Читать книгу Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 7 - Karel Čapek, August Nemo, John Dos Passos - Страница 33

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MONTRAGEE HOUSE is decked out at its brightest. The noble owner, Evelyn, Duke of Ravensdale, is giving a ball this night, to which all the pearl of London society has been bidden. Flocks of royalties have been also invited, and nearly all have signified their intention of being present. It is a wonderful sight as one drives up to the entrance gates of the great mansion, which is ablaze with light. Every window is neatly framed in soft green moss, from out of which fairy lamps peep and sparkle like thousands of glow-worms. Festoons of roses twine around the porch pillars of the great front door, and the scene that greets the eye on entry almost baffles description. Floating throughout the corridors and vestibules come the soft sounds of dreamy music, the atmosphere is redolent with the sweet scent of rare and lovely flowers, the place is a wilderness of beautiful sights, as up and down the broad flights of the magnificent staircase well-known men and women come and go.

A burst of martial music ever and anon heralds the approach of royalty. As each successive arrival takes place, the brilliant crowd sways to and fro to catch a sight of the gods which it adores. Above, the sound of lively strains announces that dancing has begun, and every one hurries to take part in the pleasure of the light fantastic toe.

The dance music has suddenly ceased. Every one • has turned to ascertain the cause. The noble host is observed to be making for the centre of the magnificent suite of rooms where every one is enjoying his or herself. He carries in his hand a telegram, and with the other hand slightly raised, appears to be enjoining silence. Very striking to look at is Evelyn, Duke of Ravensdale. His age may be between twenty-five and twenty-six. He is very tall and broad-shouldered, his hair, dark as the raven’s wing, close curls about his forehead, which is high, and white, and intellectual. His eyes are also very dark, with a soft, dreamy look in them, his mouth firm set and well made, is sheltered by a long silken moustache.

Silence has sunk on all around. One might hear a pin drop so intense has— it become. Every one is on a tiptoe of expectation. The sight of that telegram has set every heart beating.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” calls out the duke, raising it on high, “I have good news for you all. This is a telegram from my dear friend. Hector D’Estrange. He has beaten his opponent by 2,330 votes, and is now member for the Douglasdale division of Dumfriesshire.”

What a shout goes up! Men and women cheer again and again. It is felt that the pinnacle of fame on which that young man rests has gone up higher in the scale of merited success. Even his enemies cannot help feeling glad, for Hector D’Estrange is a name to conjure by.

He’ll be Prime Minister before another year or two are gone,” exclaims Sir Randolph Fisticuffs, just a little jealously to a lady by his side. She looks at him earnestly as she replies,

“God bless the day when he is I We shall get justice then.”

“Oh!” he answers pettishly, “that’s just it. He has set all you women discontented with your lot; he has lit a fire which won’t be readily extinguished. Mark my words, he’ll burn his fingers over it yet, if he don’t take care.”

“Not he,” she answers stoutly; “Hector D’Estrange knows what he is about. He has won the devoted, undying love of hundreds, nay, thousands and tens of thousands of women, for his brave, chivalrous exposure of their wrongs, and defence of their rights.”

Sir Randolph Fisticuffs laughs.

“You ought to join the Woman’s Volunteer Corps,” he observes sarcastically.

“Ought I?” She opens her grey eyes wide. “As it happens, I joined it a year ago.”

“The devil you did!” he exclaims in a surprised tone. “So you are a Hector D’Estrangeite, eh?”

“I am,” she answers proudly.

The music has recommenced; a dreamy waltz is sounding through the room; every one has begun dancing again. Only the dowagers are at rest. Not a man appears unoccupied. Yes, one is, though. It is the young Duke of Ravensdale himself.

He is leaning against a bank of moss and roses apparently watching the busy throng. There is a far-away look in his eyes, however, which tells that his thoughts have flown beyond the giddy pastime of the hour. He is thinking of his friend’s latest triumph, and what will be the outcome of it all. For Evelyn Ravensdale’s heart has gone out to Hector D’Estrange, and he loves him with that devoted, admiring love which some men have been known to inspire in others.

“Just look at the duke,” whispers Lady Tabbycat to her friend Mrs. Moreton Savage; “one would think there wasn’t a pretty girl in the room, or a heart aching for him, by the way he stands there doing nothing and saying nothing. I can’t think what makes him so shy and reserved. He was all fire just now when he was telling us of Hector D’Estrange’s triumph; and now just look at him, my dear.”

