachable I asked her down. She has inherited a part of the northern estate and was brought up in the neighboring town of Rosewater—the American names are too silly. She seems quite comme il faut and is remarkably handsome. I detest Americans, as you know, but there certainly is something in blood. I liked her at once. She looks clever, and is quite off the type—none of the usual fluff. If she doesn’t bore me I shall keep her here for a while.”

“I wish you would adopt her,” he said, fondly. “I shouldn’t be jealous, for I hate to think of you so much alone.” He rose and kissed her lightly on the forehead, experience teaching him to avoid a stray hair from the carefully built coiffure. “I’ll see if I can waylay Julia on the stairs; she is always late. Keep from eleven to twelve for me to-morrow morning. I want to tell you about the campaign. It was a glorious fight!” His eyes sparkled at the memory of it. “I felt as if every bit of me had never been alive at once before. My opponent was a splendid chap. It meant something to beat him. The other side was in a rage!—more than once yelled for half an hour after I took the platform. When I finished they yelled again for half an hour—to a different tune.” His slight, thin, rather graceless figure seemed suddenly to expand, even to grow taller. Some hidden magnetism burst from him like an aura, and his cold pasty face and light gray eyes flamed into positive beauty. “It was glorious! Glorious! I was intoxicated—I could have reeled, little as they suspected it. I wouldn’t part for a second with the certainty that I am the biggest figure in young England to-day. I hate to sleep and forget it. If I cultivated modesty I should renounce one of the exquisite pleasures of life. Humility is a superstition. The man who doesn’t weed it out is an ass. To be young, well-born, with money enough, a brain instead of a mere intelligence, an essential leader of men—Good God! Good God!” Then he subsided and blushed, jerked up his shoulders and laughed. “Well—I never let myself go to any one but you,” he said. “And I won’t inflict you any longer.”