Читать книгу Old Pybus - Warwick Deeping - Страница 23

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So, Sir Probyn, looking rather like a man who had lost his chauffeur, had to stand in the coaching-yard while his father was collecting his dinner in the kitchen. Old John came out of a side door into the yard, with a plate of roast beef, greens and potatoes in one hand, and a slice of bread with a piece of Cheshire cheese on it in the other. He jerked his white head at Probyn.

“This way, sir.”

Incorrigible old derider of the higher conventions! The plate was very full of gravy, and old Pybus walked with great deliberation, assuming that his son was treading on hot pebbles.

“Mustn’t spill the gravy—you know—sir.”

Probyn cleared his throat.

“You always loved irony.”

“Not a bit of it. Gravy’s gravy. Like to soak my bread in it at times. So, they made you a knight.”

“They did.”

“Saw it in a paper. What did they do it for?”

“As a recognition—I gather——”

“Public services, patriotism, self-sacrifice. Didn’t buy it, did you, Probyn?”

“The gibe is unworthy——”

“Ooops—mind the gravy! Boiled potatoes to-day—you see. Personally I prefer them mashed—with butter. Plenty of butter.”

And Probyn, following in step behind him, was thinking—“You old devil. Just the same as ever. What am I doing here? Wasting my time—of course. But I’ll do the generous thing. I can always remind myself that I did make an effort. Why on earth can’t the old fellow be—respectable. No tact, no consideration. Never had.”

Over the grey cobbles between the ancient red brick walls Probyn followed his father, who persisted in going at a snail’s pace, talking the while as though wielding a playful scourge.

“Democratic age, sir. But a handle is as much a handle as ever. Your dustman has to be Mr. This, and your bricklayer’s labourer Mr. That, when they are mentioned by the local press for getting run over when drunk or for growing a prize pumpkin. And the scullery-maid is Miss So and So.—Bosh, isn’t it? Better a plain Bill Sykes and a Nancy Lee. Mr. John Pybus! What use—what bloody use—as the vulgar would put it—is the Mr. to me? But then—of course—a knighthood——”

They had reached the green door of Castle Cottage, and old Pybus turned and looked wickedly at his son, though there was no wickedness in him.

“This gravy! Both hands full. Mind opening the door, sir.”

Probyn opened it. He saw the red-tiled floor, and the Windsor chairs, and the dahlias in the little garden on the southern side glowing like velvet and cloth of gold beyond the lattice windows. He was thinking at the moment of that saying of Conrad’s that old John was jealous of his sons and had always been jealous of them. Big fellows looking down at him. Yes, little men were often touchy and self-centred and arrogant.

“Take a chair, sir. You’ll excuse me going on with my dinner. Have to be back on duty at a quarter to one.”

Probyn let his father pass, and then closed the door, but he did not sit down. He was looking at the two photos on the mantelpiece. John Pybus saw the look.

“My two sons, sir; killed in the Great War—both of them.”

Probyn made a movement as of pulling down his waistcoat and settling his collar.

“You won’t accept sentiment. Can’t we delete the irony and come to realities. I’m a business man.”

“Exactly,” said his father, and sat down to his dinner. “And what’s the business to-day? I think I know, my lad. Much better leave me alone. I shan’t interfere with you.”

His son, standing by the window, and looking out at his father’s little garden, felt the muteness of a discredited motive. As a boy Probyn had been a plausible youngster, full of florid yet ingenious excuses, but always his father had poked a finger at the fabrication, and the thing had burst like a bladder. Besides, few motives are single and direct, and Probyn’s motives were mixed. He had good nature. He liked to feel well with himself, and he was wishing to feel well with himself in his attitude towards his father. He would rather do the generous thing. Moreover, there was Lance to be considered, and Lance’s mother, who had said with abruptness that she would never have the old man in her house.

Meanwhile, John Pybus was contentedly eating his dinner, and Probyn knew that something had to be said. He turned and sat down in one of the Windsor chairs.

“May I put it to you, father, that I should like to make things easier.”

“Easier?”

Old Pybus paused with a piece of potato on his fork.

“Easier! I’m not complaining. I’ve got all I want. How could you make it easier?”

“There is no need for you to remain——”

The blue eyes fixed him.

“Pension me off. Put me comfortably on the shelf somewhere? I’m quite contented here. You need not worry, my lad. I am not going to complicate the new coat of arms.”

Probyn winced. For with unerring aim his father had thrown a stick and knocked down and marked out the principal motive.

“You’re not fair to me. If you remember—on a previous occasion—I attempted——”

John Pybus gazed at him fixedly for a moment, and then went on with his dinner. He had every appearance of enjoying it.

And then, while Probyn was trying to sort out his motives and to make a respectable pattern out of them, his father asked him a question.

“How’s your boy?”

“Lance. He’s up at Cambridge.”

“Putting him in the business?”

“It’s there for him. You won’t be offended if I say that it is a very fine business.”

Old Pybus broke bread.

“Hope he’ll like it. Though making money’s not living, Probyn. I suppose—he is all—that you want him to be?”

“I have no fault to find.”

“Splendid. The perfect little gentleman, God bless him. Got his own car—I suppose?”

“He has. It’s justified. Lance isn’t——”

The blue eyes observed him.

“I wish you luck with him, Probyn. There is no bitterness between me and your boy. Don’t spoil him.”

Probyn’s colour seemed to come quickly.

“Really—father! You did not spoil us, did you?”

“But your mother did. There—there—let us leave it at that. I suppose when a boy is up at Cambridge—he wouldn’t be pleased to have it known that his grandfather——Quite natural. I’m not quarrelling with the prejudice. What do you make the time?”

Probyn pulled out a gold watch.

“Five and twenty minutes to one.”

“Thanks. I must eat my cheese. You need not worry about me, Probyn. Never was better in my life. I shan’t intrude. No wish to. Besides—no one here need be told—that because my name’s Pybus—you take me? No obligation anywhere.”

His big white head caught the sunlight. He smiled.

“My good wishes to your boy—anyway. He’s young. A fresh start. New blood. Hope he’ll miss our mistakes. Good luck to him.”