Читать книгу The Road South - Roderick Stuart Kennedy - Страница 9

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Brian woke to a bugle call next morning. He sat up, startled; then, as he became fully aware, sank back, relieved. If a bugle was sounding, the battalion was still there, and even if they were falling in for the march it would be a long time before they got started. Still he'd better hustle, especially if he wanted any breakfast,—and the very thought made him ravenously hungry.

He was swinging his legs out of bed when there was a knock at the door. He nearly called, "Come in," but remembered in time that his army shirt was built for economy rather than delicacy. Taking no chances, he swung his legs back again, and answered, "Yes?"

"Are you up yet, Brian?"

"Just climbing out. I heard the bugle."

"Well, it's all right, they're not going today."

The words jerked him up again; the subdued mixture of depression and elation which had pervaded his drowsiness changed suddenly to conscious, buoyant happiness.

"How do you know?" he called. "Who said so?"

"It's all right," she repeated, and he wondered if the jubilant note was merely an echo of his own. "I went out and asked one of the officers. It was the doctor who was with old Mary. He said it was definite, and he's coming in to see you later. When do you want breakfast? There's no hurry, but you can have it any time you like."

Brian was fumbling with his sock before she had finished speaking. "Right now, please!" he called. "I'm on my way!"

"I should think so! I'm very angry with you. Be quick."

He heard her going downstairs. There was no mistaking the indignant tone with which the sentence ended—but there had been no mistaking the laugh at the beginning, either. Brian, hurrying awkwardly into his uniform, did not feel his elation dampened.

He opened the door quietly. It would be pleasant to surprise her by appearing in the dining-room while she was still wondering if he was ready for her to go up and help him. Although the bathroom seemed rather meagerly outfitted, he did everything possible to smarten his appearance, and did it as quietly as possible. But when he came out into the hall, Joan was at the foot of the staircase. She looked up and opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it tightly, watched him for a moment as he took the first two steps, turned, and disappeared toward the back.

He hopped on downstairs, puzzled at her behaviour, but more concerned with a sudden and violent dislike for army contractors and their crude ideas of tailoring. His tunic didn't fit, and the brilliant polish he had given to the buttons merely advertised the fact. That tunic could not have fitted anyone except a freak,—and it would fit worse when he had breakfasted!

If Regulations had called for winding puttees up to the waist, the trousers might not have been an eyesore—though still uncomfortable; as things to be seen, they were a wash-out, and looked it very literally. A soiled exhibit of first-aid bandaging did not enhance their effect.

For once Brian wished he were an officer.

"You should have waited for me to help you," Joan said as he came into the dining-room; but in spite of her directness, her voice seemed restrained compared with last night.

"I wanted to show that I wasn't really a cripple."

"But you are; that doctor said so. Besides," she added with naive conclusiveness, "I wanted to help you."

Brian felt the atmosphere unsuitable for quibbling. "I'm awfully sorry—honestly," he apologized. "I just didn't think—and I don't like being a nuisance."

She opened her mouth, but once more did not speak. She pulled out a chair for him, and went out. She had not smiled since he came down. Brian felt subdued, but her evident annoyance did not bring the sense of acute embarrassment which he would have felt before their talk last night. He was dimly conscious of a lack of power in it, as if he were being scolded by his mother. He wished that he knew what he had done. That business of coming downstairs did not seem enough.

But as he sat eating his porridge, worried at having displeased this girl who seemed more anxious to please him than anyone in the world had been since his mother died, some confused glimmering of the truth came to him.

Being a nuisance was not incompatible with pleasing Joan Page. He had not doubted the sincerity of her insistence that he ask for what he wanted, of her desire to make him feel at home, but he had not grasped the depth of it. Lots of hostesses had said the same. They had been sincere enough in their way, but they did not really mean it as literally as Joan. There was always the understood qualification, "within reason," which a sensible fellow bore in mind.

