Читать книгу Gray youth - Oliver Onions - Страница 11

“ ‘And she tied a piece of ribbon round his bonnie, bonnie waist,

To let the ladies know he was married,’ ”

Laura sang. …

“Oh, lovely!” Amory murmured, her golden eyes closed.

Then Walter, whose father was Herman Wyron the impresario, recited an unpublished poem of Wilde’s, following it with one of Aristide Bruant’s in French; and after that Laura sang again, ‘The Morning Dew.’ Amory wished that she was coming into her new abode on the morrow, and that these delightful companions might come to visit her every night. She had whispered to Cosimo to get up quietly and get her a crayon and a piece of paper; putting her hair from her eyes with the fingers of her left hand, she quietly made notes on a piece of paper on the floor with her right; and “Amory’s going to do it!” the whisper went softly round. … Amory felt that she really must “do” it. It ought to “come” beautifully—Laura with the guitar and the coloured streamers, so—Walter’s thin face at its most pensive, so—Katie Deedes in that adorable curled-up pose at Laura’s feet, with the jewel of fire-light on her shoe-buckle and her face quite lost in the shadow, so—and perhaps when she came to paint it, she would get Cosimo to stand quite behind, where the moonlight on the window-sill was almost of a sulphur-flame blue. … And as she saw Amory busily sketching, Laura did not put down the guitar, but went on softly singing song after song, from her Somersetshire Songs and the Persian Garden, her fingers seeming to cull the sparse and chosen chords from the strings as if each one had been a picked flower. How different from Glenerne, with its brainless vamping and its bawled choruses from The Scottish Students’ Song Book! … Amory, as she worked, now revelled in the thought that she would not be at Glenerne much longer. …

The sulphur-blue moonlight crept farther along the lattice, and shimmered on the river as if a piece of silver foil had been crumpled and straightened out again; and on the smoky, sagging ceiling the shadows fluctuated, soft and enormous, whenever a head or a hand was moved. Laura had laid aside her guitar now, and they, had drawn more closely together, and were telling ghost-stories. Dickie Lemesurier told one that had happened to somebody her mother knew as well as they knew one another sitting there; and then, as Amory put aside her hair again and began to speak, she gave a little shriek: “No—not that frrrightful one out of Myers, Amory!” … But Amory told it, and Katie Deedes remembered the dark stairs, and said that she would never dare to go down them. … So by and by Cosimo got up and lighted the two candles, and the terrors receded as the flames crept up, and Laura was persuaded to sing just one more song and then (she said) she really must go—her people would be wondering whatever had become of her. But Walter said that that was all right: he’d see her home. And Mr. Bielby would go along with Katie and Dorothy, who went together, and of course Cosimo would take Amory herself. Laura tucked the guitar with the coloured ribbons into its case, and reluctantly they sought their hats and coats. Amory was putting her hair up again. Cosimo took two blazing cobs of coal from the fire, putting them out of harm’s way on an iron shovel; and as Dorothy saw her friends out and locked the door, the cheerful glow on the ceiling could still be seen where the upper part of the door warped inwards. They groped their way down the dark stairs, and passed in a body up Oakley Street; and at the corner by the King’s Road they said good-night.

“We walk, I suppose?” Cosimo said to Amory.

“Rather!” said Amory.

They turned their faces towards Shepherd’s Bush.

It was as they walked up Redcliffe Gardens that Amory suddenly said, with a little sigh of regret, “Poor Dorothy!”

Cosimo nodded. He always understood so quickly; that was the wonderful thing about Cosimo.—“You mean she was a bit out of it?”

“She only spoke about three times, and that was to Mr. Bielby.”

Cosimo gave a shrug, and that was delicate of him too. He knew that it would be a pleasure to Amory to defend a lightly disparaged friend. Amory did defend Dorothy.

“You really underrate her, Cosimo. Of course there’s that dreadful job of hers, but she does know better really. I do hope she wasn’t bored.”

“Well, you can’t help Dorothy’s shortcomings, Amory,” Cosimo remarked, as if true artists had sorrows enough of their own without taking those of fashion-artists on their shoulders.

“But I’m worried about her, Cosimo——”

“Of course you are,” Cosimo replied promptly. “That’s what I always find so fine about you. The stronger always worries about the weaker. It seems to be a Law——”

“Do you think it is a Law?” Amory asked thoughtfully.

“Well, isn’t it? Just look at it, now. …”

Cosimo began to set it forth. Halfway up North End Road Amory had reluctantly to confess that it did seem to be a Law. She had suspected it before, but never, never had it been made quite so clear to her. She resolved that she must be very gentle with Dorothy. At that moment she was very fond of her indeed.

She continued her walk with Cosimo.