Читать книгу Old Pybus - Warwick Deeping - Страница 8

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Mr. Conrad Pybus appeared in the hall of the Saracen’s Head rather with the air of a man who had pocketed some of the table silver and was determined that no one should know it. He strolled. He lit a cigar. He had come out in search of the little old man with the big white head and the black alpaca jacket, but the father of Probyn and Conrad Pybus had gone to his dinner.

The son strolled to the street door, stood on the white steps for a minute, and listened to Castle Craven’s old heart beating to the new rhythm. A dirty young man in a blue French cap and a soiled brown mackintosh passed by with his modern music and his odours; the detonations of his machine seemed to strike against the faces of the old houses and to reverberate from one side of the square to the other.

“Filthy things,” thought the man on the doorstep.

Certainly. Filthy, yet useful. But where was that incorrigible old man, that Diogenes out of his tub, that John Pybus of the invincible blue eyes? Was it possible that he was still a little afraid of his father? He—Conrad Pybus, Esq., of Chlois Court, afraid of an hotel “boots”! But was it not the unexpected and the incalculable that one feared? Yet, he wanted to explain. It was necessary that he should explain Ula Calmady, and the awkwardness of the contretemps, and the need for shutting one eye. His father had always been such an uncompromising old devil. He had always insisted upon keeping both those very blue eyes wide open.

Mr. Conrad strolled back up the strip of red carpet. He was for tempting a second encounter. He spoke to Miss Vallence in the office.

“Excuse me—porter anywhere about?”

“Gone to his dinner, sir. I’ll ring.”

“Oh—don’t bother. It was about some petrol. I can manage.”

He took the passage leading to the old coaching yard, where the blue car stood in the shade of a high wall, and as he emerged into the yard he saw a little figure crossing it. The son removed the cigar from between his thickish lips.

“Here—I say—one moment——”

John Pybus paused, turned, and looked at his son.

“Did you call, sir?”

Mr. Conrad strolled heavily across the cobbles. He was very conscious of that grey, resolute face with its incorruptible blue eyes. As a man of the world and a man of business—big business—he would have chosen to wink at his father—but then—you might just as well have winked at Jehovah.

“I say—just a moment——”

His voice insinuated. It suggested a smooth yet stealthy gesture. The yard appeared deserted.

“Just a moment——”

Old Pybus seemed to stand very square on his heels.

“I don’t know you, sir.”

And he went on and by his son, looking up slantwise into his face like a veteran marching past some very young general who had seen no red blood spilt.