Читать книгу Maradick at Forty: A Transition - Hugh Walpole - Страница 6

“I beg your pardon,” he said slowly, “I have been very rude. I didn’t quite know what I was saying.”

For a moment they were silent. The chatter went on, and the waiter was standing a little way away; he had not heard anything.

“I am rather tired,” said Mrs. Maradick; “I think I’ll go up, if you don’t mind.”

He rose and offered her his arm, and they went out together. She did not look at him, and neither of them spoke.

Tony Gale was absurdly excited that evening, and even his father’s presence scarcely restrained him. Sir Richard never said very much, but he generally looked a great deal; to-night he enjoyed his dinner. Lady Gale watched Tony a little anxiously. She had always been the wisest of mothers in that she had never spoken before her time; the whole duty of parents lies in the inviting of their children’s confidence by never asking for it, and she had never asked. Then she had met Miss Alice Du Cane and had liked her, and it had struck her that here was the very girl for Tony. Tony liked her and she liked Tony. In every way it seemed a thing to be desired, and this invitation to accompany them to Cornwall was a natural move in the right direction. They were both, of course, very young; but then people did begin very young nowadays, and Tony had been “down” from Oxford a year and ought to know what he was about. Alice was a charming girl, and the possessor of much sound common-sense; indeed, there was just the question whether she hadn’t got a little too much. The Du Canes were excellently connected; on the mother’s side there were the Forestiers of Portland Hall down in Devon, and the Craddocks of Newton Chase—oh! that was all right. And then Tony had a fortune of his own, so that he was altogether independent, and one couldn’t be quite sure of what he would do, so that it was a satisfaction to think that he really cared for somebody that so excellently did! It promised to be a satisfactory affair all round, and even Sir Richard, a past master in the art of finding intricate objections to desirable plans, had nothing to say. Of course, it was a matter that needed looking at from every point of view. Of the Du Canes, there were not many. Colonel Du Cane had died some years before, and Lady Du Cane, a melancholy, faded lady who passed her time in such wildly exciting health-resorts as Baden-Baden and Marienbad, had left her daughter to the care of her aunt, Miss Perryn. There were other Du Canes, a brother at Eton and a sister in France, but they were too young to matter; and then there was lots of money, so really Alice had nothing to complain of.

But Lady Gale was still old-fashioned enough to mind a little about mutual affection. Did they really care for each other? Of course it was so difficult to tell about Tony because he cared about everyone, and was perpetually enthusiastic about the most absurdly ordinary people. His geese were all swans, there was no question; but then, as he always retorted, that was better than thinking that your swans, when you did meet them, were all geese. Still, it did make it difficult to tell. When, for instance, he rated a man he had met in the hall of the hotel for the first time, and for one minute precisely, on exactly the same scale as he rated friends of a lifetime, what were you to think? Then Alice, too, was difficult.

She was completely self-possessed and never at a loss, and Lady Gale liked people who made mistakes. You always knew exactly what Alice would say or think about any subject under discussion. She had the absolutely sane and level-headed point of view that is so annoying to persons of impulsive judgment. Not that Lady Gale was impulsive; but she was wise enough to know that some of the best people were, and she distrusted old heads on young shoulders. Miss Du Cane had read enough to comment sensibly and with authority on the literature of the day. She let you express your opinion and then agreed or differed with the hinting of standards long ago formed and unflinchingly sustained, and some laughing assertion of her own ignorance that left you convinced of her wisdom. She always asserted that she was shallow, and shallowness was therefore the last fault of which she was ever accused.

She cared for Tony, there was no doubt of that; but then, so did everybody. Lady Gale’s only doubt was lest she was a little too matter-of-fact about it all; but, after all, girls were very different nowadays, and the display of any emotion was the unpardonable sin.

“Grouse! Hurray!” Tony displayed the menu. “The first of the year. I’m jolly glad I didn’t go up with Menzies to Scotland; it’s much better here, and I’m off shooting this year——”

“That’s only because you always like the place you’re in better than any other possible place, Tony,” said Alice. “And I wish I had the virtue. Oh! those dreary months with mother at Baden! They’re hanging over me still.”

“Well, I expect they gave your mother a great deal of pleasure, my dear,” said Lady Gale, “and that after all is something, even nowadays.”

“No, they didn’t, that’s the worst of it. She didn’t want me a bit. There was old Lady Pomfret and Mrs. Rainer, and oh! lots of others; bridge, morning, noon, and night, and I used to wander about and mope.”

