Читать книгу The Masterfolk - Haldane MacFall - Страница 5

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Wherein it is discovered that, likely enough from an Ancestor who was Master of the Horse to King Harry the Eighth, Master Oliver had inherited some Gift of Horseplay, together with a Keen Eye for a Fine Leg on a Woman.

Netherby Gomme had been sitting some time writing at his desk when the door behind him was stealthily opened and Noll’s head popped round its edge. There was a sharp click of a pea in a tin pea-shooter as the youngster let fly a careful aim at Gomme’s poll.

Gomme jumped, and scratched the back of his neck irritably:

“Curse it, Noll!” he growled testily.

“Naughty!” said Noll, coming into the room, but giving the yellow-haired youth a wide circle as he moved to his desk, and keeping a wary eye on him under a magnificent pretence of carelessness. “Caught you on the raw that time, I think, my ink-stained warrior!” he added cheerfully; but the fire was gone out of the old jest, and it was borne in on the youngster that the oft-repeated joke is somewhat of a damp squib. He broke the tin pea-shooter across his knee, and flung the two pieces into the empty grate. Strolling over to his desk, he took up the office-stool in his arms and carried it to the dusty fireplace. As he scrambled on to the stool Netherby Gomme watched him under his brows.

“I am relieved to see, Noll,” he growled, “that you remember your manhood and your pose as a literary prophet, and intend in future to split hairs instead of spitting peas.” He scratched his head irritably as the other, standing a-tip-toe on the stool, reached up and put back the minute-hand of the clock. “Confound it!” he added, as Noll shut the glass face with a snap, and came down gloomily off his stool—“the whole world seems to be suffering from the vice of forced humour in these days.”

“Don’t be waspish, Netherby,” said the youngster.

He carried the stool back to his desk, took off his silk hat, hung it up, and solemnly mounted into his seat:

“I confess,” he said, and he sighed, “I do feel beastly young at times.”

“H’m!” grunted Netherby Gomme drily—“you weren’t very long over your tea.”

“No.... As a matter of fact, I haven’t had any tea. I had to dodge the governor, so I popped into the office below to call on your little typewriter girl.”

Netherby Gomme moved peevishly in his chair:

“My dear Noll, for Heaven’s sake don’t call Julia my typewriter girl!” said he—“you’d think you were talking of a sewing-machine.”

Noll raised his eyebrows.

“But—she is a bit of a sewing-machine—when she isn’t typewriting.” He suddenly disappeared over the side of the stool and took up a defensive attitude beyond his desk. “Chuck it!” he bawled—“shut up, Netherby!... Put that ink-pot down and I’ll tell you the whole tragedy.”

Noll climbed on to his stool again as the keen glitter went out of Gomme’s eyes, and, sitting perched there with his back against the desk, he said calmly:

“Julia is missing!”

Gomme stared at him anxiously:

“Missing?”

Noll nodded:

“H’m—h’m!” said he. “They are getting rather fussy about it downstairs, and inclined to be nasty.” He assumed an editorial manner and continued: “We regret to state that there has been marked uneasiness at Messrs. Rollit’s typewriting offices owing to the fact that Miss Julia Wynne has not been heard of for the last hour; and this conduct, which might have passed unnoticed in any ordinary female clerk, has caused considerable anxiety in the office where she usually carries on her avocation, for, owing to the regular habits and exemplary conduct of the young person in question, the half-starved beauty of whose Burne-Jones-like profile——”

“We have not yet thrown the office ink-pot, Oliver!” said Netherby Gomme grimly.

Noll, guarding his head with his arm, peered out from beneath his elbow:

“No—but really, Netherby, it was beastly hard luck her being out. I like to go and gaze at her. She has such a jolly nice mouth. I should like to kiss it—it would do her a lot of good....” He disappeared over the stool. “Shut up!” he shouted. “Put it down and I’ll chuck it. I say, Netherby,” he added confidentially, coming out into the open and disarming resentment by trusting Gomme’s honour; “I saw a ripping girl to-day. She gave me quite a thrill.”

Gomme sat back in his chair:

“Indeed, Noll!” said he, putting his fingers together, elbows on chair-arm—“this is most interesting.... What age was the lady?”

