Читать книгу Captain Nicholas - Hugh Walpole - Страница 6

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The face of the house where she, her sister, her two brothers, her three children had all been born always delighted her with every fresh vision of it. It was a tall thin house, the stone pearl-coloured, the windows high and rather narrow, the chimney pots a little twisted, four white steps to the door, and above the door a stone teapot that had been carved there when the house began its history somewhere about 1710. In a changing world—“and what a changing world!”—thought Fanny—the beautiful pale colours, the dignity and quietness of this house meant something. And then when you considered all the life that had flourished inside it—the brocades and patches, the sedan chairs that had waited outside the door, the teapot serenely watching them, and, later, the crinolines, the wickedly narrow waists, the young men with whiskers, the beards, the barrel organs, the screens covered with pictures from the Illustrateds, the births, the deaths, the quarrels and reconciliations—“and now!” thought Fanny. But at that she could wait no longer, but must, at once, let herself in with her key to see whether Edward was hungry for his tea, what Nell had done about the Frobishers, and whether Romney had sold the French picture to the rich American (now becoming in London so rare a bird!) as this morning he had hoped to do.

Then, inside the hall, these surmises were as though they had never been, for Janet was coming down the stairs and, at sight of her mistress, stopped dead and, in that husky would-be-indifferent whisper that was so especially hers, said: “Oh, what do you think? The Captain is here!”

Janet, who had been present when Fanny was brought into the world, whose whole life had been spent in one long determination never in any circumstances to allow a thought of emotion, pleasure, pain, or interest to colour her words, was on this occasion defeated. For her voice trembled as she spoke, and into her grey eyes there came that shadow of anxiety, of tenderness even, for her mistress, child, and friend.

“The Captain! ... Nicholas!” and Fanny stayed where she was, almost dropping the parcel that held the tumblers.

“Yes. He’s in the drawing room. And with his little girl. Them’s his boxes.”

She came down the stairs and stood beside Fanny, her tall gaunt figure drawn stiffly up as though she would defy the world.

They continued to whisper.

“But he never sent a line. He hasn’t written for ten years.”

“He’s here, waiting for you, with his little girl!”

“He’s come to stay?”

“It looks like it.”

“Is no one there?”

“No, Mr. Matthew’s out walking and Miss Grace is in her room and——”

But Fanny waited for no more. Thrusting the tumblers into Janet’s hand she hurried upstairs, threw open the drawing-room door. There, in front of the fire, his legs extended, perfectly at home, waited her brother Captain Nicholas Coventry. Beside him a little girl in a rather shabby black frock was standing.

“Oh, Nicholas!” Fanny cried, and she rushed at him, almost knocking over a small table, threw her arms round him and kissed him as though she would never let him go.

“Well, Fanny!” he cried, when he was at last released. “This is fine! This is splendid!”

She was near to tears, her cheeks were flushed, her hair tumbled with the embrace.

“Nicholas! ... And without a word! And after all this time! Oh, dear—but I was never so surprised in my life! Why didn’t you write? Why didn’t you telegraph? What does this mean? Have you come to stay?”

“Yes—Lizzie and I have come to stay if you will have us.”

“Have you? Why, of course we will! And this is Lizzie! Why, she was scarcely born when I saw her last. You remember—that Christmas at Caroline’s!” and she embraced the little girl, who was thin and pale and had large, round, dark eyes.

The Captain laughed, and his laugh was one of the jolliest in the world. He was a handsome man with as slight a figure now at forty-four as he had had at twenty, short, cropped grey hair, a little curly, a fresh rosy complexion, a short toothbrush moustache, and clothes that, if a little worn, fitted him quite perfectly. He was smart, he was neat, and he had small blue eyes. He patted her shoulder.

“Dear Fanny—this is a welcome. I didn’t know how you’d take it. I said to Lizzie—‘We’ll leave our boxes in the hall, for they may not want us—it may not be convenient.’ ”

“Want you! Convenient!” cried Fanny. “Why, it’s the most wonderful thing! But where have you been? Where have you come from? I haven’t had a line for ten years, you know——”

“I know. I wonder I had the cheek to turn up at all. I said to Lizzie: ‘If they do take us in, it will be the most marvellous charity, because nobody has behaved worse than I have. It’s only,’ I told Lizzie, ‘because your Aunt Fanny is the best-natured, kindest creature in the world that I’ve any hope.’ ... We’ve come from Italy, from San Remo.”

“From San Remo? Oh, but you must be famished!” She rushed across the room and rang a bell. She turned back towards them, her eyes shining, her hands outstretched.

“But it’s wonderful to see you, Nick. And not a bit altered, just the same. A little greyer perhaps ... !”

“And you’re the same, too.”

“Oh, no! I’m getting an old, old woman. Ten years!” She stood looking at them, smiling, tears in her eyes. It was too wonderful! Too ... !