“You ought to have been writing letters to Tony and me all the time,” said Rupert, laughing. “You’ll never get such a chance again.”

“Well, I did, didn’t I, Tony? Speak up for me, there’s a brick!”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Tony. “They were jolly short, and there didn’t seem to be much moping about it.”

“That was to cheer you up. You didn’t want me to make you think that I was depressed, did you?”

Sir Richard had finished his grouse and could turn his attention to other things. He complained of the brilliancy of the lights, and some of them were turned out.

“Where’s your man, Tony?” said Rupert. “Let’s see him.”

“Over there by the window—a man and a woman at a table by themselves—a big man, clean shaven. There, you can see him now, behind that long waiter—a pretty woman in white, laughing.”

“Oh, well! He’s better than some,” Rupert grudgingly admitted. “Not so bad—strong, muscular, silent hero type—it’s a pretty woman.” He fastened his eye-glass, an attention that he always paid to anyone who really deserved it.

“Yes, I like him,” said Lady Gale; “what did you say his name was?”

“I didn’t quite catch it; Marabin, or Mara—no, I don’t know—Mara—something. But I say, what are we going to do to-night? We must do something. I was never so excited in my life, and I don’t a bit know why.”

“Oh, that will pass,” said Rupert; “we know your moods, Tony. You must take him out into the garden, Alice, and quiet him down. Oh! look, they’re going, those Marabins or whatever their names are. She carries herself well, that woman.”

Dinner always lasted a long time, because Sir Richard enjoyed his food and had got a theory about biting each mouthful to which he entirely attributed his healthy old age; it entailed lengthy meals.

They were almost the last people in the room when at length they rose to go, and it was growing late.

“It’s so sensible of them not to pull blinds down,” said Tony, “the moon helps digestion.” Sir Richard, as was his custom, went slowly and majestically up to his room, the others into the garden.

“Take Alice to see the view from the terraces, Rupert,” said Lady Gale. “Tony and I will walk about here a little.”

She put her arm through her son’s, and they passed up and down the walks in front of the hotel. The vision of the town in the distance was black, the gardens were cold and white under the moon.

“Oh! it is beautiful.” Lady Gale drew a deep breath. “And when I’m in a place like this, and it’s England, I’m perpetually wondering why so many people hurry away abroad somewhere as soon as they’ve a minute to spare. Why, there’s nothing as lovely as this anywhere!”

Tony laughed. “There’s magic in it,” he said. “I hadn’t set foot in the place for quarter of an hour before I knew that it was quite different from all the other places I’d ever been in. I wasn’t joking just now at dinner. I meant it quite seriously. I feel as if I were just in for some enormous adventure—as if something important were most certainly going to happen.”

“Something important’s always happening, especially at your time of life; which reminds me, Tony dear, that I want to talk to you seriously.”

He looked up in her face. “What’s up, mother?”

“Nothing’s up, and perhaps you will think me a silly interfering old woman; but you know mothers are queer things, Tony, and you can’t say that I’ve bothered you very much in days past.”

“No.” He suddenly put his arm round her neck, pulled her head towards his and kissed her. “It’s all right. There’s nobody here to see, and it wouldn’t matter a bit if there were. No, you’re the very sweetest and best mother that mortal man ever had, and you’re cursed with an ungrateful, undutiful scapegrace of a son, more’s the pity.”

“Ah,” she said, shaking her head, “that’s just what I mean. Your mother is a beautiful and delightful joke like everything and everybody else. It’s time, Tony, that you were developing. You’re twenty-four, and you seem to me to be exactly where you were at eighteen. Now I don’t want to hurry or worry you, but the perpetual joke won’t do any longer. It isn’t that I myself want you to be anything different, because I don’t. I only want you to be happy; but life’s hard, and I don’t think you can meet it by playing with it.”

He said nothing, but he gave her arm a little squeeze.

“Then you know,” she went on, “you have absolutely no sense of proportion. Everybody and everything are on exactly the same scale. You don’t seem to me to have any standard by which you estimate things. Everybody is nice and delightful. I don’t believe you ever disliked anybody, and it has always been a wonder to all of us that you haven’t lost more from suffering so many fools gladly. I always used to think that as soon as you fell in love with somebody—really and properly fell in love with some nice girl—that that seriousness would come, and so I didn’t mind. I don’t want to hurry you in that direction, dear, but I would like to see you settled. Really, Tony, you know, you haven’t changed at all, you’re exactly the same; so much the same that I’ve wondered a little once or twice whether you really care for anybody.”

