Читать книгу Old Pybus - Warwick Deeping - Страница 27

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Lance drove fast. He had youth’s swiftness and its love of swiftness without youth’s recklessness. He had too much imagination to be reckless, for the reckless are those who cannot see round life’s corners. With the chalk hills and high beech woods behind him he crossed Oxfordshire, going west. He had no great love for flat country, with its root crops and its stubbles and its endless cattle in endless fields. He was out upon adventures; he pushed the little Talbot hard; his hair, blown back from his bare head, made the swiftness of the adventure visible.

Then, with the hill country rising to him once more, he came to Castle Craven. Capturing its steepness, and captured by its soaring austerity, he pulled up in its market square. He sat there a moment, conscious of the grey town’s atmosphere, as of something splendid and spacious, yet intimate. Those six soaring pinnacles, each with its gold wind-vane, the blue spaces of the sky, the white clouds sailing, a wind ruffling his hair. The town made him think of a ship at sea, sailing that rolling landscape, with the wind alive in her rigging.

Over on his left the portico of the White Hart wore its turban of flowers. The Saracen’s Head was a little lower down. Lance parked his car by the Cross, and walked across to the White Hart. He was drawing a bow at a venture.

In the office of the White Hart a girl, looking up from a ledger, saw this young man with the wind still in his blue eyes and his hair.

“Can you tell me whether you have anyone named Pybus here?”

The girl came to the office window. She had a rather sullen face.

“Staying here?”

“No, on your staff.”

He smiled, and she felt compelled to smile back at him.

“Oh—you must mean the Saracen’s Head?”

“Do I? Thanks so much.”

“Old John—the ‘boots.’ Everyone calls him Mr. Pybus.”

“Out of respect—I suppose!”

“Well—I suppose so. I’ve heard——”

But her sullenness hid a sensitive self-consciousness, and overwhelming her suddenly, it sent her back to her ledger.

“The Saracen’s Head’s a few yards down.”

“Thanks so much.”

She watched him walk towards the hotel door, and she allowed herself to wonder who he was, and what he wanted with old Pybus. Such a good-looking lad and not in the ordinary way. Interesting. He had a mouth that was irresistible to some women; they thought of him as lying with his head in their arms. Moreover, he had the “County” look, that indefinable air. It was probable that he belonged to some family which had employed old Pybus, and had remained interested in him. Not like this beastly ledger! She scratched in a “bath” and a “breakfast,” and wished that she had kept Lance there a little longer. He had one of those faces which seem to light up from within. Most of the faces that the girl of the ledger saw were so dead.

Lance went back to the “Talbot,” and drove it into the “Saracen’s” yard. This time he varied his approach shot. He returned to the square, and entering by the front door, saw John Pybus in his usual place with the brass gong like a halo behind his big head.

Lance said.

“Can I get tea here?”

He had a pleasant, quick courtesy, because he felt a natural respect for people, especially for old people.

“Certainly, sir. Would you like it in the lounge?”

“I should—please.”

“For one, sir?”

“Yes, for one.”

Old Pybus looked hard at him, but knew him not from Adam.

“I’ll tell the waiter, sir.”

“Thanks. Are you the manager?”

“No, the ‘boots,’ sir.”

“I have left my car in the yard. If it’s in the way——”

“I’ll see the garage man, sir. Plenty of room to-day. Not staying?”

“No—not staying.”

Lance walked into the lounge thinking “So—that’s my grandfather!” But what an unexpected figure! And so unexpected did Lance find it that he sat down in one of the lounge chairs with his blue eyes staring. He was conscious of a curious excitement. He had come over to Castle Craven, with a self-created image of an old man in his mind, and when he tried to recover that image he found that it had vanished. All that he could remember about it was that it had been large and murky and just a little sinister, and that it had included some of the features of his uncle and his father. It had been a composite image. And instantly the reality had effaced it, that vivid little, upright figure, so clean and alert, with its striking head and fearless eyes.

He was both astonished and excited. There were other people in the lounge, touring motorists full of chatter; but Lance was conscious of a stillness, a kind of inward silence. It seemed to him that something incalculable and significant had occurred. He was still on the threshold of the adventure when the waiter came and stood by him.

“Tea, sir?”

Lance came out of his stare.

“Yes, please.”

The waiter was turning away when Lance detained him.

“I say, I have left my car in the yard. There’s a map in it. Would you mind asking the porter.”

“Gone to his tea—I think, sir.”

“I mean—the little old man with the big head.”

“Yes, sir—old Mr. Pybus; gone to his tea, sir.”

“Never mind, I’ll get it myself.”

He went for the map, but saw no sign of his grandfather’s big white head. He was a little disappointed. It was possible that this was going to be a rather baffling business. How did one get to know an old man who was “boots” at a country hotel? How did you approach him? For to Lance the inspiration of the adventure lay in the temporary hiding of his own identity; he wanted to approach his grandfather as a stranger, to look at him with clear, impartial, yet eager eyes. For the situation was unique. Here was the original and almost mythical Pybus, a rather mysterious old fellow, waiting to be discovered and explored by his own grandson who had appeared as a casual young man in a car.

Lance’s excitement had its tinge of emotion. Also, it was sublimated curiosity suffused with a sense of the picturesque and the singular. He had the qualities of an artist, a quick eye for the dignity and the spacing of a situation. He sat down to his tea. He reviewed his first impression of the old man, and it was that of a white head seen against a background of gold. A venerable head with a halo. Yes, that was the inspired word—Venerable. From that moment he christened his grandfather—“The Venerable.”