“Oh, quite twelve or thirteen. None of your Burne-Jones-like——”

He ducked his head under his arm and made for his desk backwards. He scrambled on to his stool as he saw that the other was not for war:

“No; she was a girl, that! Rich warm hair—reddish. Plumpish. Jolly way of walking....” He paused for a moment and added critically: “She went off a bit in the legs—but—they mostly do at that age.... I offered her chocolates.... She sniffed.”

“Not very encouraging, Oliver!”

“It was rather a blow,” said Noll. “But I think a woman ought to be offish at first. I don’t like ’em too easily captured myself.”

“May I ask,” said Gomme grimly, “if she be a lady of position?”

“Well—her antecedents are somewhat humble. Her father is a—well—he’s a butcher. But every tragedy should have comic relief—shouldn’t it, Netherby?”

Netherby Gomme shook his head solemnly where he sat:

“Noll, you are very, very old. Let us try to be young again.”

“It’s so beastly slow being young,” grumbled Noll. “When I’m a man—Jeroos’lum! I should like to be a man—and shave!”

“And then you’ll damn the razor.... Ah, Noll, it is with the razor that youth cuts its throat.”

There was a long pause. The boy sat brooding on some perplexing problem; the yellow-haired youth watched him.

Noll broke the silence. He slipped down off his high seat, and came over to Gomme:

“I say, Netherby, your book is terrific though!”

“Thanks, Noll—you overwhelm me.... Ah, Noll, if all the world were as prejudiced an admirer as you are—and as frankly honest in the statement of their admiration—I might be a great man.”

“But, Netherby,” said Noll, eyeing him critically—“when did you discover you were clever?”

Gomme coughed:

“Well—er—when people began to tell me my own stories.”

“I wish I could write that sort of comic rot,” said Noll enviously.

“Noll, it is easy enough to be funny. I envy the man of action.”

The yellow-haired youth got up from his chair, lank and lean and awkward, and paced the room with prowling gait.

“To feel the blood tingle through one in hair’s-breadth escapes—to use one’s strength—to live, man, live!... To beat grips with life and danger and death, instead of writing lyrics or other tomfoolery about it, or about what you think other people ought to think about it!”

“Chuck it, Netherby!”

Gomme, pacing up and down the room, took no heed of the interruption.

“Writing history across the face of the world!... That is a bigger thing than spilling ink.... I know what it feels like a little,” he added. “The boxing sergeant knocked me down five times running in rapid succession at the gymnasium last night, and at the first fall I felt the transferred glory of what he must have felt. There is wondrous delight, a sense of the sublime, in conquest—even with the boxing-gloves on!... Of course, now, it would be something to write a tragedy.”

Noll snorted:

“Oh, tragedy’s all piffle! You don’t go to a theatre to sniff.... Give me a jolly good pantomime for an artistic jaunt. Shush! the governor.”

He vaulted on to his desk-stool as the door was flung open.

“Cafoshulam—it’s Julia!” he cried, swinging round on his stool again as the door shut with a slam, and a pretty young woman in neat black dress ran up to Netherby Gomme.

“Oh, Netherby,” she gasped, seizing his arm, “there’s a horror of a man keeps following me about—from the time I was at the coffee-shop—and I’ve been afraid to go back to the office lest he should follow me there. And so, at last, I’ve run up here. What am I to do? The man frightens me out of my wits.”

“Hush, Julia—keep calm.”

Gomme stroked her hand, and, leading her quickly to the editor’s room, threw open the door:

“Quick, Julia—in here!”

Julia grasped his arm as he was about to shut the door upon her:

“No personal violence, please, Netherby. You won’t hurt him—will you?”

“My dear Julia,” said he, hurrying her into the room, “I am surprised at such a suggestion!” He shut the door, and, turning his back upon it, he added grimly: “Personal violence is quite contrary to the traditions of this office, Noll—it should, in our judgment, be the very last resource.” He coughed. “The office broom, I fear, Noll, is in the editor’s cupboard——”

Noll whooped:

“Hooroosh!” cried he—“we haven’t had a row in the office for nearly five weeks!”

There was a loud knock.

Noll whipped round on his high stool, and was immediately engrossed in the heavy work of his office.

