Читать книгу The Reckless Lady - Philip Gibbs - Страница 11

Table of Contents

Sylvia had a wonderful time at the Bal Masqué. The Hôtel de Paris had spared no expense in the way of decoration and had wreathed its pillars in flowers brought in cartloads from Grasse. The Russian orchestra—“Princes, most of them, according to tradition!” said the American with an unbelieving smile—looked very splendid in national costume, with white silk shirts embroidered in gold, and black top-boots. They played jazz tunes with a touch of barbarity which whipped the blood of the dancers if it hadn’t worn too thin and tired by excess of pleasure. For once youth had the majority. This was not a gathering of retired colonels and elderly ladies, as at Mentone, but of tennis-playing girls disguised in fancy-dress and young men of leisure and wealth who still seemed to exist very comfortably in the ruins of Europe.

Stephen thought most of them rather poisonous. He disliked the way they oiled their hair, their affected way of speech, their smiling insolence. Sylvia was critical of the English girls, whom she accused of a lamentable lack of feminine charm, but was full of admiration for the young men and especially for those who seemed most poisonous to Stephen. The foreign element was rather alarming—to Mr. Edward Hillier of Grand Rapids, though Sylvia assured him that the ladies were not so wicked as they looked and that the men were of the highest order of profiteers.

“A dreadful crowd!” said the American, with what Sylvia considered to be a national intolerance. “Some of these women ought not to be allowed in places like this. As for the men, they look to me like international crooks.”

“I expect your ancestors were Puritans,” said Sylvia. “They probably went over with the Pilgrim Fathers because they disapproved of Shakespeare’s plays and the naughtiness of the Stuart Court. Poor dears!”

“I confess to being a Puritan,” said Edward Hillier, with his grave smile. “Some of these people seem to me the reason why Europe is slipping downhill. After seeing Famine in Russia and all the misery of Austria and Poland, it gets my goat to see all these decadent-looking people with their alarming ladies.”

“It’s life,” said Sylvia, with enthusiastic eyes. “It’s Europe! It’s enormously amusing. And you’ve got it all wrong, Mr. Hillier. Most of these people are very charming when you know them. You see that dark-looking man, like Mephistopheles? Looks as though he had made a hobby of murder, doesn’t he? Why, that’s Mr. Lemington-Smith, the great philanthropist who endowed the Hospital for Incurables at Davos Platz. And that alarming lady with the grapes in her hair and lovely white arms! That’s the Countess Kutuzoff, who keeps a hat-shop at Nice and works fourteen hours a day for her invalid husband. And over there—that swarthy young man with an elongated nose—he’s the French ‘ace,’ Armand du Baty, wounded eight times, and decorated for a hundred acts of valour. Not so decadent!”

“I take it all back,” said the American. “And I apologise for talking like the death’s head at the feast. I asked you here for a merry evening, and I’ve nearly wrecked the whole show. Now what do you think of that?”

“I’m going to have a good time,” said Sylvia. “And when are we going to dance?”

Stephen did not see very much of her, except in fleeting glimpses among the dancers, when she smiled at him over the shoulder of Edward Hillier, and once, in passing, said, “Cheer up, Stephen. You look as grumpy as a bear with a sore ear.”

He felt as grumpy as that, and worse. He felt like a lover with a sore heart. That scene with his mother had taken the spirit out of him. He was stricken with the tragedy of it, and horrified by her revelation of the mystery that had puzzled him in a vague, uneasy way. She had kept them by playing for money! Could anything be more frightful? His beautiful, laughing mother sneaking into Casinos, pretending that she was only watching other people, deceiving them, lying to them—yes, lying!—and robbing wretched tradespeople by leaving her bills unpaid. It was the most horrible thing he could ever imagine. It was as though all the beauty of life had been exposed as a crawling disease, a filthy thing. He would rather his mother had died than let herself get dragged down like that. He wished to God he had died without knowing it. It had spoilt everything!

