Читать книгу Housemaster - Major General John Hay Beith - Страница 10

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“You haven’t changed a bit, Barbara,” he said untruthfully.

“You have, Charles,” was the characteristic reply; “you’ll have to be thinking of your blood-pressure soon. You’re unaltered in one thing, though.” She crossed to the windows and threw them open. “You can’t breathe the same air as you did yesterday, you know.”

A fresh breeze entered, and playfully blew several half-term reports from Mr. Donkin’s desk on to the floor.

“And a fire, too—in June!” added Barbara, as her host hurriedly fielded the reports and clamped them to the desk with paper-weights. “We must see about that. I suppose I may sit down?”

“Certainly. Make yourself comfortable on the sofa.”

“I want to talk to you,” said Barbara, complying.

“Of course, of course. Hallo, what on earth is this?”

‘This’ requires no further introduction to the reader. She had inserted herself through the half-opened door, in a manner vaguely reminiscent (to Mr. Donkin) of someone else, and was now sidling along the wall of the study like a strange Alsatian dog.

“Oh, I’d forgotten you,” said Barbara. “This is Button,” she explained. “A ridiculous name. Angela’s youngest.”

“How do you do, Button?” said Mr. Donkin, shaking hands.

“How do you do, Charles?” replied Button politely.

“You see—‘Charles’!” said Barbara. “That’s one of the things I’ve come to talk about.”

But the gentleman thus familiarly addressed did not seem to notice. He was gazing appraisingly down on Button, and Button was gazing wistfully up at him.

“Like her father,” he said at last. Then, to Button: “May one ask a lady’s age?”

“You ought to know, Charles. I’m Bimbo’s twin.”

“I had no idea that Bimbo could be duplicated. I apologise.”

“That’s all right. How is he?”

“As well as can be expected in the circumstances.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“I have just flogged him.”

Bimbo’s unfeeling duplicate gave a squeal of delight.

“Oh, I say, what fun! Did he yell much?”

“No, no; not a sound! A man of iron.”

“Did you draw blood or anything?” continued Button longingly.

“Button!” This from the sofa.

“Sorry, Auntie!” Button took hold of her lips and pinched them together, then resumed her Alsatian posture against the wall.

“Couldn’t you do something with her for a few minutes, Charles?” asked Barbara. “What’s through that green-baize door?”

“Boys, mostly.”

“Can’t she go and play with them?”

“Play? Great heavens, Barbara, this is a monastic establishment. No female ever crosses that threshold during term-time, and only charwomen at others.” He pondered for a moment, then pressed a bell-button on his desk. “Are you hungry, Button?”

“Yes, Charles.”

“We breakfasted early,” said Barbara, “to catch the morning train to this place. The other two are coming by car. There was no room for us in it; it’s only a two-seater.”

Mr. Donkin looked up, startled.

“The other two?”

“Yes. Rosemary and Chris.”

“So—so the whole family are on their way?”

“Yes. That’s another of the things I want to talk to you about. Here’s your maid.”

Ellen had entered. Donkin turned to her.

“Ellen, take this young lady somewhere, and feed her for ten minutes, will you?”

“What on, sir?”

“What on, Button?”

“Anything.”

“The young lady is omnivorous, Ellen.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t mention it. Farewell, Button!”

“A bientôt, Charles darling! You’re sweet!” Button took a running-jump at her host and kissed him on both cheeks, then ran to Ellen.

“Come on, Ellen!” she said; and linking arms with that unruffleable young person, marched her from the room.

“She’s an affectionate little thing,” said Mr. Donkin, drying his left cheek with his handkerchief.

“Yes; I’m coming to that too. But I’ll start at the beginning, if you’ll stop fidgeting and sit down.”

“I am all attention.”

“Well—I’ve taken the children away from their father! And not before it was time.”

“May one ask what their father has been up to?”

“Oh, nothing—nothing that he hasn’t been doing for years. Painting pictures and running about with queer people. He’s a good enough father, according to his lights, but completely unobservant, like all men.”

“I apologise for my sex. What has Aubrey been overlooking?”

“First of all, that children grow up, and secondly that daughters can take after their fathers.”

“In what way?”

“Well, you know what Aubrey is.”

“Do I? It’s years since I’ve seen him.”

“Supposing he was one of your boys, and you were writing his report, or something, what would you say?”

“Let me think. ‘Generous, emotional, impulsive, and utterly irresponsible.’ How’s that?”

“That’s Rosemary!”

“His eldest?”