In his very rare moments of introspection, Brian had always credited himself with being straightforward and sincere. He had even wondered uncomfortably if he were just a little ingenuous, and sophistication was the admired quality on the Campus. But seen in the perspective of army life, and in the reflection of Joan's unique and literal candour, its glitter seemed tarnished. Hers was a much more admirable quality, and in comparison his own straightforwardness showed as a rather wobbly thing. He would have to live up to her standard when he was dealing with her. The only trouble with that sort of thing was that it was so easy! You were apt to be out of your depth before you knew you'd put your foot in it!

He was smiling at his mental metaphor when Joan came back. She took away the porridge-bowl and put—almost planked down in front of him—a large plate of sausages and mashed potatoes.

"There!" she said, accusingly.

He glanced up just long enough to meet the reproachful eyes, and with a meek "thank you" took up his knife and fork. So that was it!

For about half a minute she stood there as if to make sure that he was really eating, then sat down. He guessed that she would not be long in coming to the point.

"I woke up in the middle of the night wondering if I had really made you comfortable, and the very first thing I thought of was the way you had spoken about sausages and mashed potatoes, and then I realized that I hadn't given you anything to eat!"

She clenched and unclenched her hand, as if the emotion were still moving her. "You could not have had anything to eat between noon yesterday—and now! All the time we were talking, you must have been starving. And you never said a word. I know it was my fault. I should have known. I never dreamed that I could be so stupid. But you might have said something,—even a hint, because I told you I wasn't used to guests.

"I was so angry that I put on my dressing-gown and nearly went up and made you come and eat something right then. But that would only have been stupider. I didn't know what to do. There was nothing I could do,—and it made me miserable."

Brian stopped eating, as her low, serious voice changed from its note of reproach. Her last words moved him. They made him feel mean, and emphasized everything he had been thinking about her before she came in. He had no feeling that the incident was being exaggerated, because he would have felt the same way himself. Now that he understood her better, he realized that it must have been something like a tragedy for her to realize that she had failed so dismally in what she had set herself to do.

And she was so dignified and frank about it, when she might have been resentful,—or as angry with him as he was with himself. "I am sorry, honestly sorry, Joan," he said, and his apology was much more earnest than his earlier one. "But please don't feel so badly about it, because it was absolutely my fault. At first I didn't want to be a nuisance, and afterwards, when you were so nice to me that I realized you wouldn't mind the trouble, well, I wasn't bothering about food,—I'd rather have been talking than eating, anyway.

"I know that's not a real excuse—I could have done both—but it's only after you said what you did about wanting to help me downstairs that I've got on to the difference between you and other people. Most people don't mean what they say about taking trouble, quite as much as you do. I'm sorry."

Joan answered quickly. "You'll make me feel worse if you try to take all the blame." But her tone was softer. "That would make you unhappy, and all I'm thinking of is making you comfortable and happy while you're here,—please understand that."

She paused thoughtfully, but continued before he could speak. "No, that wasn't quite true. I can't help thinking a little of how I feel when I don't make you comfortable,—but it's not the important thing."

She stood up. "Look, Brian. You will be here all today, and perhaps tomorrow. For my sake, not yours—I mean to help my ignorance of what I ought to do, I want you to promise me something. Will—"

"I promise, on my word of honour," Brian interrupted vehemently.

"But you don't know what I was going to ask!"

"And I don't care! I promise—faithfully—to do it anyway."

She seemed non-plussed, but her eyes were soft and grateful. "It's only that you should ask whatever you want,—every little thing. And be fair, I'll promise to say so if it's anything which really would be a nuisance."

"For the third time, I promise,—on my word of honour, Joan. And just to show I mean it," he added, smiling propitiatingly, "I want to go out to the kitchen and hot up these sausages, and though I can't do that because of my foot—I still want them hot!"

Joan stooped quickly to take the plate. Her face was close to his, their eyes on a level. She smiled—the most radiant smile she had given him—and hurried out.

He felt bashful—and humble—and the fresh, white tablecloth was blurred as he stared down at where his plate had been.