The Essential G. B. Shaw: Celebrated Plays, Novels, Personal Letters, Essays & Articles. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      “There is no doubt that my relatives would be greatly shocked; and I am bound to take that into account for — what it is worth.”

      “We should never trouble you,” said Mrs. Skene, lingering. “England will see the last of us in a month of two.”

      “That will make no difference to me, except that I shall regret not being able to have a pleasant chat with you occasionally.” This was not true; but Lydia fancied she was beginning to take a hardened delight in lying.

      Mrs. Skene was not to be consoled by compliments. She again shook her head. “It is very kind of you to give me good words, miss,” she said; “but if I might have one for the boy you could say what you liked to me.”

      Lydia considered far before she replied. At last she said, “I am sorry I spoke harshly to him, since, driven as he was by circumstances, I cannot see how he could have acted otherwise than he did. And I overlooked the economic conditions of his profession. In short, I am not used to fisticuffs; and what I saw shocked me so much that I was unreasonable. But,” continued Lydia, checking Mrs. Skene’s rising hope with a warning finger, “how, if you tell him this, will you make him understand that I say so as an act of justice, and not in the least as a proffer of affection?”

      “A crumb of comfort will satisfy him, miss. I’ll just tell him that I’ve seen you, and that you meant nothing by what you said the other day; and—”

      “Mrs. Skene,” said Lydia, interrupting her softly; “tell him nothing at all as yet. I have made up my mind at last. If he does not hear from me within a fortnight you may tell him what you please. Can you wait so long?”

      “Of course. Whatever you wish, ma’am. But Mellish’s benefit is to be tomorrow night; and—”

      “What have I to do with Mellish or his benefit?”

      Mrs. Skene, abashed, murmured apologetically that she was only wishful that the boy should do himself credit.

      “If he is to benefit Mellish by beating somebody, he will not be behindhand. Remember you are not to mention me for a fortnight. Is that a bargain?”

      “Whatever you wish, ma’am,” repeated Mrs. Skene, hardly satisfied. But Lydia gave her no further comfort; so she begged to take her leave, expressing a hope that things would turn out to the advantage of all parties. Then Lydia insisted on her partaking of some solid refreshment, and afterwards drove her to the railway station in the pony-carriage. Just before they parted Lydia, suddenly recurring to their former subject, said,

      “Does Mr. Byron ever THINK?”

      “Think!” said Mrs. Skene emphatically. “Never. There isn’t a more cheerful lad in existence, miss.”

      Then Mrs. Skene was carried away to London, wondering whether it could be quite right for a young lady to live in a gorgeous castle without any elder of her own sex, and to speak freely and civilly to her inferiors. When she got home she said nothing of her excursion to Mr. Skene, in whose disposition valor so entirely took the place of discretion that he had never been known to keep a secret except as to the whereabouts of a projected fight. But she sat up late with her daughter Fanny, tantalizing her by accounts of the splendor of the castle, and consoling her by describing Miss Carew as a slight creature with red hair and no figure (Fanny having jet black hair, fine arms, and being one of Cashel’s most proficient pupils).

      “All the same, Fan,” added Mrs. Skene, as she took her candlestick at two in the morning, “if it comes off, Cashel will never be master in his own house.”

      “I can see that very plain,” said Fanny; “but if respectable professional people are not good enough for him, he will have only himself to thank if he gets himself looked down upon by empty-headed swells.”

      Meanwhile, Lydia, on her return to the castle after a long drive round the country, had attempted to overcome an attack of restlessness by setting to work on the biography of her father. With a view to preparing a chapter on his taste in literature she had lately been examining his favorite books for marked passages. She now resumed this search, not setting methodically to work, but standing perched on the library ladder, taking down volume after volume, and occasionally dipping into the contents for a few pages or so. At this desultory work the time passed as imperceptibly as the shadows lengthened. The last book she examined was a volume of poems. There were no marks in it; but it opened at a page which had evidently lain open often before. The first words Lydia saw were these:

      “What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do; Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.”

      Lydia hastily stepped down from the ladder, and recoiled until she reached a chair, where she sat and read and reread these lines. The failing light roused her to action. She replaced the book on the shelf, and said, as she went to the writing-table, “If such a doubt as that haunted my father it will haunt me, unless I settle what is to be my heart’s business now and forever. If it be possible for a child of mine to escape this curse of autovivisection, it must inherit its immunity from its father, and not from me — from the man of emotion who never thinks, and not from the woman of introspection, who cannot help thinking. Be it so.”

      CHAPTER XIV

       Table of Contents

      Before many days had elapsed a letter came for Cashel as he sat taking tea with the Skene family. When he saw the handwriting, a deep red color mounted to his temples.

      “Oh, Lor’!” said Miss Skene, who sat next him. “Let’s read it.”

      “Go to the dickens,” cried Cashel, hastily baffling her as she snatched at it.

      “Don’t worrit him, Fan,” said Mrs. Skene, tenderly.

      “Not for the world, poor dear,” said Miss Skene, putting her hand affectionately on his shoulder. “Let me just peep at the name — to see who it’s from. Do, Cashel, DEAR.”

      “It’s from nobody,” said Cashel. “Here, get out. If you don’t let me alone I’ll make it warm for you the next time you come to me for a lesson.”

      “Very likely,” said Fanny, contemptuously. “Who had the best of it to-day, I should like to know?”

      “Gev’ him a hot un on the chin with her right as ever I see,” observed Skene, with hoarse mirth.

      Cashel went away from the table, out of Fanny’s reach; and read the letter, which ran thus:

      “Regent’s Park.

      “Dear Mr. Cashel Byron, — I am desirous that you should meet a lady friend of mine. She will be here at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. You would oblige me greatly by calling on me at that hour.

      “Yours faithfully,

      “Lydia Carew.”

      There was a long pause, during which there was no sound in the room except the ticking of the clock and the munching of shrimps by the ex-champion.

      “Good news, I hope, Cashel,” said Mrs. Skene, at last, tremulously.

      “Blow СКАЧАТЬ