“Yes. Chris is much the same, except that she is even more emotional and less responsible. Button has more head than the rest of the family put together; but never mind her at present. I want to tell you about Rosemary. A few weeks ago her father took her, against my advice, to some sort of nightclub in Montparnasse. A party of about six, I think they were. It seems to have been a sociable affair, because about five o’clock in the morning the guests started fraternising with the band. Anyhow, Rosemary found herself at a table with several total strangers, including one of the saxophone players.”

“What colour was he?”

“Practically white.”

“Let us be thankful for small mercies. Proceed.”

“He told her the story of his life. People are always doing that to Rosemary: I can’t think why.”

“They used to do it to Angela too. Did he try to borrow money from her?”

“Not at first. He talked about his mother, instead.”

“A useful and usual alternative. Then?”

“Then he said he had lung-trouble, and if he didn’t go to Switzerland at once he would die. Of course that was enough for Rosemary. She determined to save the creature’s life.”

“Why should any one wish to prolong the existence of a saxophone player?”

“Don’t interrupt. I heard nothing about all this at the time: the first indication of anything wrong came from Button, who is an unpleasantly observant child. She asked Rosemary at dinner one night what had become of her bracelet. Rosemary got very red, but did not say anything. Neither did I: I always bide my time on these occasions.”

“You always were a sensible sort of woman.”

“Listen! Two days later Rosemary was wearing her bracelet again, and looking like a ghost. I tackled her in her bedroom that night, and she sobbed out the whole story.”

“Poor child!”

“Nonsense! I believe she enjoyed every minute of it. She had pawned the bracelet, and then made an appointment with the saxophone player, and given him the money to go to Switzerland.”

“It seems cheap at the price.”

“Unfortunately he had misunderstood her motives. He thought they were both going to Switzerland.”

“Whereas the motives were purely maternal?”

“Of course. In fact, she told him that she was only doing all this because of the lovely way he talked about his mother.”

“And how did our cacophonist react to that one?”

“He made rather a scene, I fancy. He cried, and said rude things about the pudicity and perfidy of the English Misses. Very much what Paul Richet had said about Chris, in fact.”

“Who is Paul Richet?”

“I’m coming to him. Let me finish with the saxophone player. Finally, and fortunately, he threw the money on the floor, and rushed out into the street. She hasn’t seen him since.”

“Good! And you think she is now inoculated?”

“You’ll never inoculate Rosemary against doing stupid things for undeserving people. But she had a useful lesson, all the same. Well, that was that.”

“And Paul Richet?”

“He was Chris’s bombshell. He happened just three days later—but I’ll tell you about him some other time. It’s a long story, and he merely helped to fill up the cup, so to speak. Button was the final overflow.”

“Don’t tell me she tried to elope with anybody!”

“No. She picked up, in her helpful little way, with an old woman who kept a newspaper kiosk in the Boulevard St. Germain. One morning last week I found my youngest niece inside the kiosk, selling picture-postcards to an American tourist. They were only classical studies from the Louvre, but they might not have been. After that I decided that my Girls’ Friendly Society must close. I went straight to Aubrey, and told him that he was a complete failure as a parent, and that I was going to take the girls away from him and hand them over to you.”

“And how did he bear the blow?”

“He said he thought it was a thundering good idea.”

“A most unnatural comment.”

“And then he said something else—something quite true, but queer, coming from him. He said: ‘After all, if my darling Angela had known her business, these children would have been Charles Donkin’s and not mine at all.’ ”

“Oh, he said that, did he?”

“Yes. I thought it was rather handsome of him.”

“I call it infernal cheek. If Angela had married me, our children would have borne no resemblance whatever to these little horrors.”

“No, they’d have been pretty dull, I expect. Well, can you find room for us?”

“Barbara, be reasonable. How can I possibly find room for a pack of women in this house?”

“It’s an enormous house. I counted forty-two windows on one side alone.”

“There are fifty-four boys behind them.”

“Then it’s high time they had some female society.”

“Over my dead body! These brats of yours can’t come here. They must go back to Paris.”

“They must do no such thing. Paris is demoralising them.”

“Nonsense—they’re demoralising Paris, and you know it! And what they would do here——!” Mr. Donkin raised clenched hands heavenward. All his celibate soul revolted against this intrusion. “Barbara, why must you bring them to a public school, of all places?”

Barbara Fane contemplated her old friend for some moments before replying. She realised that his distress was genuine. Then she said composedly:

“Charles, I think it’s my turn to ask a question. Only one. What was it you promised Angela, during that last talk you had with her?”

