Читать книгу Captain Nicholas - Hugh Walpole - Страница 7

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This was often the favourite hour of the day for her because, unlike so many families, they enjoyed meeting once a day and spending an hour in one another’s company, removed from the rest of humanity if possible. Of course the outside world did come to tea at times, on occasion invited and on occasion because it had nothing better to do. Mrs. Frobisher, for example, was one of the latter kind. But, every week, there were days when no one came, and then they would sit, eat and drink, gossip, argue, and enjoy their hour. In this as in many other things they were an unusual family, and especially in the love that bound them all together. For though old Mrs. Carlisle might snort, Charles argue, Nell and Romney mock, and although they were not at all family-proud but regarded themselves as quite ordinary, nevertheless they cared for one another as they cared for no one outside.

Of course this couldn’t last, Fanny often assured herself. Nell would fall in love, Romney marry, someone surely one day would attack their defenses. How strong was this family bond? Could they keep it? Yes. Fanny believed that they could. There was some underlying fidelity, trust, devotion here that was stronger than the world.

She had long ago been sure that this outside modern restless, reckless world must be accepted and propitiated. She herself neither understood it nor liked it. It was not her world, but it was the world of Romney, Nell, and Edward, so she tried to read their books, understand their pictures, and listened (often with alarm and a secret consciousness that all her tastes—religious, moral, æsthetic—were affronted) to their opinions on morality, marriage, art. She could not change these things. Nothing that she could say would alter anything, only because she loved them with all her heart she could show them that she was behind them in whatever happened to them and would love them whatever they did. Nevertheless Nell and Romney were good. She was sure of that and, whatever they might say, their ideas of honour and fidelity and courage were her own ideas. She could trust them anywhere.

And now Nicholas had joined the family. As she looked at him, laughing, joking, indulging to the full his famous charm, she smiled. What an extraordinary man! For there he was as though he had never been away, drawing them all in! He must be aware that old Mrs. Carlisle and Charles disliked him and didn’t want him—but did that matter to him? Not in the least! He was confident, as he had always been, that he would succeed. And yet he had not succeeded—with more talents than any of them he was the failure. What, she suddenly wondered, was he living on? He had had years ago his share of their father’s money, but she knew that also years ago he had spent it. He could not be earning anything now unless he was selling his pictures. Perhaps he was.... Perhaps over there in Italy he had become a famous painter.

So she suddenly said:

“Nick—what about the painting? Probably you’re a famous painter now and we none of us know it.”

He had been joking with Nell. (It was plain that he greatly admired her.) He turned, smiling, to Fanny.

“Oh, my dear, didn’t you know? I’ve given it up long ago. I wasn’t good enough. It’s no use in these days being a second-rater. There are too many clever people about. Then this modern painting, which is all I care about, is so easy to do badly that if you admire it you simply daren’t try.”

“I sold the Matisse today,” Romney broke in. “I hooked the old boy at last. It was exactly like landing a salmon. But we got him. And at our price, too. All the same, he didn’t do so badly. The price was stiff, but it was a good Matisse. A girl in a lovely red hat and a white feather.”

“And what else?” asked Nell.

“Nothing at all except a silver garter. That was the trouble. He was frightened of what his wife would say. He brought her in finally, and the joke was that she admired it immensely.”

“Well,” began Nick, “I saw a Matisse the other day in Paris——”

But he was interrupted. Grace Coventry came in, flustered as usual. She was a large, stout, rosy woman, often smiling and generally bewildered. As she came forward she said:

“Isn’t that dreadful? I went fast asleep. I was reading such an interesting book, too! And now tea’s over. Well, never mind”—she smiled brightly on everyone—“I deserve it.”

“Of course tea isn’t over,” Fanny said. “Grace, here’s a surprise for you! Nicholas has come——”

“Nicholas!” Grace stood, confused, then she went rather timidly to him and kissed him. “Well, I never! I never did! How perfectly lovely!”

“How are you, Grace?” Nicholas said. “As blooming as ever, I see. This is Lizzie. This is your Aunt Grace, Lizzie, whom I’ve so often told you about. She’ll take you into the kitchen and give you jam, and she’ll bring you hot drinks at night, and if you ever have a cold she’ll sit up all night with you.”

Everyone laughed, and Grace tee-heed and laughed, too, and suddenly kissed Nicholas again and sat down on the sofa and took Lizzie’s hand.

