Читать книгу The Poisoned Paradise - Robert William Service - Страница 22

Mr. Ainger, the cashier, sat on his high stool, and looked down at a slim lad, twisting a shabby cap. Mr. Ainger was a tall man of about fifty, his hair grey, his face fine and distinguished. It was said that in his spare time he wrote.

"Well, my boy," he said kindly, "what do you call yourself?"

"Hugh Kildair."

The gaze of Mr. Ainger became interested. He noted the dark eyes that contrasted so effectively with the light wavy hair, the sensitive features, the fine face stamped with race. Centuries of selection, he thought, had gone to the making of that face.

"A romantic name. So, my boy, you are making a start with us. I don't know that it's what you would choose if you had any say in the matter. Probably, you'd rather have been a corsair or a cowboy. I know I would at your age. However, very few of us are lucky enough to do the things we'd like to do. Life's a rotten muddle, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, my young friend, I do not know if the horizon of your ambition is bounded by cheese, if it inspires you with passion, with enthusiasm. Still you might have made a worse choice. You might have been in oils and varnishes, for instance, or soap. Imagine handling those compared with that exquisite ivory curd—transmuted by bovine magic from the dew and daisies of the field. I tell you there's romance in cheese; there's even poetry. I'm sure a most charming book could be written about it. Pardon me, but you're not by any chance thinking of writing a book about cheese, are you?"

"No, sir."

"Glad to hear it. Now I think of it I might as well do it myself,—a whimsical Belloc-sort of book with glimpses of many lands. But there. Let us return to the subject of your future. All I can say is: Do your best; we'll do the rest. Now go; and believe me, our discriminating gaze is upon you".

In the years that followed, although he saw little of Mr. Ainger, he was conscious of a protective and sympathetic eye. As for the work he did not dislike it. It was pleasant in the cool gloom of the warehouse where cheeses of all shapes and colours made strange lights and shadows. He had more liberty too, than he would have had in the office. He was able to make pen and ink sketches of his companions in his spare moments. At the end of every month he handed over his pay to Aunty who returned him a trifle for pocket-money.

At the beginning of his fifth year his salary was raised to fifty pounds. On the day he received his first instalment he did not return to Balmoral Circus. Instead he went to a small room in Hammersmith, carrying his few belongings in a cricket bag. He then wrote to Aunty, saying he was "on his own," and he would never see her again.

At last, at last he was free.