“Come in!” cried Netherby Gomme.

The door on to the landing was thrown open and revealed the figure of an elaborately dressed exquisite, who entered the room deliberately, diffusing scents—one of those well-polished, shining beings who never seem to catch a speck of dust. He had an hereditary qualification to pass for a gentleman—he knew how to dress for the part. He could strain good taste in adornment to the uttermost stretch without breaking it. He stood with the arrogant self-assurance that largely stands for good-breeding amongst the inane, and though the perfection of his clothes’ fit could not hide the fact that the lamp of intelligence burnt but gutteringly at the top where were his wits, he had the self-respect to ignore his defects. He looked calmly round the room, and, taking a card with deliberate coolness from a silver cardcase, he asked:

“Will someone—ah—kindly give my card to—ah—that most comely young lady who—ah—has just come in?”

Gomme walked over to him and took the card, which the exquisite held out to him between the first and second fingers of his lavender-gloved hand.

“Will no one offer me a chair?” the affected voice asked plaintively.

Gomme motioned him to a seat by the empty fireplace, and the other strolled thither and sat down on the edge of it with deliberate care. The seat was gone—a bristling hollow only left. He took off his hat and looked about the room with a cold, critical stare.

Gomme took the card to Noll.

“Mr. Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott,” he read in a gruff whisper, handing the card to the youngster; and he added grimly: “Destiny was against the Thing from the beginning, Oliver. A man like that was bound to go on all fours and eat grass.” He raised his voice: “The editor’s room, please,” he said. And, as Noll scrambled down leisurely from his seat, the yellow-haired youth added under his breath solemnly: “Oliver, select the best office-broom, and as I cast him down the stairs, kindly crack the hero’s shins. It will confuse his retreat. War is an art—not a vulgar scrimmage.”

Noll solemnly carried the card into the editor’s office. Gomme went to his seat, sat down, and aggressively paid no heed to the Thing.

The exquisite became nettled. Said he affectedly:

“That’s an awfully smart office-girl of yours——”

Netherby Gomme rose slowly from his chair, and, walking over to him, stood and looked down at him with contempt.

“Oh, you’re a judge!” said he—“a sort of overdressed Paris awarding the apple——”

“Oh, no,” protested the exquisite Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott; “you are quite mistaken. I have never been in Paris, and I’m not at all keen about apples.”

Gomme laughed loud. Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott fidgeted uneasily.

“Are you the editor?” he asked.

Gomme smiled.

“No,” he said—and added drily: “Luckily for you.”

“Why luck-i-ly?”

Gomme coughed.

“The editor kicks like a horse.”

Ffolliott sniggered uneasily:

“Really!” he drawled. It was faintly borne in upon him that he was neither shining nor making an impression. His eyes ranged aimlessly round the room, and he added fatuously:

“So this is the sort of place where you literary fellows hang out!”

Gomme stared at him in grim silence.

The exquisite Ponsonby shifted in his seat:

“None of my people have ever been literary,” he drawled; “they all belonged to the virile professions.... At least, I suppose that’s the office-girl.... However, as I said before, I’m not a literary man myself——”

Gomme’s eyes glowed threateningly, but the resplendent fool seated before him was too heavy-witted a dullard to hear anything but the cackle of his own voice, or to be alert to anything but the sordid desire of his own eyes.

Gomme laughed drily.

“Man?... You’re not a man!” said he.

Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott was genuinely shocked:

“Really, you know——”

He stopped. He saw that this yellow-haired, gaunt other man, a loose-limbed, powerful fellow, was glaring at him in anything but friendly fashion, and he was dumb.

Gomme’s level voice went calmly on:

“Tsh!” said he, “you’re a perambulating monkey, scented and got up and flung upon the town by Providence to remind us all from what we came—and to what we may return—if we forget that we were meant to grow into God’s good image.”

“You—you’re a common fellow!” said Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott.

Gomme’s keen eyes remained fixed on him with a steady contempt, that ate even into this dunce’s conceit. He went on, giving judgment on the travesty of manhood that sat before him:

“You silly fool! It’s disgusting that a pretty woman can’t walk down the high streets of the most civilized city in the world without the risk of some painted peacock of an ’Arry like yourself——”

“’Arry, indeed!” bleated the exquisite. Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott was wounded in his most religious parts. “I have the blood of the Plantagenets in my veins,” he said.

