Читать книгу Old Pybus - Warwick Deeping - Страница 25

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Sir Probyn was back at Windover by four o’clock. He looked tired. He glanced at a picture paper while he drank his tea; and Lance was as silent as his father. Lady Pybus, who treated her menfolk like children, was yet full of rare refrainings. She read the daily paper, yet she could never refrain from reading portions of it aloud, and from making comments upon the tendencies of the day.

“Really! I call it absolutely scandalous! They ought to do something,” the “They” being the Government, or Scotland Yard, or Public Opinion, or the Press. Lady Pybus reposed upon public opinion as upon a pillow.

Lance escaped. He strolled round to the garage where the Buick, covered with dust, was standing under the glass shelter for Wyman to wash her down. Lance happened to know the Buick’s mileage, for he had driven her the previous day. The speedometer recorded the fact that his father had driven 113.6 miles. A map and route-book spread upon the tail of the two-seater gave the distance to Castle Craven as 66 miles.

The coincidence appeared conclusive.

Windover dined at 7.30. Lance, on his way downstairs after dressing, heard his mother’s door open. His father came out, but, turning back with his hand on the handle, answered some question of his wife’s.

“What? No other alternative. Well, one could not have done more. He always was a little eccentric.”

Lance heard his own name uttered by his mother’s voice. His father’s back was turned, and Lance continued a swift and soft descent.

“Quite so. Much better that he shouldn’t.”

So they were not going to tell him. He was to be given no key to the family cupboard and, somehow—he resented this exclusion. What did they mistrust? His common sense or his curiosity or his youthfulness? Or was it parental consideration? He had no wish to be considered in that sort of way. But parental prejudices are regular and universal, a part of the social scheme. Fashions change, but the passion to possess and to cover up is always in the picture. His mother danced and wore short skirts. That was about the only difference between her and his maternal grandmother.

After dinner, Lance went up to his room and shut the door, but he did not switch on the lights. He carried a chair to the open south window and, straddling the chair, looked at a sky that grew brilliant with stars.

“I want to see for myself,” he thought.

Yes, that was life, seeing things for yourself.