Читать книгу Sackcloth into Silk - Warwick Deeping - Страница 24

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There was nothing dramatic about Karl’s going. Like many young men he just disappeared from his accustomed haunts for a period or for ever. Having lied about his age, rechristened himself Charles, and been passed by the doctor, he spent two nights in a depot, and was then railed with a number of other men to a training camp in Dorsetshire. The dramatic element was his mother’s, the deliberate restraint with which she chose to stand alone, the courage with which she carried on.

But she was no quietist. She had her business, and that was more than sufficient to keep her on her feet, and now that Karl had left her she wanted help. Girls were growing scarce, and Rebecca chose an older woman, a niece of Mrs. Mutter.

Karl had been gone a week when Emily slithered in. Rebecca had had her flair about Emily; she had expected Emily to arrive and here she was, wearing black, and sympathetic insinuations. Emily had come to suggest that she might be able to help her mother-in-law.

“I could come round when I’ve got Gus off and tidied up the house.”

Rebecca had feelings about Emily. Her daughter-in-law’s cat’s eyes were on those fur coats. Emily was not really sorry for Rebecca or for Karl; Emily was purring in secret over the departure of Karl; Emily would not be sorry if Karl never came back. Rebecca was polite but final.

“Thank you, Emily, but I’ve got a woman. Besides,—I couldn’t take you away from your home.”

Emily looked offended. She was in a perpetual state of being offended.

“Well,—I only wanted to help.”

“Very kind of you, Emily, but I can manage. How is Gus’s indigestion?”

Emily departed with the air of a good woman who had been rebuffed.

Rebecca carried on. Business was booming, and in spite of the exactions of the tax-gatherers it became apparent both to Rebecca and Mr. Isenstein that there were small fortunes to be made in furs. Did Rebecca love money? She did; but her love was ulterior and vicariously selfish. She wanted success, power, fame, not for herself but for her love-child. Life had snatched him away, but his mother remained obstinately sure that her Karl would come back to her. She kept that room of his sweet and clean. No one else entered it. She would sit for a minute or two in his chair, and turn the pages of the manuscript he had left behind.

On the brown paper cover she could read:

“Fantasy”

“A Play—By Charles Kesteven.”

She smiled over that name. It was not Slopp, or Samuel, George or Augustus. Kesteven? Well, why not? If necessary she would take that name.

Meanwhile, she had Karl’s letters, and her work and three months’ grace. Three months of intensive training fitted a man for France, and Karl was in the P.B.I. That had been something of a shock. The Poor Bloody Infantry!—But the war might end before——No, she would not allow herself to be fooled. Karl’s letters were cheerful. He was with a good crowd; he was boxing, playing football. So very English, and casually so. Rebecca tied up the letters with a black bootlace and was proud. Her love-child was no whimperer. He had his head in the air.

She showed one of Karl’s letters to Mr. Vidler, who still came round on Sunday nights, and the old man rubbed his chin.

“Playing games. Aren’t we mad?—But it’s our gaminess as does it.—That other boy of yours?”

“Which?”

“The one who looks like a Russian.”

“Oh, Augustus. Just slinking.”

Said Mr. Vidler—“I never heard of Russians playing football. Miserable devils.”

So the winter passed, and the spring came, and to Rebecca it had a strange, sweet anguish. It was as though her own youth was renewed in her fat old body. She bought flowers and put them in Karl’s room.—Would the dear body of her love-child be wounded? She carried her inward wound, and bustled about, and was indefatigably active. Her bank balance was mounting up, and the fatal day was drawing near.