There had come in with her a large black cat. This cat was known as Becky Sharp for many reasons. One was that it had most brilliant and piercing green eyes, another that it was entirely callous about its almost incredibly recurring offspring, another that it was a cat always out for its own advantage and would attach itself ruthlessly to anyone who had anything to offer. Becky Sharp was one of Fanny’s weaknesses. She knew all about its hard and grasping character, but she loved it, partly because she remembered the gay and enterprising kitten that it had once been. And the cat did appear to have an affection for Fanny. It followed her about the house, liked to settle on her lap, was distressed, apparently, when she was away.

It advanced now and stood beside her, looking up. Fanny poured its milk into a saucer.

“Yes, you know,” Grace was saying, smiling round upon everyone and especially on Granny Carlisle, whom she always persisted in regarding as a weak, delicate old lady who needed looking after and protecting—“there I was. I went fast asleep, and it was at one of the most interesting chapters in Warwick Deeping’s delightful book. I know you don’t read novels, Nicholas. Let me put your cup down. No, I insist.... Yes, and oh, Fanny” (here she opened a large red bag which she always carried with her everywhere), “I forgot to tell you I bought the small hand towels and the other things this morning as I said I would, and they were two pounds two shillings exactly—you gave me three pounds, you remember. Here is the change.”

“Oh, don’t bother just now, dear.”

“No, but I must. Or I shall certainly spend it myself.”

She laid the little pile of silver on a small table, looked at it with satisfaction, then said:

“Shall I get your sewing, Granny?” (She always called Mrs. Carlisle “Granny” because the children did.) “Or would you like your book?”

“I don’t want anything at all, Grace, thank you. Nothing whatever. I’m going to my room very shortly.”

Grace looked round to see what else she could do for anybody, and finding nothing she concentrated again upon Nicholas.

“But where have you been all this time, Nicholas? Where have you been? And never writing to one of us. Too bad. But there, I expect you’ve been so terribly busy. One’s always so busy abroad. Thank you, dear.” (For she had dropped her bag, which Nell picked up for her.) “And dear little Lizzie. We’ll have to see what we can do to make her happy while she’s here, won’t we, Fanny? You shall come for walks with me, and there are lots of books in the schoolroom that I’m sure you haven’t read. What do you like best to amuse yourself with, darling?”

Everyone waited for the answer, for until now the child had been quite silent. Only her father looked at her with ironical confidence.

“Thank you very much,” said Lizzie. “I think I like watching people best.”

“You see,” Nicholas explained, “she’s always with me, and I keep such very odd company that she has a good deal to watch altogether, don’t you, Lizzie?”

“And where’s she been to school?” asked Grace.

“She’s never been to school.”

“Never been to——! Never to school!” Grace raised her soft hands, which were small and beautiful. “Oh, but, Nicholas! What have you been about?”

“I don’t believe in schools. I never learnt anything at mine. Lizzie can read, write, and speak Italian, German, and French, and she knows more about human nature than I do—so her education’s all right.”

Grace was about to exclaim again, but Charles interrupted in his slow way. (This was the family fashion, so long acquired that it was now like second nature, of checking Grace.)

“It has been one of the grandest days I’ve ever seen. I walked through the Park to Marble Arch. I never saw such colours!”

Fanny looked at him with a little anxiety. There had been something the matter with Charles during the last week. He was not happy about something. He was worried, she was sure. But she said nothing. Only her eyes met his, and they both smiled.

The little gold clock on the mantelpiece struck six, and there was a general movement. A family that is much together forms habits, and one of the habits here was that at six o’clock the family session was over and everyone went about his or her own business.

Charles got up, yawned, stretched himself. “Yes,” he said. “One of the loveliest evenings I’ve ever seen. Spring. You could smell flowers everywhere. Now, Nick, make yourself at home. We dine at seven forty-five. Glad you’ve come.” He put his hand for a moment on Nicholas’s shoulder.

“Already,” Fanny thought happily, “he doesn’t dislike him as much as he did.” She went off to see how Edward was getting on.

They all went their several ways. Soon the large room, with its pleasant glow from the lamps and fire, its silver-shining tea things, the large white bowl with early spring flowers, the old warmly coloured pictures, the bookcases and the deep-red lacquer screen, had only Nicholas and Lizzie for its occupants.

“Well, Liz,” he remarked, “I don’t think we shall do so badly here for a bit. What do you think?”

“I like the old lady best,” she said. “I don’t like the one with the red bag at all.” Her words had a slight touch of foreign accent.

She waited quietly for her father’s next move.

She did not seem in the least astonished at it when it came. Nicholas looked, with a light glance, about the room, then with a little quick gesture swept the pile of silver that Grace had placed on the small table into his pocket.

Becky Sharp watched him with intent green eyes.