Читать книгу Valour - Warwick Deeping - Страница 5
CHAPTER III
ОглавлениеPorteous Hammersly, from his dressing-room window, beheld a vision of youth moving light-footed over the dew-wet grass, head in air, intoxicated, exultant.
There was something so arrestive about his son’s figure, that old Hammersly paused to watch him, razor idle in one hand, half his face white lather, the other half, pink skin. Pierce was walking to and fro, head high, throat showing, like some Greek singer whose lips quivered with the rush of a rhapsody. Such glimpses of vivid moving life rouse old memories, odd intimate emotions that stirred one long ago. Old Porteous was snatched back thirty years, and made to see himself in the exultant figure of this young man.
Love may make people very obtuse or very sensitive, and it had made Hammersly very sensitive towards his son. “The boy’s in love,” was the thought that crossed his mind, “and why shouldn’t he be in love?” and then he sighed and went on scraping his chin. “Women don’t see enough of life in a place like this. They get narrow, selfish.”
He heard his wife tapping her way down the polished corridor, for she had a curiously quick and fussy step for so big a woman.
“Oh—damn!”
Porteous had cut his chin in listening to the sound of those fussy footsteps, and in thinking of the thousands of potential Sophias who were waiting to fill a man’s life with crass prejudices and boring ignorance.
Pierce dreamed into the dining-room with a smile deep down in his eyes. His mother was buttering toast, and Porteous stood by one of the windows glancing at the morning paper.
“Hallo, had a good night, Pierce?”
“Excellent. Sorry I was late. I’ll have tea, Mater, please.”
Mrs. Sophia opened her attack.
“You are coming to the fête this afternoon, Pierce?”
“What sort of fête is it?”
“A war fête. Sir Lionel has lent his park.”
Pierce mused a moment; he was thinking of Janet and of the romantic publicity he meant to achieve.
“I’ll turn up, Mater.”
She beamed at him coldly.
“Grace Rentoul is coming to lunch.”
“Is she? Any news, Dad?”
“I want Grace to come with us. Her people are away in town.”
Pierce was disgracefully inattentive.
“I see. What about the Russians, Pater?”
Porteous Hammersly turned to the table.
“Bad news—as usual. A most regrettable setback. These Germans are cunning beggars.”
“Your porridge is getting cold, Porteous. I will order the car for two-thirty, and we can all drive over to Sir Lionel’s with Grace.”
“I say, is the Singer running?”
“Bains drove me out in it yesterday.”
“Excellent. I’ll come along in the Singer. What time is the show?”
His mother looked puzzled.
“The gates open at two, Pierce.”
“Is the affair public?”
“It is open to everybody. Perhaps you would like to drive Grace over, Pierce?”
“Thanks, but I shall have someone with me. What is it, Mater—a bazaar, and a pocketful of loose cash?”
Mrs. Sophia was frowning over her tea cup.
“Are you bringing a friend, Pierce?”
“Yes—a friend,” and Porteous, who was watching him, saw the gleam of the rebel lover in his eyes.
Mrs. Sophia saw nothing but her own particular ambition.
“Why not ask your friend to lunch, Pierce? Who is he?”
“Thanks, Mater, but I think he is booked for lunch. Is that the marmalade over there?”
His father enjoyed an inward chuckle, which was traitorous and disloyal of him. He even dared to hope that Pierce’s friend would prove to be a thing in petticoats, for the father lived in the adventurousness of the son.
Pierce left his mother reading her letters, and lighting a pipe in the hall he strolled round to the garage, where the chauffeur was changing a tyre on the Rolls-Royce.
“Is the Singer running all right, Bains?”
“Like a dream, sir.”
“I shall want her at two o’clock.”
“Driving yourself, sir?”
“Yes.”
He sent Janet a note.
“Dear,—There is a big function on this afternoon at Sir Lionel Phelps’s. I want you to come to it with me, and let me boast about you to everybody. I shall call for you with the car about half-past two. I am being good, and am spending the morning at home.
“What feeble things letters are! I am not going to reduce this great happiness of ours to bathos by trying to write about it.
“I love you. Just that.
“Pierce.”