And then she was practical.

“But you’ll want to wash. And they must take up your bags. Let me see! The Brown spare room. That’ll be the thing. It gets the sun. I’ll tell them to light a fire. And you’ll like Lizzie near you. There’s a small bedroom quite close that Edward used to have——”

Nicholas laughed. “It doesn’t matter where you put us. We’re regular gipsies, aren’t we, Lizzie? Don’t you bother about us, Fanny.”

“Bother about you! Of course I’ll bother about you.” She then realized that Lizzie had not spoken a word, but continued to regard her with steady, unblinking eyes.

“You poor little thing!” She went up to her and kissed her. The child’s cheek was very cold. “You must be worn out and ravenous.”

Rose the parlourmaid came in. Instructions were given. Fanny led the two travellers upstairs, into the Brown room (which wasn’t brown at all, but had a wall paper with robins), and then Lizzie was shown the small room, and the boxes were brought in and the fires were lit.

After all this Fanny said:

“And now I’ll leave you. Come straight down to the drawing room as soon as you’ve washed. The others will be all there in a moment. They’ll be so excited!”

She went up to Nicholas and kissed him again. “Dear Nicholas! I hope you’re going to stay for ever so long. You owe it us, you know, after the way you’ve behaved.”

He patted her cheek.

“As long as you’ll have us, Fanny dear.”

As soon as she had left him she hurried up to the schoolroom to see that Edward had his tea. Here, in this room with its picture-covered screens, its shelves with the old books, a worn rocking-horse without a tail, the children had lived, and now that Nell and Romney had grown up it remained with Edward as its only master. He regarded it now as entirely his, loved it with a passion, and resented intensely if anyone tried to alter even the smallest detail in it. Here he had his tea, his boiled egg, his toast and his jam. Here he pursued his own secret and mysterious life, and here he insisted that his mother should watch him cut the top off his egg.

He was waiting for her now, his school books piled on the table, his top hat thrown onto a chair, and his bright birdlike eyes watching the door. His features were plain, his complexion sallow, and his mouth large, but he was not unattractive, for he had energy, he had curiosity, and he was able to run his life (which seemed to him an extraordinary, adventurous, and most unusual life) by himself.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he said to her gravely.

“I’m sorry, darling.” She sat down beside him and poured out his tea. “But what do you think has happened? Your Uncle Nicholas has come with his little girl.”

“Uncle Nicholas?” he said, with his eyes on the jam (he had expected for some reason that it would be apricot, and very disappointingly it was plum). “That’s the wicked one, isn’t it?”

“Wicked! No, darling. Wherever did you get such an idea from?”

“I heard Father call him a ne’er-do-well once, and I asked Mr. Foster what a ne’er-do-well was and he said someone who wasn’t any good.”

“Oh, that only means” (she watched him while he cut off the top of his egg, an operation that he performed with the most perfect dexterity) “someone who moves about. Ever since your uncle left the army he’s been moving about. You see, after his wife died he felt lonely—and then he hasn’t very much money. And he has a little girl to support.”

“A little girl?” asked Edward. “What’s her name?”

“Lizzie.”

“Lizzie. Well, I don’t think much of that for a name. Mother, all my algebra was right this morning. Paunchy seemed quite pleased for once, and, Mother, can Bond Minor come to tea on Saturday? He’s not a bad sort if you know him, and he’s been very decent about hockey. You see ...”

And he entered into a long history. While he talked, her mind wandered. As a rule every detail of Edward’s day (of Nell’s and Romney’s also) was absorbing to her. But now the consciousness that Nicholas was in the house, that he was, at this very moment, washing his hands on the floor below, that he had arrived and intended to remain—this great surprise drove for the moment even the family from her mind. She had always been a little shy of Nicholas, shy of him and adoring him both at the same time. He had been (and was still, no doubt) by far the cleverest of the family. It had seemed always that there was nothing he could not do if he cared to do it. That he had not cared had been astonishing to her. When, at the outbreak of war, he had at once joined up, that was part of his general courage and enterprise, but when, at the end of it, he had remained in the army she had been sorry. The army was not the place for his gifts. He read, he painted charming pictures, he was most modern in all his views. He has always been ahead of the others in his attitude to life—bold, audacious, Fanny often thought him. He had so much charm that people fell down before him like ninepins, and yet with all this, with his charm, his looks, his brains, he had not—as Fanny was compelled to admit—done very much with his life. What indeed he had done in the last ten years she did not know. He had married, towards the end of the war, Essie Lawrence, an odd, quiet, reserved little thing, and when Lizzie was a year old Essie had died of pneumonia in Paris. They had all written letters of sympathy, but not a word had been received in reply. The others had ceased to write: only Fanny had persisted, sending long family letters twice or thrice a year to the address of his bankers in Paris. He had never answered: she had expected never to hear again, and now here he was, as alive and charming and affectionate as he had ever been, here without a word, without even a telegram!

