Читать книгу Mr Weston's Good Wine - T. F. Powys - Страница 6

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The man who appeared a little suddenly beside Mr. Weston’s car and so alarmed Miss Gipps that she made a sudden exclamation, was, as we have said before, a partner in Mr. Weston’s concern.

This gentleman had risen to high distinction in the firm, having once, by his strength and courage, quelled a mutiny that arose amongst the workers in Mr. Weston’s bottling department—a mutiny that, had it been successful, would have entirely ruined the wine merchant’s vast business, whose ramifications were everywhere.

The new-comer had arrived suddenly, but it is easy to step across a street, and still easier to step across a pavement from the door of an inn, without being noticed. We will note his behaviour; that is more important to us than the suddenness of his arrival, for it is from a man’s behaviour when he does not know that he is being watched that his character, as well as his situation and rank in the world, may be discovered.

The gentleman behaved to Mr. Weston with a respect that did honour to them both, for it was the loving respect that is never given unless the object is entirely deserving of it. This respect was utterly natural and unassumed, and was by no means dictated by the immense magnitude and long standing of the firm of which Mr. Weston was the senior director, but came rather from the love of one good heart to another—a more lofty and an older one.

The young gentleman bowed low.

No one noticed this simple act of politeness except Miss Gipps, who passed at the moment and considered the bow quite right and proper, and liked the young man the better for it. She did notice, too, though she gave more heed to his master, that the gentleman was not only a remarkably tall young man, but surprisingly beautiful, having all the fine distinction of the best breeding set off with amiable modesty. He might almost have been a god, his beauty being of that exalted kind that promotes a sure confidence and awakens a lasting love. He was taller than his companion by a foot or more, and of slender build, and he stepped lightly upon his toes that hardly seemed to touch the ground that he trod upon. Both Mr. Weston and he were dressed in well-cut suits of Scotch tweed, of the latest fashion, that fitted them extremely well, and each wore a tie of deep claret colour, but Mr. Weston alone wore an overcoat.

They had both noticed Miss Gipps.

The town was still sluggish, sullen and sleepy, and no one was to be seen. The street seemed to be cleared of all humanity, with the exception of Mr. Weston and his companion, whom Mr. Weston addressed as Michael when he first saw him.

The heaviness of the afternoon did not invite a hasty departure, and although the car had already remained so long in the street, Mr. Weston preferred to wait even a little longer before he started the engine.

Nancy Gipps was scarcely out of hearing when Mr. Weston spoke.

‘Michael,’ he said, ‘you must know that Miss Gipps is a good woman.’

Mr. Weston spoke in the easy and friendly manner of a tradesman whose behaviour it was, however great his firm might be, to know all the people and the towns and villages in which he had hopes of selling his goods.

Michael bowed.

‘Alas!’ said Mr. Weston, ‘it is not often the case that I can be quite sure of a customer, but I am well aware that if Miss Nancy Gipps had the Mayor’s money to spend, she would at once prevent him from buying a great deal of very bad wine, and would give him our good wine to drink instead, and he would live to thank us.’

‘He would live happily,’ said Michael, ‘drinking at all hours our good wine.’

Mr. Weston beckoned with his gloved hand. Michael took his place in the car. The street that had been so empty had now a few people in it.

A girl in a pink frock, who lived an easy and gay life, sauntered by Mr. Milsom’s shop and turned for a moment to admire the trousers in the window. Mr. Milsom, who, for some reason or other—perhaps because he had seen a car go by with the word ‘wine’ upon it—had sent out to the Rod and Lion for a bottle of burgundy to drink with his cold chicken. Taking the last glass with him in his hand, he entered his shop and peeped out of the window between the trousers. He saw a pretty girl smiling at him. He raised the glass to his lips, and drank her health in a becoming manner.

The girl walked away, and passed scornfully a grocer’s assistant in a white apron who stepped out into the road to approve the new arrangement of the shop windows that he had just been dressing. His name was Mr. Tett, and he had long, lean legs, and so high an opinion of himself that he believed his waxed moustache to be the very finest in all the town. He also believed that every young lady to whom he sold starch or potted meat wished him to lead her out into the fields near to the river, where the yellow buttercups grew, and embrace her in those meadows.

