Читать книгу The Anxious Days - Philip Gibbs - Страница 12

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Commander Compton had breakfast in his club, with The Times propped against the toast-rack. The Election results were in the first column, and the leading article took a philosophical view of the situation. Labour, undoubtedly, would be called upon to form a Government. There need be no apprehension with regard to the continuity of foreign policy under Mr. MacDonald’s leadership. There was a difficult task in front of him....

Compton looked over the top of his paper and observed his surroundings. Nothing had changed since he had been away. The heavy mahogany chairs stood in the same places. The silver plate dishes on the sideboard gave the same cheerful gleam as when he had departed five years ago. The head waiter, old Birdseed, who had been there for thirty years, had said good morning to him as though he had not noticed any lapse of time since they had last met. He had the same asthmatical cough. And there in the window was old Admiral Savage, putting saccharine into his coffee to ward off diabetes, precisely as he had always done at breakfast time since Compton had been a member of the club.

“Good morning, young fellow!” he had said cheerily when Compton had caught his eye and nodded to him.

Half a dozen other members straggled in to breakfast and sat behind The Times, reading the political news and comments. Compton knew them all by sight, and one to speak to. There was no conversation among them, and the only speech to which they gave utterance was requests for devilled kidneys or marmalade from the silent waiters.

Compton smiled to himself. It was rather marvellous, he thought, how the old tradition remained in English character and life, in spite of a changing world. Perhaps this club, and others in the neighbourhood, were its last strongholds. Everywhere else it seemed to be slipping or abandoned. That had been an astonishing scene last night at Horridge’s. He had felt bewildered and very much a stranger in the land until he met Helen Lambert. Then he had had the marvellous luck to meet Madge. When was he going to see her again? She had been too tired at the end to arrange anything like that.

He was agreeably surprised when a telegram was brought him, almost while this thought was in his head.

Meet me Palace Chambers Shaftesbury Avenue one-fifteen to-day Madge.

“Any answer, sir?” asked the page.

“No, that’s all right. No answer.”

It was marvellously all right, and Madge must have got up very early after her late night to send that message.

She had sent it off at eight-thirty. How extraordinarily kind of her, he thought. She must have known that he would be desperately anxious to see her again. Eight-thirty! Why, she couldn’t have had more than six hours’ sleep. Not enough for a girl of her age. He would have to look after her beauty sleep. If she came to live with him in the country—that house of dreams—he would pack her off to bed before eleven....

He had four hours to put in before one-fifteen, and the prospect seemed long because of his eagerness for that appointment. He was good-humoured when Admiral Savage accosted him in the smoking-room and seemed inclined for conversation.

“Well, young fellow, I seem to have missed you lately. Been down in the country?”

“As far as Borneo,” said Compton.

“Bournemouth, eh?” said the old gentleman. “A dull place, don’t you think? I prefer Broadstairs. More air, you know. Keeps you fit! Not that I can complain; I’m getting on for eighty, and have never had a day’s illness, barring a tendency to diabetes. About time to prepare for my last voyage, eh? Well, I’ve had a good innings and I shan’t be sorry to go. England is not the same since the War. They’ve been cutting down a lot of trees round my place in Kent. It’s these Labour fellows. They want to alter everything and drag down everything. They talk of allowing mixed bathing in Hyde Park—that fellow Lansbury. Good God, sir! Did you ever hear of such a thing? My dear mother would have fainted at the thought. Now they’re going to govern us. Bolsheviks, Pacifists, Socialists, Trade Unionists, as His Majesty’s Government, holding the seals of office. A pretty prospect, my dear Compton! Why, they’ll tax us out of existence and establish the Dictatorship of the Proletariat on the Moscow model. I tremble to think what will happen to this club.”

He looked across the smoking-room, as though seeing the invasion of the Reds, looting cigars and cutting the cloth on the billiard tables, and billeting their families in all parts of the club like a slum tenement.

Compton smiled at the old man. He had once been his flag lieutenant.

“I don’t think it will go as far as that, sir. There’s no spirit of revolution in the English people. They believe in law and order.”

The old Admiral laid a hand on his shoulder. “I hope you’re right, my boy. I confess I don’t understand the present crowd. Can’t make ’em out. They don’t seem to believe in anything. They mock at everything I respect. My grandchildren tell me I’m an Early Victorian. I tell them if I hadn’t been, they wouldn’t sleep safe in their beds or know the meaning of the word ‘liberty’. They don’t know what to say to that. They’ve no answer ready. Not bad, eh? Not bad! Remember that, Compton. If anybody says you’re a Victorian and a reactionary, you say, ‘If I hadn’t been, you wouldn’t sleep safe in your beds, my dears!’ ”

He chuckled with a mirth that was becoming a little senile. Compton reckoned up the difference between their ages. Well, nearly thirty years. He still had a fair span—with luck—before he began to show signs of senility. Still, time was creeping on.... Fifty-two!