He spent the morning with his father, trailing round Scarshott for the pleasing of the old boy’s pride. Porteous had tact, and a decent respect for another man’s reticences, even when that man happened to be his son. Despite his interested and sympathetic suspicions he made no attempt to discover the identity of that mysterious friend whom Pierce was to drive over to Milford Park that afternoon.
They strolled home in time for lunch, to find that sweet bribe ready and prepared, and shyly awaiting the coming of the potential lover. Mrs. Sophia had been broadly and bluntly suggestive, and little Grace Rentoul was pathetically self-conscious.
She flushed up, and let her eyes glimmer at Pierce with shy kindness. He just noticed her, with a kind of brotherly good will.
“Hallo. What are you turning into, Grace, a V.A.D. nurse or a munition worker?”
“I am afraid I am nothing,” she said.
Which was the bitter truth, poor child.
Pierce hid himself after lunch, for he had an unhallowed mistrust of his mother. She had a genius for creating awkward situations, and for playing havoc with innocent conspiracies. He was so determined to elude her that he took the Singer out before two o’clock, bustled the little car at a reckless pace down the drive, and made for Heather Cottage as though he were carrying urgent dispatches.
The adventure intoxicated him with its tenderness and audacity. What a day, what sunlight, what a depth of blue in the sky, what a whiteness of clouds above the pines! He was a charioteer, reckless, exultant; life went at a gallop, with laughing mouth and flashing eyes.
He bumped the car up the sandy track to the cottage, and had a vision of Janet at her window gathering up a sweep of rich brown hair. She waved a hand and scolded him.
“Half an hour early. What treachery!”
He climbed out, and stood looking up at her with triumphant tenderness.
“Why blame me? Could I help it?”
A bare white arm showed its perfect lines.
“Go away, Mr. Soldier. This is one of the most serious moments of my life.”
“Can I see your mother?”
“Yes, of course. You will find her in the veranda—round under the pergola.”
“Be merciful, Janet. Remember—I am made of human clay.”
“When a woman arms herself, my friend——”
“Then the gods look down from Olympus.”
Mrs. Yorke was very kind to him. There were tears in her eyes when she spoke of Janet.
“Of course you know what happened to my poor husband? It has made us very sensitive, Mr. Hammersly, and I must say your courage has touched me. But I want you to be frank—for Janet’s sake. Your father and mother——?”
Pierce made haste to reassure her.
“Janet will see them this afternoon. As for the courage of the thing—well, I don’t think I could help loving Janet. Besides, this war is starting life afresh for most of us.”
And then Janet appeared, a slim and gracious creature in the simplest of pale-blue frocks, with eyes that glimmered and a red mouth that smiled. She wore a black-brimmed hat that threw a soft shadow over her face, the very hat in a hundred that she should have worn. Her figure was so perfect, and her head so finely set, that absolute simplicity, a mere soft-coloured sheath, was all she needed.
Pierce’s eyes exulted in her.
“I think my car happens to be just the right colour.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Have you a coat?”
“Shall I want one?”
“Perhaps not. I see no reason for driving at thirty miles an hour.”
Janet kissed her mother, and Pierce carried her off, telling himself that she was like a flower, just as pure and natural and convincing, with no cheap tags of finery and no silly mannerisms to mar her absolute completeness. She had breed, a slim, girlish dignity, and a throat and bosom that were full of subtle and human suggestiveness.
“You look ready for conquests.”
“I——?”
He took his seat, and felt a thrill of pride in her as she slipped into her place beside him.
“I am a little frightened.”
“Of what?”
“People—everything. In a way I am defying society.”
“Dear heart, what nonsense! Well, and if we are, it’s splendid. I think you are going to cause a great sensation.”
“Don’t try to make me self-conscious, don’t, please.”
“I can’t help feeling proud of you.”
“And—and I want you to be proud of me. You won’t let them eat me up.”
“You are too convincing,” he said, looking at her with shining eyes, “a stone of the very first water, dear.”
Hammersly, mischievous young egoist that he was, had always delighted in shocking Scarshott’s prejudices, but his heart ruled that afternoon’s adventure. The spirit of protective chivalry was aroused in him. Janet’s pride was his, and through her he felt himself at war with the crowded complacency of Sir Lionel Phelps’s “grounds.” They were late in arriving, and he led her in a state progress through the crowd, taking his homage and spreading it like a cloak under her feet. All the world could see that he was in love with her. His eyes laughed at Scarshott. He carried his head exultantly.