Mrs. Moreton Savage does look at him, but she is just as far from making him out as her friend Lady Tabbycat is. Mrs. Moreton Savage is a dame whose mind has never soared beyond the fitting on of a dress, the making of matches, and the desirability of knowing all the best people in society. She has worked assiduously with those aims in view, and has the satisfaction of knowing that she has been more or less successful. Such a thought as the condition of society, and the people in the past, present, and future, has never entered her brain. She is quite content that things should go on exactly as they are, that there should be immense riches on one side, intense misery and poverty on the other. Such problems as the relation of man and woman in this world, and the terrible evils arising out of the false position of the sexes, has never troubled her. She has no wish to see mankind perfected, or to place Society on a higher level and basis than it is. There is just this difference, therefore, between herself and the man whom she and Lady Tabbycat are discussing, and that is that he does. Often and often have the young duke and Hector D’Estrange discussed these problems together in their early morning rides or cosy after-dinner chats. It is Hector D’Estrange who has converted him to his present way of thinking. He had come into his property a sufficiently self-conceited, spoilt young man; with the world at his feet, men and women angling for his favours, as many will do to the highborn and the rich. He had never paused to wonder what he should do with his money, and position, and power. He was preparing himself to enjoy life in the only way which up till then he had viewed as possible, when a fateful chance threw him in the path of Hector D’Estrange.

Men wondered at the change in the young Duke of Ravensdale. It was such a sudden one; they could not make it out; it mystified them altogether. Some put it down to love, and wondered who was the lucky one.

He has roused himself from his dreams with a shake and a start, and is standing upright now. A boy is passing close by him, a boy with pretty curling brown hair and large hazel eyes, a boy in whose face laughter and happiness are shining brightly, a boy whose life so far has been sunshine perpetual, without the storm and the hurricane. It would hardly be possible to find two brothers more extremely unlike than Evelyn, Duke of Ravensdale, and his younger and only brother, Lord Bernard Fontenoy. No one looking at the two standing together would take them to be related, certainly not so closely as they are.

“Bernie,” calls the duke, as —the boy passes along, and in an instant this latter is at his side.

“Yes, Evie,” he asks inquiringly, looking up into his brother’s face. “Anything you want me to do?”

“Yes, dear,” answers the duke. “I want you to take my place for an hour or two. I have business that calls me away. Now, do you think, Bernie, that I can trust your giddy head to see to everything in my absence?”

“Giddy head!” pouts the boy, pretending to look seriously offended. “If you did well-nigh eight months’ hard study out of twelve, you would like to enjoy yourself in the few hours snatched from toil and mental struggle.”

“Poor boy! you look hard-worked and suffering,” laughs the duke, as he eyes the bright, healthy, handsome face of the youthful complainant; “but seriously, Bernie, can I trust you to overlook everything for me?”

“Of course you can, Evie,” replies Bernard, with a look of importance. “I promise you I will see to everything tiptop. I suppose if you’re away I shall have to take in the Princess to supper, sha’n’t I. Do you think Her Royal Highness will put up with a jackanapes like me?”

“I think so, Bernie. Anyhow, you must do your best. Go and make my excuses to the Prince. A sudden business calls me away; I will be back as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, my boy, do your best to take my place. I am sure I can trust you.”

He lays his hand gently on the boy’s shoulder as he turns to go. Bernie Fontenoy idolises his brother, but he feels at this moment as if there is nothing in the wide world he would not do for him, if it were in his power.

Evie Ravensdale passes quickly down the beautiful grand staircase towards the front door. Pompous servants are hurrying to and fro. A big portly butler with a magnificent white waistcoat and ponderously heavy gold chain, is giving his orders in a voice the importance of which can only be measured by the value he puts upon himself. As he sees the duke descending, however, he moderates his tone, and is all obsequiousness in a moment.

“Repton, give me my cloak and hat, please,” commands the duke in a quiet, civil voice, and the magnificent functionary hastens to obey. He is wondering all the time, however, what it can be that takes his Grace out at such a time.

“A hansom, Repton, please.”

Repton turns to a crimson-plushed, knee-breeched, white-silk-stockinged subordinate.

“Call a hansom, John,” he says loftily. It would be quite impossible for himself, the great Mr. Repton, to perform such a menial office; no one could expect it of him. The whistle rings through Whitehall. Rumbling wheels answer the summons. In a few minutes a hansom dashes up. The great Mr. Repton holds open the front door; Evie Ravensdale passes out. One of the crimson-plushed, knee-breeched menials unfolds the cab doors, and stands with his hands over the wheels while his master springs in; then he closes them to.

“Where to, your Grace?” he inquires respectfully.

And Evie Ravensdale, looking up at his brilliantly lighted luxurious mansion above him, answers somewhat absently, “Whitechapel.”

The fit is on him to see and contrast the misery of some of London’s quarters with the wealth and the luxury which he has just quitted. Hector D’Estrange’s telegram has brought it to his mind. He remembers his last conversation with that dearly beloved friend, and how it had turned on that very point. The splendour of his own mansion, the brilliancy that he saw around him a few minutes since is about to be changed for cold, dark, ill-lighted streets, narrow alleys, and filthy courts. He wants to see it all for himself

The hansom rattles through the streets It goes at a good pace, but it seems a long time getting to its destination. At length it pulls up.

“What part of Whitechapel, sir?” inquires the cabman, looking through the aperture in the roof of his vehicle.