“Poor old mother, and my flightiness has worried you, has it? I am most awfully sorry. But God made the fools as well as the wits, and He didn’t ask the fools which lot they wanted to belong to.”

“No, but, Tony, you aren’t a fool, that’s just it. You’ve got the brain of the family somewhere, only you seem to be ashamed of it and afraid that people should know you’d got it, and your mother would rather they did know. And then, dear, there is such a thing as family pride. It isn’t snobbery, although it looks like it; it only means, don’t be too indiscriminate. Don’t have just anybody for a friend. It doesn’t matter about their birth, but it does matter about their opinions and surroundings. Some of them have been—well, scarcely clean, dear. I’m sure that Mr. Templar wasn’t a nice man, although I dare say he was very clever; and that man to-night, for instance: I dare say he’s an excellent man in every way, but you owe it to the family to find out just a little about him first; you can’t tell just in a minute——”

He stopped her for a minute and looked up at her quite seriously. “I’ll be difficult to change, mother, I’m afraid. How you and father ever produced such a vagabond I don’t know, but vagabond I am, and vagabond I’ll remain in spite of Oxford and the Bond Street tailor. But never you grieve, mother dear, I’ll promise to tell you everything—don’t you worry.”

“Yes. But what about settling?”

“Oh, settling!” he answered gravely. “Vagabonds oughtn’t to marry at all.”

“But you’re happy about everything? You’re satisfied with things as they are?”

“Of course!” he cried. “Just think what kind of a beast I’d be if I wasn’t. Of course, it’s splendid. And now, mother, the jaw’s over and I’m the very best of sons, and it’s a glorious night, and we’ll be as happy as the day is long.”

They knelt on the seat at the south end and looked down into the crooked streets; the moon had found its way there now, and they could almost read the names on the shops.

Suddenly Lady Gale put her hand against his cheek. “Tony, dear, I care for you more than anything in the world. You know it. And, Tony, always do what you feel is the straight thing and I shall know it is right for you, and I shall trust you; but, Tony, don’t marry anybody unless you are quite certain that it is the only person. Don’t let anything else influence you. Marriage with the wrong person is——” Her voice shook for a moment. “Promise me, Tony.”

“I promise,” he answered solemnly, and she took his arm and they walked back down the path.

Rupert and Alice were waiting for them and they all went in together. Lady Gale and Rupert said good night. Rupert was always tired very early in the evening unless there was bridge or a dance, but Alice and Tony sat in the sitting-room by the open window watching the moonlight on the sea and listening to the muffled thunder of the waves. Far out into the darkness flashed the Porth Allen Lighthouse.

For a little while they were silent, then Tony suddenly said:

“I say, am I awfully young?”

She looked up. “Young?”

“Yes. The mater has been talking to me to-night. She says that it is time that I grew up, that I haven’t grown a bit since I was eighteen, and that it must be very annoying for everybody. Have you felt it, too?”

“Well, of course I know what she means. It’s absurd, but I always feel years older than you, although by age I’m younger. But oh! it’s difficult to explain; one always wants to rag with you. I’m always at my silliest when you’re there, and I hate being at my silliest.”

“I know you do, that’s your worst fault. But really, this is rather dreadful. I must proceed to grow up. But tell me honestly, am I a fool?”

“No, of course you’re not, you’re awfully clever. But that’s what we all think about you—you could do so many things and you’re not doing anything.”

He sat on the window-sill, swinging his legs.

“There was once,” he began, “the King of Fools, and he had a most splendid and widely attended Court; and one day the Wisest Man in Christendom came to see and be seen, and he talked all the wisest things that he had ever learnt, and the fools listened with all their ears and thought that they had never heard such folly, and after a time they shouted derisively, not knowing that he was the Wisest Man, ‘Why, he is the biggest fool of them all!’”

“The moral being?”

“Behold, the Wisest Man!” cried Tony, pointing dramatically at his breast. “There, my dear Alice, you have the matter in a nutshell.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” said Alice, laughing, “only it is scarcely convincing. Seriously, Tony, Lady Gale is right. Don’t be one of the rotters like young Seins or Rocky Culler or Dick Staines, who spend their whole day in walking Bond Street and letting their heads wag. Not, of course, that you’d ever be that sort, but it would be rather decent if you did something.”

