Читать книгу Joan and Peter - H. G. Wells - Страница 34

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One day Mary with an unaccustomed urgency in her manner hurried Joan and Peter out of the garden and into the nursery, and there tidied them up with emphasis. Joan showed fight a bit but not much; Peter was thinking of something else and was just limp. Then Mary took them down to the living-room, the big low room with the ingle-nook and the dining-table in the far bay beside the second fireplace. There they beheld a large female Visitor of the worst sort. They approached her with extreme reluctance, impelled by Mary’s gentle but persistent hand. The Visitor was sitting in the window-seat with Aunt Phyllis beside her. And Aunt Phœbe was standing before the little fireplace. But these were incidental observations; the great fact was the Visitor.

She was the largest lady that Peter had ever seen; she had a plumed hat with black chiffon and large purple bows and a brim of soft black stuff and suchlike things, and she wore a large cape in three tiers and a large black feather boa that hissed when she moved and disseminated feathers. Her shoulders were enormously exaggerated by a kind of vast epaulette, and after the custom of all loyal Anglicans in those days her neck was tightly swathed about and adorned with a big purple bow. Everything she wore had been decorated and sewn upon, and her chequered skirts below were cut out by panels and revelations of flounced purple. In the midst of this costume, beneath the hat and a pale blonde fuss of hair, was set a large, pale, freckled, square-featured face with two hard blue eyes and a fascinating little tussock of sandy hair growing out of one cheek that instantly captured the eye of the little boy. And out of the face proceeded a harsh voice, slow, loud, and pitched in that note of arrogance which was the method of the ruling class in those days. “So these are our little Wards,” said the voice, and as she spoke her lips wrinkled and her teeth showed.

She turned to Phyllis with a confidential air, but spoke still in the same clear tones. “Which is the By-blow, my dear, the Boy or the Gel?”

“Lady Charlotte!” exclaimed Phyllis, and then spoke inaudibly, explaining something.

But Peter made a note of “By-blow.” It was a lovely word.

“Not even in Black. They ought to wear Black,” he heard the big lady say.

Then he found himself being scrutinized.

“Haugh!” said the big lady, making a noise like the casual sounds emitted by large wading birds. “They both take after the Sydenhams, anyhow. They might be brother and sister!”

“Practically they are,” said Aunt Phœbe.

Lady Charlotte confuted her with an unreal smile. “Practically not,” she said decisively.

There was a little pause. “Well, Master Stubland,” said the Visitor abruptly and quite terrifyingly. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

As Peter had not yet learnt to swear freely, he had nothing to say for himself just at that moment.

“Not very Bright yet,” said Lady Charlotte goadingly. “I suppose they have run wild hitherto.”

“It was poor Arthur’s wish——” began Aunt Phyllis.

“We must alter all that now,” Lady Charlotte interrupted. “Tell me your name, little boy.”

“Peter Picktoe,” said Peter with invention. “You going to stop here long?”

“So you’ve found your tongue at last,” said Lady Charlotte. “That’s only your nickname. What’s your proper name?”

“Can we go out in the garden now, Auntie?” said Peter; “and play at By-blows?”

“Garden now,” said Joan.

“He’s Brighter than you seem to think,” said Aunt Phœbe with gentle sarcasm.

“Commina Garden,” said Joan, tugging at Peter’s pinafore.

“But I must ask him his name first,” said Lady Charlotte, “and,” with growing firmness, “he must tell it me. Come! What is your name, my dear?”

“Peter,” prompted Mary.

“Peter,” said Peter, satisfied that it was a silly game and anxious to get it over and away from this horror as soon as possible.

“And who gave you that name?”

“Nobody; it’s mine,” said Peter.

“Isn’t the poor child even beginning to learn his Catechism?” asked Lady Charlotte.

“Yes, the garden,” said Aunt Phœbe to Mary, and the scene began to close upon the children as they moved gardenward. Joan danced ahead. Peter followed thoughtfully before Mary’s gentle urgency. What was that last word? “Cattymism?” Then a fresh thought occurred to him.

“Mary,” said Peter, in an impassioned and all too audible undertone; “look. She’s got a Whisker. Here! Troof!”

“It was my brother’s wish,” Phyllis was explaining as the children disappeared through the door....

“It isn’t the modern way to begin so early with rote-learning,” said Aunt Phœbe; “the little fellow’s still not five.”

“He’s a pretty good size.”

“Because we haven’t worried his mind yet. Milk, light, play, like a happy little animal.”

“We must change all that now,” said Lady Charlotte Sydenham with conviction.