What was the good of his art, now, all his love of colour and line, his desperate efforts to get form and technique, to express the joy and grace of things? There was no grace. No joy henceforth. Only the damned conviction that the mother whom he had believed to be perfect, and who had been his inspiration in all things and his purpose in life, had smashed all his faith. She had been his religion. He had worshipped her. He had made up his mind never to marry, so that he should stay with her always, working for her, winning fame for her, laying his pictures at her feet and saying, “Yours, Mother!” Now he would never be able to believe her again. When she laughed he would wonder what secret she was hiding. When she joked he would think, “She’s just pretending. It’s all humbug.”

Perhaps Sylvia was just a sham, too. Not caring a curse really for the decent things of life, not more honest than her mother! Perhaps she would go wrong in the same way, or worse. ... There she was, in the arms of that American, looking very innocent and gay, making a fool of that grave-looking fellow who smiled down at her as though she were a child or a fairy thing. Perhaps her mind was crawling with evil thoughts. Perhaps she was ready to play any rotten kind of game! ...

Stephen Fleming, this boy with a sore heart, dressed as a Spanish troubadour, dancing with a dark-eyed girl who was heavy on her feet, felt more like weeping than anything in the world. There were moments when he was scared lest he should have tears in his eyes. He would make a pretty fool of himself if he suddenly began to blub in the sight of all those people flinging streamers at each other, laughing with a noise that was louder than the Russian orchestra.

“I’m afraid you’re not enjoying yourself,” said Miss Harvey. “Don’t mind saying if I bore you!”

“Not at all,” said Stephen. “I’m having a great time! Only I’m not much good at prattle.”

... Whatever happened, he would stick to his mother. He was a cad to think of her in the way he did. She had done it all for his sake, and Sylvia’s. Nothing could alter the way she had loved them. All those years of devotion to them! They couldn’t be wiped out because she had played for money now and then. He was making far too much of it. It was foolish, of course, but not wrong. Everybody played a bit when they came to Monte Carlo. He was just a prig, thinking himself very virtuous and noble-minded. There was only one thing to consider. How could they get straight and pay their way? She had lost everything, she said. Well, that wasn’t so very dreadful, after all. He could get a job somehow, and Sylvia could go into a hat-shop, or something—like those Russian princesses.

He wouldn’t let his mother worry her heart out. That was the great thing—to save her from worry. She’d had too much of it. And her pluck had been unbeatable. What wonderful pluck, to show a laughing face to life all that time, never to let them guess that she was anxious or unhappy! What a dirty little cad he was to have all those morbid, priggish thoughts! Loyalty was the great thing in life, and for a little while he had been disloyal. He would try to pay back to her. She had worked for him and Sylvia. Well, it was up to them to pay back and work for her. Whatever people said, his mother was the most wonderful woman in the world, and the most adorable, and the most beautiful. He would bash anyone who said otherwise....

He would have to tell Sylvia, but there wasn’t a chance, with that American. Oh, this ghastly dance!

“Your sister dances beautifully,” remarked Miss Harvey. “Quite the best in the room.”

“Think so?” said Stephen. “Let’s go and get an ice, or something.”

Later in the evening he danced with Sylvia, but he said nothing about his mother. Impossible in a place like that! They couldn’t have a scene in public. And he couldn’t trust himself to tell her without emotion. Better say nothing until they were home again. He would go to her bedroom and tell her there.

Sylvia had something to tell him.

“Stephen!” she whispered, and her eyes were very bright and mirthful. “I’ve had an invitation to go to the United States. Quite a serious invitation. It might mean a long stay—if I accepted.”

She laughed at the idea, as though it were a very great joke, and she blushed rather vividly.

“We can’t afford it,” growled Stephen. “We’re not millionaires.” He did not tell her that they were paupers.

“Well, I should have my fare paid, I expect,” said Sylvia, smiling at him mysteriously. “Unfortunately I shouldn’t have a return ticket, and that’s what worries me!”

“Sorry I don’t get the joke,” said Stephen, grumpily.

“It’s rather a good joke,” answered Sylvia, laughing again at the comedy of life. “How would you like to be the brother of Mrs. Edward P. Hillier of Grand Rapids, U.S.A.?”

“Good God!” said Stephen.

Sylvia agreed that it sounded ridiculous. She couldn’t imagine herself as Mrs. Edward P. Hillier of Grand Rapids, U.S.A. Still, in order to assuage the natural fears of an anxious brother, she didn’t mind telling him that she had no idea of accepting the invitation. Without a return ticket to Europe, it was not attractive to a lady who was thoroughly European in body, bones and spirit, and who was not yet tired of a charming mother and a grumpy brother with an artistic temperament.