“Well, I do,” he cried.

“What?” she said.

“I can shoot a gun, I can ride a horse, I can serve corkers from the back line at tennis, and score thirty at moderate cricket; I can read French, German, Italian. I can play bridge—well, fairly—I can speak the truth, eat meringues all day with no evil consequences, stick to a pal, and walk for ever and ever, Amen. Oh, but you make me vain!”

She laughed. “None of those things are enough,” she said. “You know quite well what I mean. You must take a profession; why not Parliament, the Bar, writing?—you could write beautifully if you wanted to. Oh, Tony!”

“I have one,” he said.

“Now! What?”

“The finest profession in the world—Odysseus, Jason, Cœur-de-Lion, St. Francis of Assisi, Wilhelm Meister, Lavengro. By the beard of Ahasuerus I am a wanderer!”

He struck an attitude and laughed, but there was a light in his eyes and his cheeks were flushed.

Then he added:

“Oh! what rot! There’s nobody so boring as somebody on his hobby. I’m sorry, Alice, but you led me on; it’s your own fault.”

“Do you know,” she said, “that is the first time, Tony, that I’ve ever heard you speak seriously about anything, and really you don’t do it half badly. But, at the same time, are you quite sure that you’re right ... now? What I mean is that things have changed so. I’ve heard people talk like that before, but it has generally meant that they were unemployed or something and ended up by asking for sixpence. It seems to me that there’s such a lot to be done now, and such a little time to do it in, that we haven’t time to go round looking for adventure; it isn’t quite right that we should if we’re able-bodied and can work.”

“Why, how serious we are all of a sudden,” he cried. “One would think you ran a girls club.”

“I do go down to Southwark a lot,” she answered. “And we’re badly in need of subscriptions. I’d meant to ask you before.”

“Who’s the unemployed now?” he said, laughing. “I thought it would end in that.”

“Well, I must go to bed,” she said, getting up from the window-sill. “It’s late and cold, and I’m sure we’ve had a most inspiring talk on both sides. Good night, old boy.”

“Ta-ta,” said Tony.

But after she had gone he sat by the window, thinking. Was it true that he was a bit of a loafer? Had he really been taking things too easily? Until these last two days he had never considered himself or his position at all. He had always been radiantly happy; self-questioning had been morbid and unnecessary. It was all very well for pessimists and people who wrote to the Times, but, with Pope, he hummed, “Whatever is, is best,” and thought no more about it.

But this place seemed to have changed all that. What was there about the place, he wondered? He had felt curiously excited from the first moment of his coming there, but he could give no reason for it. It was a sleepy little place, pretty and charming, of course, but that was all. But he had known no rest or peace; something must be going to happen. And then, too, there was Alice. He knew perfectly well why she had been asked to join them, and he knew that she knew. Before they had come down he had liked the idea. She was one of the best and true as steel. He had almost decided, after all, it was time that they settled down. And then, on coming here, everything had been different. Alice, his father, his mother, Rupert had changed; something was wrong. He did not, could not worry it out, only it was terribly hot, it was a beautiful night outside, and he wouldn’t be able to sleep for hours.

He passed quietly down the stairs and out into the garden. He walked down to the south end. It was most wonderful—the moon, the stars, the whirling light at sea, and, quite plainly, the noise of the fair.

He leant over the wall and looked down. He was suddenly conscious that some one else was there; a big man, in evening dress, smoking a cigar. Something about him, the enormous arms or the close-cropped hair, was familiar.

“Good evening,” said Tony.

It was Maradick. He looked up, and Tony at once wished that he hadn’t said anything. It was the face of a man who had been deep in his own thoughts and had been brought back with a shock, but he smiled.

“Good evening. It’s wonderfully beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I’m Gale,” said Tony apologetically, “I’m sorry if I interrupted you.”

“Oh no,” Maradick answered. “One can think at any time, and I wanted company. I suppose the rest of the hotel is in bed—rather a crime on a night like this.” Then he suddenly held up a warning finger. “Listen!” he said.

Quite distinctly, and high above the noise of the fair, came the voice of a man singing in the streets below. He sang two verses, and then it died away.

“It was a tune I heard last year,” Maradick said apologetically. “I liked it and had connected it with this place. I——” Then suddenly they heard it again.

They were both silent and listened together.