The Restless Sex. Chambers Robert William

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ been together many years, these two men. Every two or three months Meacham locked himself in his room and drank himself stupid. Sometimes he remained invisible for a week, sometimes for two weeks. Years ago Cleland had given up hope of helping him. Once, assisted by hirelings, he had taken Meacham by a combination of strategy and force to a famous institute where the periodical dipsomaniac is cured if he chooses to be.

      And Meacham emerged, cured to that extent; and immediately proceeded to lock himself in his room and lie there drunk for eighteen days.

      Always when he emerged, ashy grey, blinking, neat, and his little, burnt-out eyes tragic with the hell they had looked upon, John Cleland spoke to him as though nothing had happened to interrupt the routine of service. The threads were picked up and knotted where they had been broken; life continued in its accustomed order under the Cleland roof. The master would not abandon the man; the man continued to fight a losing fight until beaten, then locked himself away until the enemy gave his broken body and broken mind a few weeks' respite. Otherwise, the master's faith and trust in this old-time servant was infinite.

      "Meacham?"

      "Sir."

      "I think – Mrs. Cleland – would have approved. Janet thinks so."

      "Yes, sir."

      "You think so, too?"

      "Certainly, sir. Whatever you wished was madame's wish also."

      "Master James is so much away these days… I suppose I am getting old, and – "

      He suffered Meacham to invest him with his coat, lifted the lapel and sniffed at the blossom there, squared his broad shoulders, twisted his white moustache.

      There was no more attractive figure on Fifth Avenue than Cleland Senior with the bright colour in his cheeks, his vigorous stride and his attire, so suitable to his fresh skin, sturdy years and bearing.

      Meacham's eyes were lifted to his master, now. They were of the same age.

      "Will you wear a black overcoat or a grey, sir?"

      "I don't care. I'm going up to the nursery first. The nursery," he repeated, with a secret thrill at the word, which made him tingle all over in sheerest happiness.

      "The car, sir?"

      "First," said Cleland, "I must find out what Miss Stephanie wishes – or rather, I must decide what I wish her to do. Telephone the garage, anyway."

      There was a silence; Cleland had walked a step or two toward the door. Now, he came back.

      "Meacham, I hope I have done what was best. On her father's side there was good blood; on her mother's, physical health… I know what the risk is. But character is born in the cradle and lowered into the grave. The world merely develops, modifies, or cripples it. But it is the same character… I've taken the chance – the tremendous responsibility… It isn't a sudden fancy – an idle caprice; – it isn't for the amusement of making a fine lady out of a Cinderella. I want – a – baby, Meacham. I've been in love with an imaginary child for a long, long time. Now, she's become real. That's all."

      "I understand, sir."

      "Yes, you do understand. So I ask you to tell me; have I been fair to Mr. James?"

      "I think so, sir."

      "Will he think so? I have not told him of this affair."

      "Yes, sir. He will think what madame would have thought of anything that you do." He added under his breath: "As we all think, sir."

      There was a pause, broken abruptly by the sudden quavering appeal of Janet at the door once more:

      "Mr. Cleland! Th' young lady is all over the house, sor! In her pajaymis and naked feet, running wild-like and ondacent – "

      Cleland stepped to the door:

      "Where's that child?"

      "In the butler's pantry, sor – "

      "I'm up here!" came a clear voice from the landing above. Cleland, Janet and Meacham raised their heads.

      The child, in her pyjamas, elbows on the landing rail, smiled down upon them through her thick shock of burnished hair. Her lips were applied to an orifice in an orange; her slim fingers slowly squeezed the fruit; her eyes were intently fixed on the three people below.

      When Cleland arrived at the third floor landing, he found Stephanie Quest in the nursery, cross-legged on her bed. As he entered, she wriggled off, and, in rose-leaf pyjamas and bare feet, dropped him the curtsey which she had been taught by Mrs. Westlake.

      But long since she had taken Cleland's real measure; in her lovely grey eyes a thousand tiny devils danced. He held out his arms and she flung herself into them.

      When he seated himself in a big chintz arm-chair, she curled up on his knees, one arm around his neck, the other still clutching her orange.

      "Steve, isn't it rather nice to wake up in bed in your own room under your own roof? Or, of course if you prefer Mrs. Westlake's – "

      "I don't. I don't – " She kissed him impulsively on his freshly-shaven cheek, tightened her arm around his neck.

      "You know I love you," she remarked, applying her lips to the orange and squeezing it vigorously.

      "I don't believe you really care much about me, Steve."

      Her grey eyes regarded him sideways while she sucked the orange; contented laughter interrupted the process; then, suddenly both arms were around his neck, and her bewitching eyes looked into his, deep, very deeply.

      "You know I love you, Dad."

      "No, I don't."

      "Don't you really know it?"

      "Do you, really, Steve?"

      There was a passionate second of assurance, a slight sigh; the little head warm on his shoulder, vague-eyed, serious, gazing out at the early April sunshine.

      "Tell me about your little boy, Dad," she murmured presently.

      "You know he isn't very little, Steve. He's fourteen, nearly fifteen."

      "I forgot. Goodness!" she said softly and respectfully.

      "He seems little to me," continued Cleland, "but he wouldn't like to be thought so. Little girls don't mind being considered youthful, do they?"

      "Yes, they do! You are teasing me, Dad."

      "Am I to understand that I have a ready-made, grown-up family, and no little child to comfort me?"

      With a charming little sound in her throat like a young bird, she snuggled closer, pressing her cheek against his.

      "Tell me," she murmured.

      "About what, darling?"

      "About your lit – about your boy."

      She never tired hearing about this wonderful son, and Cleland never tired of telling about Jim, so they were always in accord on that subject.

      Often Cleland tried to read in the gravely СКАЧАТЬ