“Do you know, Janet, there is not a woman here to touch you.”
She looked proud, adorably happy. He had never seen such a glowing, radiant Janet as this. She was unique, softly dominant, mysteriously graceful. Even Pierce Hammersly’s vanity had its triumph; he had created a sensation. Scarshott was astonished.
There were secret thrills of feminine distress, and little dream romances melted into the air.
“Who’s that girl with young Hammersly?”
“Never seen her before, but she’s jolly handsome.”
“What, don’t you know! That’s Yorke’s daughter, the people who live at that new cottage.”
Pierce had been keeping a brisk look out for his father. He was not afraid of old Porteous, and he intended Janet to touch what was best in the house of Hammersly before she met his mother. For Pierce—the lover—mistrusted his own mother. Mrs. Sophia was capable of bitterly wounding Janet’s pride.
“Hallo, there’s the pater! I want to take you to him.”
He saw Janet stiffen herself.
“You’ll like him; don’t be afraid.”
Porteous Hammersly had been talking to Sir Lionel Phelps, when these two young people came to prove the metal of his manhood. They overtook him in a quiet corner of the herbaceous garden below the terrace.
“Father——”
Porteous turned on them with a faint smile and inquiring eyes.
“I’ve brought Janet—Miss Yorke. She is going to marry me—some day, and I’m a proud man, Pater. I shall want you to be kind to her.”
Porteous Hammersly and the girl looked at each other like shy children.
“Bless me, but you young people——”
Janet was mute, and her eyes waited on the chivalry of Pierce’s father. Porteous Hammersly was very pink, and a little breathless. He looked at Janet, and, being the man he was, he somehow felt that he could let his impulses run away with him.
“My dear, I’m very glad to meet you. Pierce is a scoundrel. He ought to have told me.”
“We only knew yesterday, Pater. Besides, I was afraid Janet would say no to me.”
Porteous held out his hand.
“Well, I am not surprised.”
“I hope—you will like me, Mr. Hammersly.”
“I don’t suppose I shall be able to help it.”
She had called on his sympathy, and it rushed to serve her.
“I will be quite frank. I did not know whether I ought to let Pierce—get engaged to me. Perhaps people have told you——?”
Pierce thrust in.
“I think father knows. If not, it is my business to tell him.”
But Porteous Hammersly insisted on speaking for himself.
“My dear, I am not going to let you humiliate yourself. Just so, just so. If you young people happen to love each other—well, all I say is, God bless you both. Now, let’s consider——”
He stuttered, and lost himself in the sudden remembering of his wife.
“Pierce, my boy——”
“I am going to bring Janet to Orchards to-morrow.”
“Yes, that is what I was going to suggest. Exactly. Now, I expect you two young people want to amuse yourselves. I’ll take myself off. I dare say we shall meet again—later. We have got to get to know each other, Miss Yorke. Yes, good-bye.”
Pierce sized up his father’s embarrassment, and swept Janet off into the rose garden.
“The pater’s a sportsman. You will like him.”
“I like him already,” she said simply. “I’m not hiding the fact that this must be a shock to your people.”
“Janet——!”
“It must be. I have the courage to face things—because——”
He bent over her, dearly.
“Don’t be afraid of the pater. But I’ll own up—my mother——”
She nodded.
“Don’t let her make you flare up, Janet, and throw me over. I know what I am asking. I love you; I want you.”
“I will be very patient, dear.”
“Leave it to me. I am not going to have your pride outraged.”
Ten minutes later Porteous Hammersly found his wife at his elbow.
“Porteous, what has happened to Pierce?”
“Happened to him? Why, I was with him a few minutes ago.”
“Haven’t you seen him—with that Yorke girl? It’s abominable!”
Porteous Hammersly displayed a scandalous and genial stupidity. His admirable assumption of cheeriness steadied the situation.
“I don’t see anything abominable about it, Sophia. He has just got engaged to the girl, and she’s charming.”
“Engaged! Good heavens, why Yorke was——”
“Tut, tut, not so loud, Sophia. This war is teaching us to forget such things. The girl is charming.”
“Oh, you fool!”
She gulped and turned away.
“I am going home. How we mothers have to suffer!”