When he handed them the parcels he would say in his heart: ‘No, dear, you mustn’t expect me to act in such a common and vulgar manner.’

This young man looked at the Ford car and sniffed crossly.

The same old gentlewoman who had been thrown against the wall and had broken her leg in the storm was being wheeled by in a bathchair. She was accompanied by her friend—who had also been cast down by the rude winds—and who walked by the side of the chair, holding her hand.

The lady’s gardener, a man with an angry look and black gaiters, glaring at every one, pulled his mistress with his back bent as if she weighed near a ton.

Both the ladies looked about them in terror, as if they expected at any moment another burst of wind to rush suddenly up a by-street and cast them down again. Whenever they saw a wall they trembled with fear. They both lived now in continual fear of the wind and of what it might do, and anything they saw move a little unexpectedly they believed to be propelled by that dreadful element. They looked at Mr. Weston’s car with gratitude because it wasn’t moving.

The Maidenbridge bank manager—a shy and stooping gentleman, who was always putting on a pair of kid gloves that were always a size too small for him—came down the grand steps of the bank. He was walking with Mr. Board, the Mayor of the town. They went by the Ford car, but did not appear to take any notice of it.

The bank manager was speaking in a joking manner to Mr. Board. He told him that he ought to set the young men of the town an example and marry.

‘You should marry, Mr. Board,’ he said, ‘for a man, without a woman—oh, you know the rest.’

Mr. Board lit a cigar. He was more thoughtful than usual that morning. He had suffered from indigestion in the night, and had supposed himself to be dying, and now he thought that a drink might take such nasty night-thoughts away.

The two gentlemen entered the Rod and Lion and went into the private bar.

They found Lily very ready to receive them, though she still went on darning her stocking. She was happy and smiling. Some one had answered her wish, and she expected a merry time. Mr. Board might even slip a five-pound note into her hand and try to kiss her, for old gentlemen were always more merry when they went a-hunting in pairs.

A policeman came by upon the pavement, looking up into the sky as if he saw a thief stealing a chrysoprase from the floor of heaven and wished that he might catch him and have him up before Mr. Board, in the Maidenbridge Town Hall.

A nursemaid—a careless girl, very plump and smiling—followed the policeman, while the child she had charge of tripped over its hoop and fell into the gutter.

The child was nearly run over by a large and luxurious car, that appeared to fill the whole street. Inside the car was Lord Bullman, who had come to invite Mr. Board to dine with him that same evening, because he wished to have a good listener for his latest story about a lady and gentleman who lived in London.

‘You saw my lord, sir,’ said Michael, who liked a little gossip; ‘he looked at us as if we were very much in his way, and—if you will pardon my freedom—he looked as if he never wanted to see us again.’

‘He never will,’ said Mr. Weston.

Michael was silent.

My lord stopped his car and spoke to the policeman. Mr. Weston still waited, and watched the street as if he looked at a play. He smiled, and made a gesture with his hand as if he pulled the wires that set all these people in motion.

His companion, who didn’t like to be silent for long, turned to him.

‘I trust that no one’—Michael’s voice was gentle and pleasing—‘has insulted you in my absence, Mr. Weston, for in a small provincial town the behaviour of the people towards strangers is not always as kind as it should be.’

Mr. Weston looked down at his boots, that were of the best make.

‘A boy,’ he said, ‘climbed up beside me and peeped into the van.’

‘Oh, did he?’ said Michael, and looked over his shoulder.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Weston, ‘but one look was enough for him; and then Miss Gipps came by, who read the advertisement.’

‘A kind lady,’ remarked Michael carelessly.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Weston, ‘Nancy is a wise virgin who will one day drink my wine.’

‘She did not give you an order, or ask to look at the goods?’ inquired Michael.

‘She knows their quality,’ answered Mr. Weston quietly.

The street was now empty again, and silent. A peace and stillness, almost like death, settled upon the town; the dull clouds hung lower, and a dimness, that sometimes falls like a cloak upon a day in late autumn, was fallen now.

‘The time has come,’ said Mr. Weston, ‘for us to take the road to Folly Down.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, ‘that is the village that we were going to visit, and it is certainly fortunate that you have remembered its name.’

‘The name is written in my book,’ observed Mr. Weston, and started the car.