The Egoist: A Comedy in Narrative. George Meredith

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ She rose and took his arm. "You shall row me on the lake while I talk to you seriously."

      It was she, however, who took the sculls at the boat-house, for she had been a playfellow with boys, and knew that one of them engaged in a manly exercise is not likely to listen to a woman.

      "Now, Crossjay," she said. Dense gloom overcame him like a cowl. She bent across her hands to laugh. "As if I were going to lecture you, you silly boy!" He began to brighten dubiously. "I used to be as fond of birdsnesting as you are. I like brave boys, and I like you for wanting to enter the Royal Navy. Only, how can you if you do not learn? You must get the captains to pass you, you know. Somebody spoils you: Miss Dale or Mr. Whitford."

      "Do they?" sung out young Crossjay.

      "Sir Willoughby does?"

      "I don't know about spoil. I can come round him."

      "I am sure he is very kind to you. I dare say you think Mr. Whitford rather severe. You should remember he has to teach you, so that you may pass for the navy. You must not dislike him because he makes you work. Supposing you had blown yourself up to-day! You would have thought it better to have been working with Mr. Whitford."

      "Sir Willoughby says, when he's married, you won't let me hide."

      "Ah! It is wrong to pet a big boy like you. Does not he what you call tip you, Crossjay?"

      "Generally half-crown pieces. I've had a crown-piece. I've had sovereigns."

      "And for that you do as he bids you? And he indulges you because you . . . Well, but though Mr. Whitford does not give you money, he gives you his time, he tries to get you into the navy."

      "He pays for me."

      "What do you say?"

      "My keep. And, as for liking him, if he were at the bottom of the water here, I'd go down after him. I mean to learn. We're both of us here at six o'clock in the morning, when it's light, and have a swim. He taught me. Only, I never cared for schoolbooks."

      "Are you quite certain that Mr. Whitford pays for you."

      "My father told me he did, and I must obey him. He heard my father was poor, with a family. He went down to see my father. My father came here once, and Sir Willoughby wouldn't see him. I know Mr. Whitford does. And Miss Dale told me he did. My mother says she thinks he does it to make up to us for my father's long walk in the rain and the cold he caught coming here to Patterne."

      "So you see you should not vex him, Crossjay. He is a good friend to your father and to you. You ought to love him."

      "I like him, and I like his face."

      "Why his face?"

      "It's not like those faces! Miss Dale and I talk about him. She thinks that Sir Willoughby is the best-looking man ever born."

      "Were you not speaking of Mr. Whitford?"

      "Yes; old Vernon. That's what Sir Willoughby calls him," young Crossjay excused himself to her look of surprise. "Do you know what he makes me think of?—his eyes, I mean. He makes me think of Robinson Crusoe's old goat in the cavern. I like him because he's always the same, and you're not positive about some people. Miss Middleton, if you look on at cricket, in comes a safe man for ten runs. He may get more, and he never gets less; and you should hear the old farmers talk of him in the booth. That's just my feeling."

      Miss Middleton understood that some illustration from the cricketing-field was intended to throw light on the boy's feeling for Mr. Whitford. Young Crossjay was evidently warming to speak from his heart. But the sun was low, she had to dress for the dinner-table, and she landed him with regret, as at a holiday over. Before they parted, he offered to swim across the lake in his clothes, or dive to the bed for anything she pleased to throw, declaring solemnly that it should not be lost.

      She walked back at a slow pace, and sung to herself above her darker-flowing thoughts, like the reed-warbler on the branch beside the night-stream; a simple song of a lighthearted sound, independent of the shifting black and grey of the flood underneath.

      A step was at her heels.

      "I see you have been petting my scapegrace."

      "Mr. Whitford! Yes; not petting, I hope. I tried to give him a lecture.

      He's a dear lad, but, I fancy, trying."

      She was in fine sunset colour, unable to arrest the mounting tide. She had been rowing, she said; and, as he directed his eyes, according to his wont, penetratingly, she defended herself by fixing her mind on Robinson Crusoe's old goat in the recess of the cavern.

      "I must have him away from here very soon," said Vernon. "Here he's quite spoiled. Speak of him to Willoughby. I can't guess at his ideas of the boy's future, but the chance of passing for the navy won't bear trifling with, and if ever there was a lad made for the navy, it's Crossjay."

      The incident of the explosion in the laboratory was new to Vernon.

      "And Willoughby laughed?" he said. "There are sea-port crammers who stuff young fellows for examination, and we shall have to pack off the boy at once to the best one of the lot we can find. I would rather have had him under me up to the last three months, and have made sure of some roots to what is knocked into his head. But he's ruined here. And I am going. So I shall not trouble him for many weeks longer. Dr. Middleton is well?"

      "My father is well, yes. He pounced like a falcon on your notes in the library."

      Vernon came out with a chuckle.

      "They were left to attract him. I am in for a controversy."

      "Papa will not spare you, to judge from his look."

      "I know the look."

      "Have you walked far to-day?"

      "Nine and a half hours. My Flibbertigibbet is too much for me at times, and I had to walk off my temper."

      She cast her eyes on him, thinking of the pleasure of dealing with a temper honestly coltish, and manfully open to a specific.

      "All those hours were required?"

      "Not quite so long."

      "You are training for your Alpine tour."

      "It's doubtful whether I shall get to the Alps this year. I leave the Hall, and shall probably be in London with a pen to sell."

      "Willoughby knows that you leave him?"

      "As much as Mont Blanc knows that he is going to be climbed by a party below. He sees a speck or two in the valley."

      "He has not spoken of it."

      "He would attribute it to changes . . ."

      Vernon did not conclude the sentence.

      She became breathless, without emotion, but checked by the barrier confronting an impulse to ask, what changes? She stooped to pluck a cowslip.

      "I saw daffodils lower down the park," she said. "One or two; they're nearly over."

      "We are well off for wild flowers here," he answered.

      "Do not leave him, Mr. Whitford."

      "He СКАЧАТЬ