The Rough Road. Locke William John

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СКАЧАТЬ The cushions were ivory and peacock-blue. The chairs, the writing-table, the couch, the bookcases, were pure Sheraton and Hepplewhite. Vellum-bound books filled the cases – Doggie was very particular about his bindings. Delicate water-colours alone adorned the walls. On his neatly arranged writing-table lay an ivory set – inkstand, pen-tray, blotter and calendar. Bits of old embroidery harmonizing with the peacock shades were spread here and there. A pretty collection of eighteenth-century Italian ivory statuettes were grouped about the room. A spinet, inlaid with ebony and ivory, formed a centre for the arrangement of many other musical instruments – a viol, mandolins gay with ribbons, a theorbo, flutes and clarinets. Through the curtains, draped across an alcove, could be guessed the modern monstrosity of a grand piano. One tall closed cabinet was devoted to his collection of wall-papers. Another, open, to a collection of little dogs in china, porcelain, faïence; thousands of them; he got them through dealers from all over the world. He had the finest collection in existence, and maintained a friendly and learned correspondence with the other collector – an elderly, disillusioned Russian prince, who lived somewhere near Nijni-Novgorod. On the spinet and on the writing-table were great bowls of golden rayon d’or roses.

      Doggie sat down to think. An unwonted frown creased his brow. Several problems distracted him. The morning sun streaming into the room disclosed, beyond doubt, discolorations, stains and streaks on the wall-paper. It would have to be renewed. Already he had decided to design something to take its place. But last night Peggy had declared her intention to turn this abode of bachelor comfort into the drawing-room, and to hand over to his personal use some other apartment, possibly the present drawing-room, which received all the blaze and glare of the afternoon sun. What should he do? Live in the sordidness of discoloured wall-paper for another year, or go through the anxiety of artistic effort and manufacturers’ stupidity and delay, to say nothing of the expense, only to have the whole thing scrapped before the wedding? Doggie had a foretaste of the dilemmas of matrimony. He had a gnawing suspicion that the trim and perfect life was difficult of attainment.

      Then, meandering through this wilderness of dubiety, ran thoughts of Oliver. Every one seemed to have gone crazy over him. Uncle Edward and Aunt Sophia had hung on his lips while he lied unblushingly about his adventures. Even Peggy had listened open-eyed and open-mouthed when he had told a tale of shipwreck in the South Seas: how the schooner had been caught in some beastly wind and the masts had been torn out and the rudder carried away, and how it had struck a reef, and how something had hit him on the head, and he knew no more till he woke up on a beach and found that the unspeakable Chipmunk had swum with him for a week – or whatever the time was – until they got to land. If hulking, brainless dolts like Oliver, thought Doggie, like to fool around in schooners and typhoons, they must take the consequences. There was nothing to brag about. The higher man was the intellectual, the æsthetic, the artistic being. What did Oliver know of Lydian modes or Louis Treize decoration or Astec clay dogs? Nothing. He couldn’t even keep his socks from slopping about over his shoes. And there was Peggy all over the fellow, although before dinner she had said she couldn’t bear the sight of him. Doggie was perturbed. On bidding him good night, she had kissed him in the most perfunctory manner – merely the cousinly peck of a dozen years ago – and had given no thought to the fact that he was driving home in an open car without an overcoat. He had felt distinctly chilly on his arrival, and had taken a dose of ammoniated quinine. Was Peggy’s indifference a sign that she had ceased to care for him? That she was attracted by the buccaneering Oliver?

      Now suppose the engagement was broken off, he would be free to do as he chose with the redecoration of the room. But suppose, as he sincerely and devoutly hoped, it wasn’t? Dilemma on dilemma. Added to all this, Goliath, the miniature Belgian griffon, having probably overeaten himself, had complicated pains inside, and the callous vet. could or would not come round till the evening. In the meantime, Goliath might die.

      He was at this point of his reflections, when to his horror he heard a familiar voice outside the door.

      “All right, Peddle. Don’t worry. I’ll show myself in. Look after that man of mine. Quite easy. Give him some beer in a bucket and leave him to it.”

      Then the door burst open and Oliver, pipe in mouth and hat on one side, came into the room.

      “Hallo, Doggie! Thought I’d look you up. Hope I’m not disturbing you.”

      “Not at all,” said Doggie. “Do sit down.”

      But Oliver walked about and looked at things.

      “I like your water-colours. Did you collect them yourself?”

      “Yes.”

      “I congratulate you on your taste. This is a beauty. Who is it by?”

      The appreciation brought Doggie at once to his side. Oliver, the connoisseur, was showing himself in a new and agreeable light. Doggie took him delightedly round the pictures, expounding their merits and their little histories. He found that Oliver, although unlearned, had a true sense of light and colour and tone. He was just beginning to like him, when the tactless fellow, stopping before the collection of little dogs, spoiled everything.

      “My holy aunt!” he cried – an objurgation which Doggie had abhorred from boyhood – and he doubled with laughter in his horrid schoolboy fashion – “My dear Doggie – is that your family? How many litters?”

      “It’s the finest collection of the kind in the world,” replied Doggie stiffly, “and is worth several thousand pounds.”

      Oliver heaved himself into a chair – that was Doggie’s impression of his method of sitting down – a Sheraton chair with delicate arms and legs.

      “Forgive me,” he said, “but you’re such a funny devil.” – Doggie gaped. The conception of himself as a funny devil was new. – “Pictures and music I can understand. But what the deuce is the point of these dam little dogs?”

      But Doggie was hurt. “It would be useless to try to explain,” said he.

      Oliver took off his hat and sent it skimming on to the couch.

      “Look here, old chap,” he said, “I seem to have put my foot into it again. I didn’t mean to, really. Peggy gave me hell this morning for not treating you as a man and a brother, and I came round to try to put things right.”

      “It’s very considerate of Peggy, I’m sure,” said Marmaduke.

      “Now look here, old Doggie – ”

      “I told you when we first met yesterday that I vehemently object to being called Doggie.”

      “But why?” asked Oliver. “I’ve made inquiries, and find that all your pals – ”

      “I haven’t any pals, as you call them.”

      “Well, all our male contemporaries in the place who have the honour of your acquaintance – they all call you Doggie, and you don’t seem to mind.”

      “I do mind,” replied Marmaduke angrily, “but as I avoid their company as much as possible, it doesn’t very much matter.”

      Oliver stretched out his legs and put his hands behind his back – then wriggled to his feet. “What a beast of a chair! Anyhow,” he went on, puffing at his pipe, “don’t let us quarrel. I’ll call you Marmaduke, if you like, when I can remember – it’s a beast of a name – like the chair. I’m a rough sort of chap. I’ve had ten years’ pretty rough training. I’ve slept on boards. I’ve slept in the open without a cent to hire a board. I’ve gone cold and I’ve gone hungry, and men have knocked me about and I’ve knocked men about – and I’ve lost the Durdlebury sense of social values. СКАЧАТЬ