The Complete Works of George Bernard Shaw. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ rose, beaming. “Dear Miss Wilson,” she said, “you are so good! I promise, of course. I will go and tell mamma.”

      Before they could add a word she had turned with a pirouette to the door, and fled, presenting herself a moment later in the drawingroom to the three ladies, whom she surveyed with a whimsical smile in silence.

      “Well?” said Mrs. Jansenius peremptorily.

      “Well, dear?” said Mrs. Trefusis, caressingly.

      Mrs. Wylie stifled a sob and looked imploringly at her daughter.

      “I had no end of trouble in bringing them to reason,” said Agatha, after a provoking pause. “They behaved like children, and I was like an angel. I am to stay, of course.”

      “Blessings on you, my darling,” faltered Mrs. Wylie, attempting a kiss, which Agatha dexterously evaded.

      “I have promised to be very good, and studious, and quiet, and decorous in future. Do you remember my castanet song, Hetty?

      “‘Tra! lalala, la! la! la! Tra! lalala, la! la! la! Tra! lalalalalalalalalalala!’”

      And she danced about the room, snapping her fingers instead of castanets.

      “Don’t be so reckless and wicked, my love,” said Mrs. Wylie. “You will break your poor mother’s heart.”

      Miss Wilson and Mr. Jansenius entered just then, and Agatha became motionless and gazed abstractedly at a vase of flowers. Miss Wilson invited her visitors to join the tennis players. Mr. Jansenius looked sternly and disappointedly at Agatha, who elevated her left eyebrow and depressed her right simultaneously; but he, shaking his head to signify that he was not to be conciliated by facial feats, however difficult or contrary to nature, went out with Miss Wilson, followed by Mrs. Jansenius and Mrs. Wylie.

      “How is your Hubby?” said Agatha then, brusquely, to Henrietta.

      Mrs. Trefusis’s eyes filled with tears so quickly that, as she bent her head to hide them, they fell, sprinkling Agatha’s hand.

      “This is such a dear old place,” she began. “The associations of my girlhood—”

      “What is the matter between you and Hubby?” demanded Agatha, interrupting her. “You had better tell me, or I will ask him when I meet him.”

      “I was about to tell you, only you did not give me time.”

      “That is a most awful cram,” said Agatha. “But no matter. Go on.”

      Henrietta hesitated. Her dignity as a married woman, and the reality of her grief, revolted against the shallow acuteness of the schoolgirl. But she found herself no better able to resist Agatha’s domineering than she had been in her childhood, and much more desirous of obtaining her sympathy. Besides, she had already learnt to tell the story herself rather than leave its narration to others, whose accounts did not, she felt, put her case in the proper light. So she told Agatha of her marriage, her wild love for her husband, his wild love for her, and his mysterious disappearance without leaving word or sign behind him. She did not mention the letter.

      “Have you had him searched for?” said Agatha, repressing an inclination to laugh.

      “But where? Had I the remotest clue, I would follow him barefoot to the end of the world.”

      “I think you ought to search all the rivers — you would have to do that barefoot. He must have fallen in somewhere, or fallen down some place.”

      “No, no. Do you think I should be here if I thought his life in danger? I have reasons — I know that he is only gone away.”

      “Oh, indeed! He took his portmanteau with him, did he? Perhaps he has gone to Paris to buy you something nice and give you a pleasant surprise.”

      “No,” said Henrietta dejectedly. “He knew that I wanted nothing.”

      “Then I suppose he got tired of you and ran away.”

      Henrietta’s peculiar scarlet blush flowed rapidly over her cheeks as she flung Agatha’s arm away, exclaiming, “How dare you say so! You have no heart. He adored me.”

      “Bosh!” said Agatha. “People always grow tired of one another. I grow tired of myself whenever I am left alone for ten minutes, and I am certain that I am fonder of myself than anyone can be of another person.”

      “I know you are,” said Henrietta, pained and spiteful. “You have always been particularly fond of yourself.”

      “Very likely he resembles me in that respect. In that case he will grow tired of himself and come back, and you will both coo like turtle doves until he runs away again. Ugh! Serve you right for getting married. I wonder how people can be so mad as to do it, with the example of their married acquaintances all warning them against it.”

      “You don’t know what it is to love,” said Henrietta, plaintively, and yet patronizingly. “Besides, we were not like other couples.”

      “So it seems. But never mind, take my word for it, he will return to you as soon as he has had enough of his own company. Don’t worry thinking about him, but come and have a game at lawn tennis.”

      During this conversation they had left the drawingroom and made a detour through the grounds. They were now approaching the tennis courts by a path which wound between two laurel hedges through the shrubbery. Meanwhile, Smilash, waiting on the guests in his white apron and gloves (which he had positively refused to take off, alleging that he was a common man, with common hands such as born ladies and gentlemen could not be expected to take meat and drink from), had behaved himself irreproachably until the arrival of Miss Wilson and her visitors, which occurred as he was returning to the table with an empty tray, moving so swiftly that he nearly came into collision with Mrs. Jansenius. Instead of apologizing, he changed countenance, hastily held up the tray like a shield before his face, and began to walk backward from her, stumbling presently against Miss Lindsay, who was running to return a ball. Without heeding her angry look and curt rebuke, he half turned, and sidled away into the shrubbery, whence the tray presently rose into the air, flew across the laurel hedge, and descended with a peal of stage thunder on the stooped shoulders of Josephs. Miss Wilson, after asking the housekeeper with some asperity why she had allowed that man to interfere in the attendance, explained to the guests that he was the idiot of the countryside. Mr. Jansenius laughed, and said that he had not seen the man’s face, but that his figure reminded him forcibly of some one; he could not just then recollect exactly whom.

      Smilash, making off through the shrubbery, found the end of his path blocked by Agatha and a young lady whose appearance alarmed him more than had that of Mrs. Jansenius. He attempted to force his tray through the hedge, but in vain; the laurel was impenetrable, and the noise he made attracted the attention of the approaching couple. He made no further effort to escape, but threw his borrowed apron over his head and stood bolt upright with his back against the bushes.

      “What is that man doing there?” said Henrietta, stopping mistrustfully.

      Agatha laughed, and said loudly, so that he might hear: “It is only a harmless madman that Miss Wilson employs. He is fond of disguising himself in some silly way and trying to frighten us. Don’t be afraid. Come on.”

      Henrietta hung back, but her arm was linked in Agatha’s, СКАЧАТЬ