Читать книгу Old Pybus - Warwick Deeping - Страница 7

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That he as a man should sit calmly down to lunch after cutting his own father was beyond Mr. Conrad Pybus’s capacity. Obviously he was not himself, or rather—he was too much himself. He had reverted—and without realising his reversion—to the little barbarisms of the struggling thirties when he had scuffled with life in his shirt-sleeves.

Moreover, he was so very conscious of Lady Ursula, sitting opposite him at the little table in a recess by the window. A card with “Reserved” printed upon it remained propped against a vase full of purple and white asters. Yes, she too was so confoundedly reserved, such a woman of elevation and of quality, poised like Diana before his moon-faced homage. For the last three months he had been trying so hard to place himself on some sort of feeling of equality with her, to impress her, to realise himself as Conrad Pybus, Esq., of Chlois Court.

Then—consider the immoderate obstinacy of that absurd old man! How could a fellow have foreseen such a damnable coincidence? To hear yourself saying: “Hallo—Dad,” to a little old fellow who cleaned the boots, and saying it in the presence of that most elusive and ironic goddess. Besides—it wasn’t as though he and Probyn had not attempted to do something for the old curmudgeon.

The head-waiter was standing at Mr. Conrad’s elbow.

“Lunch, sir?”

“Take that card away.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“I ordered lunch by wire—a special lunch.”

“Yes, sir. I know all about it, sir. The wine is on ice.”

George, of the Saracen’s Head, had a soothing voice, and a sleepy and humourous eye. He knew his world. Obviously the gentleman was in a fractious mood, being the kind of new gentleman who raised his voice and made a fuss when things were not going well. George’s sleepy eye observed the lady. She was putting one of the asters in place with an air of doing what came natural to her. Her face had the glimmer of an inward smile.

“Soup or hors d’œuvres, sir?”

Mr. Pybus was posed. He bungled his French, and realised that he had bungled it when his lady made her choice. And he was most absurdly annoyed. First—a wild oddity of a father bobbing up like the ghost of his own past, and then a fool of a waiter tricking him into speaking of hors doovres! He became throaty and self-conscious.

“I must apologise for this—place. Had it recommended to me by Pelham. Doesn’t do to take an ipse dixit.”

She looked him straight in the face.

“Don’t you like it?”

“Flyblown—like most of these country pubs.”

That something had upset him was as obvious as was the heavy white solidity of his countenance. She wondered what it was. Not that it mattered. The loutishness in certain sorts of men is easily rediscovered. He glared; he examined the table silver; almost she expected to see him take up a spoon and polish it with a corner of the tablecloth. And she was amused. Always she had loved mischief, but mischief without malice, and it seemed to her that she was watching a materialisation of the real Conrad Pybus, of the man who sat in his office chair in his shirt-sleeves and smoked rank cigars, and bullied people. His voice appeared to slip back into his throat and to become thick and aggressive. She was vividly aware of his crudities, of the inherent vulgarities of the man, and suddenly she wondered how she had been persuaded to spend the day in his car. She hadn’t been persuaded. She had been provoked by an impulse, an ironical curiosity. And here she was sitting opposite to him, and feeling the hot waves of his extreme discomfort pouring over her. Moreover, what was the use of ordering the wine to be iced if you had not been schooled to suppress the common heats of the body?

She glanced over her shoulder at the window.

“Don’t you find it very hot in here?”

He did. He was perspiring. He expended a further portion of his heat upon the waiter.

“Open that window, will you?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The window was opened, but he continued to give her the impression of a man lunching in a London grill-room on a hot August day. She surmised that the salad would be flat, and it was. And again he expended more heat upon the waiter, quite unnecessary heat. She was feeling the freshness of the hill-town air whispering round her shoulders, and she had all the essential and clear coolness of her breed, but she began to be infected by his flushes and his discomforts. It was like travelling in a stuffy and crowded railway carriage next to some stout person who mopped and panted.

“Beastly lunch—I’m afraid—I’m sorry.”

She assured him that the lunch was excellent. But what had upset him? Not that she asked the question. She had ceased from wishing to ask Mr. Conrad Pybus any questions. She had become too conscious of his incongruities. He continued to remain in a heat of frettings and apologetics, and while applying the coolness of her easy voice to the fevered forehead of conversation, she considered Mr. Conrad Pybus as a social specimen. He reminded her of some common child who had been carefully drilled and prompted for some social occasion, and whose niceness crumbled and fell to pieces under the stress of sudden publicity. She saw him as a moist, awkward figure, eating with uneasy ferocity, using its table napkin too frequently on that very black moustache, pulling bread to pieces with its bolster fingers. She was reminded of the simile of a man sitting upon a hot-plate. He fizzled.

“Hang it—this meat’s a bit off.”

“Is it? Really—I think you must be just a little unfortunate.”

Her incorrigible self was conscious of inward whisperings. A bit off! Oh, delicious and splurging Pybus! Almost she feared for his aspirates. And with the cool air on her neck and shoulders she thought of Chlois Court, and his pictures, and his library with its multitudinous classics all bound in red leather. Culture—culture spelt with a very big K, Teutonic, a little pathetic. And yet, in spite of his carefulness and his contrivings, the trotter protruded in proximity to the trough.

But she began to wish for the end of the meal. She decided that the day’s adventure had reached its climax, and that he needed cooling under the trees of Chlois Court.

“Really—it has been a delightful drive.”

He asked her if she would care to wander round Castle Craven. There was the castle, and the Master Mostyn museum—“Pre-historic stuff, you know.” Smiling her own smile she assured him that she had to be back for tea. Could he manage it? Of course he could manage it. He showed a sudden restiveness. He brought out a black leather wallet and put it back again. He asked her if she would like a liqueur with her coffee.

“A Kummel, please.”

He called the waiter.

“Two Kummels and two coffees.”

“In the lounge, sir?”

“No—here.”

His restiveness seemed to increase. Frowning over his Stilton he actually missed a remark of hers.

“Wonder if you’d excuse me a moment. I’m a bit doubtful about the petrol.”

“Of course.”

“My chap’s a careless idiot. There’s a petrol pump in the yard. I’ll get the fellow in charge to fill me up.”

“Please do.”

He placed an open cigarette-case in front of her, but forgot the matches.

“Won’t be a minute.”

She smiled at his departing back.