“All the same, it’s a joke,” she said. “I find it wonderfully amusing. It’s the first invitation of the kind I’ve ever received, and as such I cherish it. But there may be others, not so far from home.”

“Do you mean to say the American has fallen in love with you?” asked Stephen bluntly.

“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite as strong as that,” said Sylvia, “but he asked me whether I would be his dear little wife.”

The joke of the thing overcame her again and she laughed so much that she fell out of step with Stephen.

“It’s incredible!” said Stephen.

Sylvia did not agree that it was incredible. On the contrary, she thought it was perfectly natural and the sort of thing that might happen to any nice girl. Obviously that sort of thing did happen even outside the covers of books. Otherwise there could be no weddings, and the world would come to a dead stop.

“Are you gone on him at all?” asked Stephen, with the brutal frankness of younger brothers.

Sylvia was calm, candid and judicial.

“I don’t feel that sensation of goneness which I’m given to understand should precede a contract of marriage,” she answered. “He’s nice, he’s charming, he’s quite good-looking, and I like him very much. I should say he would make a very good husband—in the American manner. Beyond that I do not commit myself, Stephen.”

“The thing’s too utterly absurd!” said Stephen. “For one thing, he’s old enough to be your father.”

Sylvia disagreed again. She rebuked her brother for exaggeration. Mr. Hillier was exactly thirty. A nice age for an elder brother, but far too young for a father, as far as she was concerned. A good marrying age, she thought.

Her pretended gravity broke down again. She gave a little squeal of laughter.

“Stephen dear! It’s frightfully funny—and I will say I feel rather pleased about it. It’s a tribute to your little sister.”

“The sooner we go home the better,” said Stephen. “I’m dead sick of this ghastly dance.”

He was inwardly alarmed by what Sylvia told him. It opened up new gulfs under his feet. Supposing that fellow whisked her off to the United States, or any fellow anywhere? He had never dreamed that such a thing was possible so soon. Life without Sylvia would be unimaginable. Who would sew on his buttons? Even his mother jibbed at buttons. Who in the world could he discuss life with from the point of view of his own age? Quarrel with? Play with? They had been good pals. Like twins. He would feel cut in half without her. The United States! She might as well go to the moon.... Curse that American, anyhow!

An hour later, after a miserable time with the Harvey girl, who couldn’t dance and suspected him of thinking so, he grabbed Sylvia by the arm and said, “Look here, let’s go! I’ve something frightful to tell you, and it won’t wait.”

She saw by the look in his eyes that he was serious.

“Anything wrong?” she asked.

“Every blessed thing,” he answered. “The mater——”

He gulped down his words, and looked so distressed that Sylvia agreed to go.

They had to take the Harvey girl back to her hotel, and the American drove them home. Sylvia sat next to him as usual, with Stephen in the back seat. They were both rather silent. Round the curve of the road above Monte Carlo Stephen was startled to see lights gleaming in the windows of the Villa Margherita. It had been in darkness when he left, except for the lamp in his mother’s bedroom. Strange, that!

“I shall write to you from London,” said the American to Sylvia.

Stephen sprang out of the car first, and ran up the path. There was a strange car outside the door. He was stricken with a sharp anguish at the thought that his mother was ill. That might be a doctor’s car. What a beast he had been to leave her like that.... Good God!

He fumbled for his latch-key in that ridiculous costume of his.

In the hall the light was up, and he saw a man standing in the doorway of the drawing-room. He recognised him instantly as the elderly visitor to whom they had given tea one day. Perhaps a doctor? ... He was panic-stricken.

“Is my mother ill?” he asked breathlessly.

“An attack of nerves,” said Colonel Fleming. “Nothing serious, I think.”

Stephen stared at him. “Are you a doctor?” he stammered.

Colonel Fleming hesitated, and gave a nervous cough. His hand trembled a little as he held it out to Stephen.

“Funny thing!” he said gravely. “It will seem very queer to you. I’m your father, old man.... Where’s Sylvia?”