Donkin’s eyes came to rest, rather self-consciously, on Barbara Fane.

“Did she tell you?”

“She did.”

“Then what do you want to ask me for?”

“You did promise, you know. And you meant it.”

There was a pause. Then—

“You’re a very selfish woman,” growled a voice. It came from the last ditch—and both of them knew it.

“And always was,” replied Barbara placidly.

“I’m talking like a cad,” exclaimed Mr. Donkin, suddenly contrite. “You’ve behaved like an angel to these children. Of course they must come. But on one condition. They must not go near my defenceless boys.”

“Are you quite sure your defenceless boys will not go near them?”

“I think I can guarantee that. I’m practically in my second childhood, but my discipline is still fairly good. You ask Bimbo! Now, about rooms.” He went to the house-telephone on his desk and demanded the immediate presence of the Matron.

“You can take the spare-room,” he said, as they waited.

“Thank you. I will take Button in with me.”

“You won’t mind?”

“I shall mind extremely, but I prefer to keep her under my own eye. What about the other two? What accommodation have you?”

“There’s a sizeable attic on the top floor of my side of the house, but it’s not furnished.”

“Why not?”

“Why should it be? Visitors only interfere with the time-table. I shall have to put this precious pair of yours into the night sickroom for the present.”

“Where is that?”

“On the boys’ side of the house, next to the Matron’s bedroom. Ah, here she is”—as the green-baize door opened and the Matron appeared.

There are two classes of public-school Matron—known, rather invidiously, as Lady Matrons and Working Matrons. Both work for about sixteen hours a day: the only discernible difference in status between them is that the Working Matron usually remains standing in her employer’s presence, while the Lady Matron does not; and that the Working Matron makes her own afternoon tea, while the Lady Matron has hers brought to her by a dormitory maid. In either case the boys, entirely indifferent to class distinction where the opposite sex is concerned, refer to her as The Hag.

Miss Wimble, the Red House Matron, was of the Working variety. She consequently remained upright, and as she stood about five feet ten and weighed eleven stone, the general effect was one of a massive and benevolent battleship standing by on guard duty. From her attitude towards Mr. Donkin, it was quite obvious upon what prototype Ellen had modelled herself.

“Good morning, Matron,” said that gentleman. “This is Miss Fane. She has three nieces, and all four of them are coming here to live with us.”

The Matron acknowledged this thunderbolt by a stately inclination of her head, and replied:

“Yes, sir. When?”

“To-day.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Miss Fane will occupy the spare-room, with her youngest niece. The other two young ladies had better go into the night sickroom for the present. There are two beds in it, aren’t there?”

“Yes, sir,” said the Matron. “Bullock major is in one of them.”

“Since when?”

“I have just put him there, sir. Mr. Kent sent him down from school half an hour ago. I was going to report to you.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“He’s come out in a rash, sir. We’ll know what it is when the doctor comes.”

“You’d better send him over to the Sanatorium at once, and leave the room free for the young ladies.”

“To catch rashes in?” enquired a cold voice from the sofa. “Thank you!”

“My dear Barbara,” said Mr. Donkin testily, “most rashes are no more infectious than housemaid’s knee.”

“How do you know, Charles? Are you the father of a family?”

“Yes—a family of fifty-four—and have been for years!” He rose. “Very well; show Miss Fane to her room, Matron. By the way, Barbara, where’s your luggage?”

“On your doorstep, I imagine, by this time.”

“What do you mean—this time?”

“The cabman stupidly took us to the wrong house.” Barbara pointed through the window. “That place there, up that hill.”

“That’s the Blue House—the Headmaster’s House.”

“So I was informed when I got inside, by a rather pompous young clergyman. Who was he, Charles?”

“He was the Headmaster.”

“But he was a mere boy! Why have they——?”

“Matron,” said Mr. Donkin loudly, “see if Miss Fane’s luggage has arrived, please. I’ll show her the spare-room myself. This way, Barbara.”

Mr. Donkin and his guest departed upstairs, leaving the Matron to proceed in the direction of the front door.

“Why have they appointed that young man over your head, Charles?” pursued Barbara, as she followed her host upstairs.

“He was not appointed over anybody’s head. He came in from outside. An exceptionally brilliant choice.”

“You must stand up more for yourself, you know, or you’ll never get anywhere. I should have thought you, of all people, would have realised that long ago——”

“The bathroom is on your right!”