Second String. Anthony Hope

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ follower and worshipper, would worship her too, if she would let him (Harry, he knew, would), if she would not be afraid of him, not dislike him or shrink from him. That was all he asked, having in his mind not only a bashful consciousness of his rude strength and massive frame—they seemed almost threatening beside her delicacy—but also a haunting recollection that she could not endure such a number of things, including butchers' shops.

      No thought for himself, no thought of trying to rival Harry, so much as crossed his mind. If it had, it would have been banished as rank treachery; but it could not, for the simple reason that his attitude towards Harry made such an idea utterly foreign to his thoughts. He was not asking, as Isobel Vintry had asked that afternoon, why he might not have his chance. It was not the way of his nature to put forward claims for himself—and, above all, claims that conflicted with Harry's claims. The bare notion was to him impossible.

      He sat by her, but for some time she gave herself wholly to listening to Harry, who had found, on getting home, a letter from Billy Foot, full of the latest political gossip from town. But presently, the conversation drifting into depths of politics where she could not follow, she turned to Andy and said, "I'm getting on much better with Curly. I pat him now!"

      "That's right. It's only his fun."

      "People's fun is sometimes the worst thing about them."

      "Well now, that's true," Andy acknowledged, rather surprised to hear the remark from her.

      "But I am getting on much better. And—well, rather better at riding." She smiled at him in confidence. "And nobody's said anything about swimming. Do you know, when I feel myself inclined to get frightened, I think about you!"

      "Do you find it helps?" asked Andy, much amused and rather pleased.

      "Yes, it's like thinking of a policeman in the middle of the night."

      "I suppose I do look rather like a policeman," said Andy reflectively.

      "Yes, you do! That's it, I think." The vague "it" seemed to signify the explanation of the confidence Andy inspired.

      "And how about dust and dirt, and getting very hot?" he inquired.

      "Isobel says I'm a bit better about courage, but not the least about fastidiousness."

      "Fastidiousness suits some people, Miss Wellgood."

      "It doesn't suit father, not in me," she murmured with a woeful smile.

      "Doesn't thinking about me help you there? On the same principle it ought to."

      "It doesn't," she murmured, with a trace of confusion, and suddenly her eyes went blank. Something was in her thoughts that she did not want Andy to see. Was it the butcher's shop? Andy's wits were not quick enough to ask the question; but he saw that her confidential mood had suffered a check.

      Her confidence had been very pleasant, but there were other things to listen to at the table. Andy was heart-whole and intellectually voracious.

      They, the rest of the company, had begun on politics—imperial politics—and had discussed them not without some friction. No Radical was present—Procul, O procul este, profani!—but Wellgood had the perversities of his anti-sentimental attitude. A Tory at home, why was he to be a democrat—or a Socialist—at the Antipodes? Competition and self-interest were the golden rule in England; was there to be another between England and her colonies? The tie of blood—one flag, one crown, one destiny—Wellgood suspected his bugbear in every one of these cries. Nothing for nothing—and for sixpence no more than the coin was worth—with a preference for five penn'orth if you could get out of it at that! He stood steady on his firmly-rooted narrow foundation.

      All of Harry was on fire against him. Was blood nothing—race, colour, memories, associations, the Flag, the Crown, and the Destiny? A destiny to rule, or at least to manage, the planet! Mother and Daughters—nothing in that?

      Things were getting hot, and the ladies, who always like to look on at the men fighting, much interested. Mr. Belfield, himself no politician, rather a student of human nature and addicted to the Socratic attitude (so justly vexatious to practical men who have to do something, good, bad, or if not better, at least more plausible, than nothing) interposed a suggestion.

      "Mother and daughters? Hasn't husband and wives become a more appropriate parallel?" He smiled across the table at his own wife. "No personal reference, my dear! But an attitude of independence, without any particular desire to pay the bills? Oh, I'm only asking questions!"

      Andy was listening hard now. So was Vivien, for she saw Harry's eyes alight and his mouth eager to utter truths that should save the nation.

      "If we could reach," said Harry, marvellously handsome, somewhat rhetorical for a small party, "if only we could once reach a true understanding between ourselves and the self-governing—"

      "Oh, but that's going beyond my parallel, my dear boy," his father interrupted. "If marriage demanded mutual understanding, what man or woman could risk it with eyes open?"

      "Doesn't it?" Isobel Vintry was the questioner.

      "Heavens, no, my dear Miss Vintry! Something much less, something much less fundamentally impossible. A good temper and a bad memory, that's all!"

      "Well done, pater!" cried Harry, readily switched off from his heated enthusiasm. "Which for the husband, which for the wife?"

      "Both for both, Harry. Toleration to-day, and an unlimited power of oblivion to-morrow."

      "What nonsense you're talking, dear," placidly smiled Mrs. Belfield.

      "I'm exactly defining your own characteristics," he replied. "If you do that to a woman, she always says you're talking nonsense."

      "An unlimited supply of the water of Lethe, pater? That does it?"

      "That's about it, Harry. If you mix it with a little sound Scotch whisky before you go to bed—"

      Andy burst into a good guffaw; the kindly mocking humour pleased him. Vivien was alert too; there was nothing to frighten, much to enjoy; the glow deepened on her cheeks.

      But Wellgood was not content; he was baulked of his argument, of his fight.

      "We've wandered from the point," he said dourly. ("As if wanderings were not the best things in the world!" thought more than one of the party, more or less explicitly.) "We give, they take." He was back to the United Kingdom and the Colonies.

      "Could anything be more nicely exact to my parallel?" asked Belfield, socratically smiling. "Did you ever know a marriage where each partner didn't say, 'I give, you take'? Some add that they're content with the arrangement, others don't."

      "Pater, you always mix up different things," Harry protested, laughing.

      "I'm always trying to find out whether there are any different things, Harry." He smiled at his son. "Wives, that's what they are! And several of them! Harry, we're in for all the difficulties of polygamy! A preference to one—oh no, I'm not spelling it with a big P! But—well, the ladies ought to be able to help us here. Could you share a heart, Miss Vintry?"

      Isobel's white was relieved with gold trimmings; she looked sumptuous. "I shouldn't like it," she answered.

      "What СКАЧАТЬ