“You may put me down here, cabby,” answers the young duke, handing him half-a-sovereign; “and if you like to wait for me, I may be about an hour gone. I’ll pay you well, if you will.”

“You’re a genelman, I can sees that pretty plainly,” answers the cabman glibly, as he touches his hat, and pockets the half-sovereign. “I’ll wait, sir; no fear.”

Evelyn Ravensdale wanders through the gloomy, ill-lighted streets. Midnight has chimed out from Big Ben; it is getting on towards one o’clock, and he does not meet many people. A policeman or two saunter along their beats, and turn their lights upon him as he passes. Sometimes a man and woman flit past him, or a solitary man by himself. He passes a dark, gloomy-looking archway into which the light from a flickering gas-lamp just penetrates. He can see a boy and girl with white, pinched faces asleep in an old barrel in one corner, a shivering, skinny dog curled up at their feet. The sight is terrible to him. He steps into the archway, and touches the boy on the shoulder. With a frightened cry the lad starts up and eyes him beseechingly.

“Ah, bobby! Don’t turn us out to-night,” he says pleadingly. “Maggie’s so poorly and sick, she can hardly stand up. See, she’s asleep now. Don’t wake her, please, bobby, don’t.”

He starts suddenly, and pulls his forelock as he perceives that it is not a policeman he is talking to. “Beg pardon, sir,” he says, “thought it was a bobby.”

“Have you no better place than this to sleep in, my poor lad?” inquires the duke pityingly, his hand still on the boy’s shoulder.

“Ah, sir! this is a gran’ place. We don’t allays gets the likes o’ this. Poor Maggie, she was so pleased when we found this ’ere barrel. See, sir, how she do sleep.”

“Is Maggie your sister?” asks the young duke, with a half-sob.

“No, sir, she’s my gal. Maggie and me, we’ves been together a long time now, we has.”

“And what do you do for a living”, boy? “continues Evelyn Ravensdale gently.

“Anything, sir, we can get to do. It’s not allays we can get a job, and then we have to go hungry like.”

“My God!” bursts from the young man’s lips, but he says no more. The next moment he has pressed a couple of sovereigns into the poor lad’s hand, and is gone.

He wanders on through the same street. He takes no note of the name of it. His thoughts are far too busy for that. He is approaching another street, less lonely and better lighted than the one he is in. There are more people about, and he sees several women loitering up and down near the corner. Instinctively he crosses the street so as to avoid them. Two of them are making off after two men that have just passed by, the third is left alone. She spies the young duke at once, and runs across the street to cut him off. He sees he cannot avoid her, and pulls himself together. In another moment she is by his side, with one hand on his arm.

“Won’t you come home with me, dear?” she says softly. “Won’t you”

“Peace, woman!” he almost shouts, as he flings off her hand from his arm. She starts back with a low cry, and he sees a face, young still, with traces of great beauty, but careworn and haggard with suffering. His heart is filled with a great pity; he feels that such sights as these are unendurable to him. He feels that he cannot face them.

“Poor thing, poor thing,” he says gently; “forgive me if I was rough to you. This is no place for you, my child. You look a mere child; are you not one?”

“I am eighteen,” she stammers.

“Eighteen, and so fallen!” he exclaims in a horrified tone. “Ah, child! get away out of this.”

“And starve?” she ejaculates bitterly. “Easy for you to talk; you are not starving.”

“Starving!” He utters that word with a peculiar intonation. It tells her what pity there is in his heart for her.

“Oh, sir!” she exclaims, “I would not be here if I were not driven to it. I don’t want to be here. I hate it; I hate it! It is my hard, hard fate, that I am here.”

“Have you no father, no mother to care for you?” he asks sadly.

“No, sir, not to care for me,” she answers, with a sob. “Father’s in gaol. Mother walks the streets like me, to make her bread. She told me I’d better do so too, unless I wanted to starve. That’s how it is, sir.”

He covers his face with one hand, and groans aloud. His thoughts have rushed back to the luxury he has but lately quitted; he compares it with the misery he has just witnessed. Once more his hand is in his pocket.

“If I give you this, my child,” he says, drawing out a five-pound note, “will you promise me to go home at once, and leave these streets of infamy and wrong; and if I give you my card, and promise to place you in a way of earning an honest livelihood, will you call at my house tomorrow for a letter which I will leave to be given to you? Will you try and get your mother, too, to come with you?”

She bursts into tears. “Ah, sir! may God in heaven bless you. Yes, yes, I will promise; indeed I will. Gladly, too gladly.”

He holds out to her the card and the bank-note. As she takes them she bends over his hand and kisses it passionately. He draws it gently away.

“Remember your promise,” he says quietly.

“I will,” she answers, between her sobs. “Oh God! I would die for you, sir.”

He watches her as she turns away and disappears in the gloom. Heavy tears are in his eyes.

“I must go home now,” he whispers to himself. “I cannot see more.”

Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 7

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