He was very indignant. He spoke with simple faith, as if of the certainty of a glorious resurrection.

Gomme turned, and called out:

“Open the door, Oliver!”

The door swung open, and discovered Noll at the head of the stairway, gripping a long broom in his hands.

“Oliver,” said Netherby, and his eyes shone, “this is, I think, positively the first occasion on which we have flung a genuine Plantagenet down the office-stairs. It is indeed an emotional moment.... I am thrilled.”

He made a grab at the throat of Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott, who evaded it with an upward fling of the elbow as he scrambled in a ladylike way to his patent-leather feet, and put himself into an affected attitude of defence, his silk hat in one hand and his cane in the other.

“Wh—what are you—do—ing?” he asked plaintively.

Netherby Gomme laughed, eyeing him as might a hungry dog a bone.

“Ay, Noll; take careful aim,” said he, as the exquisite began to back towards the door. “What a destiny, to bark the shins of the royal house of Anjou!”

Noll could be seen at the head of the stairway, beyond the open door, weighing the broom to get the balance and the grip, and swinging it with careful aim at the place where he calculated would come the shins of the exquisite Ponsonby.

Netherby Gomme pounced upon the retreating body of Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott, and this time he got his fingers inside the exquisite’s collar.

“Go—away!” gasped Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott.

There was a sharp struggle as Gomme, gripping him by the throat, forced him backwards to the open doorway, nearly jerking the complaining head off the narrow shoulders, until the room swam round dazedly in the revolving addled wits of the miserable man.

“I say,” he gasped—his plaintive voice in pained remonstrance as they swung round the doorpost—“this is—horribly—sudden!” He groaned.

In his frenzy his gloved hand made a grab at the handle of the door, which shut upon them with a loud slam.

Julia opened the office-door stealthily, and put forth an anxious head. She could hear the scuffle outside. She ran into the room in a state of nervous trepidation:

“How dreadful!” she said; ran back into the office; shut herself in.

A yell of victory from Noll told that the office broom had got home amongst the shins of the Plantagenets.

Julia opened the door a little way again and peeped nervously into the office.

She saw the door from the stairway fling open, and Gomme stroll in, adjusting his coat and smoothing down his hair with his hands; and through the open door there came the sound of fugitive anxious feet going nervously before pursuit, rushing frantically down the stairs, leaping and stumbling. Noll, with the broom poised in his hand, was leaning over the balustrade, his legs and back exquisitely thrilled, and as he flung the broom he burst into a cheer, his aim carrying away the silk hat of the fugitive exquisite below.

“Ripping!” cried Noll, and dived down the stairs after the hat.

Gomme halted, and listened.

The distant sound of feet, rapidly descending the stairs, told of the recuperative force and staying power of the Plantagenets even in defeat.

There was a loud crash of glass.

Julia started and wrung her hands.

A bland smile came over the face of Netherby Gomme:

“We have repeatedly pointed out to the landlord,” said he, “that the large glass door at the foot of the stairs is a source of considerable danger to any person proceeding down the staircase at an accelerated pace.”

Julia came out from behind the door, and ran to Gomme:

“Netherby,” said she, “it made a horrible noise.” She wrung her hands, grasped his arm. “I hope to goodness you haven’t dashed that stupid man’s brains out.”

Netherby put his hand on her shoulder gently:

“It cannot be done, Julia,” said he. “No jury would convict on so weak a charge.”

The tears sprang into Julia’s eyes:

“I hate to see men quarrel,” said she petulantly; “they always push each other about instead of reasoning.”

Gomme laughed loud and long:

“Ah, Julia,” said he, tenderly taking her hand in his; “there are some things beyond reason. Take ourselves. The reasons why a certain little woman finds reasons for not being reasonable—oh, bother!”

The door shut with a loud slam, and Noll came into the room, trailing the office broom after him.

“I say, Julia,” he said; “it’s very soothing and nice, but there’s some one coming.”

He shot the broom into a corner, and vaulted on to his high stool, as Julia put herself as far from Netherby as the office would allow.

Footsteps came to the door.