Читать книгу Heirs Apparent - Philip Gibbs - Страница 3

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Julian Perryam was awakened at nine o’clock on a May morning in his bedroom in the Turl, off Broad Street, Oxford. He desired to sleep longer—hours longer—years longer—after a somewhat hectic night which had ended—how the deuce had it ended? He tried to think, as he flung one arm over the bedclothes and stared for a moment at the stream of sunlight pouring through his chintz window blind.... Clatworthy’s twenty-first birthday ... Maidenhead ... That fool Clatworthy had started being rowdy some time before eleven, playing monkey tricks in the style of Leslie Henson, as he was pleased to imagine. The waiters had threatened to chuck him out when he hung onto the chandelier and had the damned thing down with a most unholy smash. So childish, all that! Oxford was nothing but a kindergarten. He had certainly been unwell. Went giddy, all of a sudden. Clatworthy’s poisonous cocktails had done that. He had gone behind the bar and mixed them himself. Audrey had become queer too. She had clung to his arm when he danced with her and said, “I’m feeling frightfully amused, Julian, but I’m not quite sure of my stance. Tell me if there are any bunkers coming....” They had motored back from Maidenhead in somebody’s Daimler. Then he had seen her home, or something. Yes, he remembered walking arm in arm with her up St. Giles to Somerville. Oh, Lord, yes! He had given her a leg up, so that she could get into a window. She had stood on his shoulder and scrambled in somehow. She had certainly got in all right. He had heard another smash almost as bad as Clatworthy and the chandelier, and a girl’s scream of fright, and Audrey’s squeals of laughter. After that? How had he got in? He had been progged at the corner of Carfax. “Your name please!” “Julian Perryam—spelt with a y.” He was rather proud of that. “Spelt with a y.” He had kept quite cool. “College?” “Balliol, of course.” That “of course” was pretty good too. Nothing like being a bit haughty with such silly swine. How childish it all was! Oxford “men” and treated like naughty schoolboys. He was fed up with the whole institution. Utter waste of time. Stultifying to the intellect.

“Oh, shut up, for God’s sake!”

It was that licensed ass Prichard singing as he shaved, as usual. He couldn’t let a fellow sleep. He was one of those aggressively active and healthy persons who like getting up early—positively liked it!—and made things intolerable for any man who shared rooms with him.

“ ‘If you’re waking, call me early,

Call me early, mother dear....’

“Oh, Hell, I’ve lost my stud!”

“Shut up!” shouted Julian Perryam, raising himself in bed slightly so that his voice should carry through the door.

“ ‘For I’m to be Queen of the May, mother,

For I’m to be Queen of the May.’ ”

“Shut up!”

So far from shutting up, Stokes Prichard opened Julian’s door and stood there brushing his ridiculously golden hair with silver-backed brushes, in a vigorous athletic style.

“Good morning, darling! Had a good night, little one? Pure and pleasant dreams?

“ ‘There’s a woman like a dewdrop, she’s so purer than the purest,

And her heart’s the noblest, yes, and her sure faith’s the surest:

And her eyes are dark and humid like the depth on depth of lustre ...!’

... Can you lend me a back stud, duckie? My last, I fear, has rolled down to the uttermost pits.”

“Help yourself,” said Julian sulkily. “Then be good enough to clear out and let me sleep, there’s a good chap.”

“Oh, no, dear heart. Not sleep again.

“‘To sleep! perchance to dream; ay, there’s the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil

Must give us pause.’ ...

... Which drawer, darling?”

“Left hand side, top,” said Julian.

Stokes Prichard rummaged in it, ruthless with regard to an admirable assortment of silk ties, and produced a stud.

“A noble lad i’ faith. ’Twill serve my purpose well.... And by the bye, Perryam, my old college chum and playmate of my innocent youth, there’s a letter for you from old Scrutton. I recognise his meticulous and sinister hand. I fear it conveys bad tidings to you. This is the fourth time you’ve been progged in the last fortnight. I have a dreadful foreboding that this time you’ll be sent down without the option of a fine. ‘Hodie tibi, cras mihi,’ which, as you doubtless do not understand the ancient tongue, means ‘Your turn to-day, mine to-morrow,’ O Brutus!”

Julian Perryam leaned higher on one elbow and lit a cigarette.

“I expect you’re right,” he answered coldly, “but as it happens I’m going to save them the trouble. I’m sending myself down. To-day.”

Stokes Prichard permitted himself a look of surprise and stopped brushing his hair.

“Not really?”

“Yes. I’m fed up with Oxford. There’s nothing in it—for me. I’m not one of you ruddy athletes, all brawn and no brains. And I’ve no further interest in the life and letters of Erasmus, the economic conditions of England at the time of the Black Death, and the political issues of the Thirty Years’ War. It’s a bit stale after our own late little strife. Also I’m not really amused by dances at the Masonic, afternoon tea at the Clarendon, and insincere debates at the Union by a clique of conceited pups. Anyhow I’m chucking it.”

“What will your people say?”

Julian shrugged his shoulders in his pink silk pyjamas.

“Why should they say anything?”

Stokes Prichard laughed in his sunny way and did a little imaginary dumbell exercise, counting as he raised and lowered his arms.

“Far be it from me to dissuade my young friend (one two, one two). I certainly agree with a man being master of his own destiny (three four, three four, and touch the tips of your toes). All the same, little one, it seems a pity to go down at the beginning of Summer term when Oxford is really brightening up. Of course there is that letter from Scrutton. Don’t you think you’d better read it?”

“Sling it over,” said Perryam.

Prichard condescended to bring the letter, and Perryam tore open the envelope and glanced at the lines inside.

“Yes. It looks like a row all right. Well, they shan’t put their pomposity over me. I shall motor up to town this afternoon.”

Stokes Prichard read the note and whistled softly.

“Oh, a very stern little summons! Most unfriendly. Well, give my love to London, old dear. I’ll join you there soon. My last term you know. After that—Life! Also, alas, a little labour. I shall have to earn my own living, and to dig I am unable, to beg I am ashamed. A tragic prospect for a young English gentleman of poor but honest parents. Still there’s always Love! ...

“ ‘She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer,

Hard, but oh, the glory of the winning were she won!’ ...”

He retired into his own room and presently departed to the Anglo-American club, not because he loved Americans particularly but because he liked big breakfasts and found the best assortment of early morning food in that institution.

Julian Perryam slept again.