But the very sight of him had made her happy. Poor Nicholas—without a home, widowed so soon, with that sad, pale, silent little girl. She sighed.

“... so I said, ‘Well, keep it yourself—I don’t want your silly old watch,’ and he said ...”

“Yes, darling. Is your egg all right?”

“Top hole.”

“I must go down now and give Uncle Nicholas some tea.”

Edward said nothing to that. When he was disappointed he said nothing. His mother always stayed with him for at least half an hour. He had lots more to tell her. So he said nothing and helped himself to jam.

She went down to the drawing room to find her mother-in-law and her husband and the tea all waiting.

Mrs. Carlisle was seventy-three years of age and a spare, fine old lady with white hair, a long nose, and a small determined mouth. When her son Charles had married Fanny Coventry she had lamented his fate as though he had lost an arm or leg. But that was quite natural, for so passionately did she love her son—her only child—that no woman on earth could ever be good enough for him. For twenty-three years she had maintained this attitude, and neither Charles’s married happiness nor Fanny’s good nature could modify it. Her commiseration, however, had been enlarged by her worship of Charles’s children, who never, so perfect were they, could have a mother worthy of them. Apart from this, she liked Fanny. If Charles had to have a wife, and Romney, Nell, and Edward a mother, why, then Fanny was a good woman who did her best, and it was not her fault, poor dear, that she was placed in a situation altogether above her talents. That was old Mrs. Carlisle’s domestic attitude. She paid an annual sum towards the upkeep of the house and, although what she paid was a great deal less than what she received, this gave her a right to interfere when she thought it proper—and she thought it proper quite frequently.

The other thing about her was that until the last two years she had “enjoyed” perfect health. Enjoyed was not perhaps the word because she had accepted this same health as her absolute right and had scorned her fellow human beings for their physical weakness. When, therefore, last year a little rheumatism had visited her legs, and her heart had begun once and again to trouble her, she had been greatly surprised and indignant, rather as though someone had been rude to her in the street or a man pinched her leg in an omnibus.

As to Charles, he was a square-shouldered, jolly-faced man with grey hair, a short sturdy body, and amused, tolerant eyes. He was, in fact, like five hundred and fifty thousand other men except to his mother and wife, who thought him extraordinary, and his children, who thought him an old dear.

He had been in the Stock Exchange all his life, like his father before him, and had retired three years ago. In these difficult times—it was the spring of 1932—his investments were not so flourishing, and he worried, sometimes, in the silence of the night about the future. At the top of the house he had a large room where he did wood-carving. Except for finance and one secret he had no troubles. He loved his wife and his children. His home was more to him than anything else in the world.

When Fanny came in she saw at once that they had not heard the news.

“Charles! Mother! Nicholas has arrived!”

She saw at once that neither of them was very glad. The old lady shut her mouth tightly and said not a word.

Charles said: “Nicholas! But why?”

“Why?” said Fanny, exasperated as in her impetuosity she so often was with Charles’s slowness. “Why? Because he’s come to stay—with his little girl.”

“Come to stay?” said Charles. “For how long?”

“As long as he likes,” said Fanny, wishing for a moment, as so many loving wives so often do, that she had married someone different.

“Where’s he come from?”

“From San Remo.”

“What’s he been doing there?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve had no time to ask him anything. He’s upstairs washing his hands——”

“Well, I’m damned!” Charles planted his hands on his stout knees. “What do you say to that, Mother?”

“What do I say?” The old lady tossed her head. “It’s Fanny’s house and it’s Fanny’s brother.”

Just here, fortunately, Matthew came in. Matthew Coventry, who was forty-five, two years older than his sister Fanny and one year older than Nicholas, was a little man, oddly short beside his brother and two sisters, who were all tall. He was scrupulously neat in a dark suit and a blue bow tie with white spots. His round face was kindly and humorous and bore a striking resemblance to Fanny’s, although his colour was pale beside Fanny’s brilliance.

The trouble with Matthew was, as Mrs. Carlisle often pointed out to her son, that he did nothing. He had been once, years ago, a solicitor, but having some means of his own he had put some of it into the upkeep of the Smith Square house and taken up his abode there. He was perfectly happy. His most striking characteristic, at first sight, was his tranquillity. He brought with him, wherever he was, an air of rest and peace. Even Mrs. Carlisle admitted this: “I like Matthew about the house. He quiets you down, and that’s the stranger, Charles, because he’s undoubtedly mad.”

“No, not mad,” Charles would say, smiling. “Religious.”

“Same thing,” said old Mrs. Carlisle, who was, I’m sorry to admit, a complete pagan.

He came in very quietly now, and when Fanny said: “Matthew—Nicholas has come,” he smiled and remarked:

“How nice! We haven’t seen him for ages!”

He sat down, crossed his legs, and smiled at the old lady, of whom he was very fond. In her heart she liked him, too, but now, looking at him, she thought: “Really, it’s terrible of Matthew—doing nothing with his life whatever and looking so contented. His religion ought to tell him that it isn’t right.” And she never reflected for a single moment that her beloved Charles also did nothing.

Matthew said: “Where’s he come from?”

“From San Remo,” said Fanny, pleased that someone had come in who would be glad about Nicholas. “And he’s brought his little girl.”

“Is he going to stay with us?”

“Of course.”

“That’s good.”

At that moment Nicholas and his daughter Lizzie came in. Nicholas had looked spruce enough when he had arrived, but now he was as elegant, as slim, as straight-backed as an officer on parade. Lizzie was in her same little black dress. She held her father’s hand and looked directly in front of her. Nicholas took her up to the old lady. “Old Lady,” he said, “this is my beautiful daughter.”

He had always in the old days called her “Old Lady,” and for some reason she liked it, although in general she hated to be reminded of her age. She could not abide him, she despised him utterly, but nevertheless she liked him to call her “Old Lady.”

She paid no attention to him but drew the little girl to her.

“So you’re little Lizzie, are you?”

“Yes,” said Lizzie.

“How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“Dear me, what a terrible age! You poor little thing, you look half starved. Nicholas, you haven’t been looking after her.”

He laughed, taking them all in with his merry eye. “Oh, she looks after me! Didn’t you know? ... How are you, Charles? Getting fat, aren’t you? Hullo, Matthew! You haven’t changed a bit! By Jove, it’s grand to be here!” He sat down on the sofa, and Lizzie at once sat down beside him. “I don’t suppose you any of you want me, but Lizzie and I couldn’t help it. We just had to come. Didn’t we, Liz? And you can turn us out as soon as you like.”

“Had to come!” snorted Mrs. Carlisle. “When for ten years you haven’t been near us nor have you written to one of us.”

He pulled up his trousers a little, gave his moustache a pinch; his bright blue eyes seemed to sparkle in the firelight.

“Oh, but I’m no good at all! You’ve always known that. I never write to anyone—I’ve got no conscience about anything. Besides, who cares to hear from me? What have I got to tell anyone that’s of the slightest interest? But I’ve thought of you often—and talked about you. Haven’t I, Lizzie?”

Fanny noticed that he was always appealing to his daughter but never apparently expected an answer from her. He planted his hands on his knees.

“Be nice to us for a day or two. We really need some kindness shown us. And then we’ll move on again.”

Fanny went up to him and kissed him on the forehead.

“Of course we’ll be nice to you. We’re terribly pleased that you’ve come.”

He looked up at her, smiling, and touched her hand with his.

“We’ll be nice to you,” old Mrs. Carlisle said, smiling grimly. “If you’ll be good.”

“I can’t be good,” Nicholas answered. “It isn’t in my nature. But I’ll try to behave while I’m here.” Then he went on, looking about him: “Oh, it is nice to be here! Just the same room—not altered a bit. How often in exile I’ve thought of the Bonington and Wilson—you could get a pretty sum for them now, you know—and the screen with the dragons, and the glass-topped table with the seals and garnets and gold boxes. Thanks, Matthew—I will have some of that cake—the plum one—and plenty of it.”

The door opened again and Nell and Romney came in, so that all the family were now in the room save Edward, who was doing geography upstairs, and Aunt Grace.

Nell, who was twenty years of age, was very pretty, looking like so many of her age, half a boy with her short hair and slim figure. Her hair was fair and her face so youthful and so gentle in expression that the slight artificiality of the eyebrows and the carmined lips would have been masklike and unreal had they been at all exaggerated. She did not exaggerate, but painted and modelled just enough to be in line with her generation. She was wearing a little dark blue hat.

Romney, who was twenty-two, had a figure as slim as his sister’s, but he was as dark as she was fair. He looked distinguished and superior to the run of young men, which was what he wanted to look, but in his heart he was afraid that he was not superior to anybody. He was often unhappy because he felt superior and inferior both at the same time. Life seemed to him increasingly difficult, and then there was the awful question as to whether there was any point in any of it. All his clever friends thought that there was no point. He longed for affection but assumed an attitude of cold heartless indifference—except to his mother, whom he frankly and openly loved although he thought her sometimes absurd and always behind the times. Once and again, in the secrecy of his chambers, he wondered whether to be altogether behind the times mustn’t be rather comforting.

They were greatly surprised to see their Uncle Nicholas, whom they remembered scarcely at all. But they showed no surprise whatever and, after saying that they were glad to see him, devoted themselves to their tea. Soon they were all talking together and Fanny could sit quietly by and watch them.