Fancies and Goodnights - Collier John (читать книги онлайн бесплатно полностью без txt) 📗
«What?» said Mr. Murchison. «Sniff? At Mark? Never in my life.»
«Good heavens! Can it be the fish?» cried Vicky. «Please say so, Uncle Ben, if it is.»
«No, no,» said he. «It is excellent.»
«But you don't eat it,» said she. «You do nothing but sniff.»
«On my word, Vicky,» said Mr. Murchison, defending his plate, «I am enjoying myself enormously.»
«Don't tell me,» said Vicky. «If the fish is all right, you must have a cold. Oh, dear!»
«No, I have not,» said he. «But that reminds me. The nights are getting brisk. I hope you have a warm wrap handy, my dear?»
«Oh, I am warm enough,» said Vicky. «But are you cold? The heating here is like everything else.»
«Thank you,» said he. «I am very comfortable. I just thought — if we should go outside. On the lawn, you know.»
«The lawn?» said Mark. «Go out on the lawn? Why should we go out on the lawn?»
«Ah, yes! You are right. Why should we?» said Mr. Murchison in some confusion. «A very sensible question. Now, what put the idea into my head? How ridiculous! Let us forget it. Tell me, Mark, who built this amazing place?»
«It was my great-uncle Coxon,» said Mark.
«Coxon? Do you mean the banker?» asked Mr. Murchison.
«Yes,» said Mark. «And they used to wonder why banks failed!»
«He was the father of the famous Annabel Coxon,» said Vicky. «The great beauty. You must have known her, Uncle Ben. Were you one of her admirers?»
«Well …» said Mr. Murchison, his smile fading.
«This,» said Mark, «is the scene of her adorable girlhood. Her little white bedroom was presumably in some goddam turret.»
«She was born here. Yes, of course. She was a child here,» murmured Mr. Murchison, now not smiling at all.
«It was her bower,» said Mark, «the scene of her maiden dreams. Her lovely ghost is probably scampering around upstairs at this moment. In pantalettes, or whatever they wore. I wish I could meet it.»
«Uncle Ben is not amused,» said Vicky. «I bet you were in love with her, Uncle Ben. Do tell.»
«I? What a notion! Dear me!» said Mr. Murchison, looking quite shaken. «At all events, she was a lovely creature. Yes. 'Her lovely ghost,' you said. Quite a felicitous expression! Well, well, well!»
«But seriously,» said Mark, «isn't it extraordinary? She probably loved this place, which is driving us melancholy mad.»
«She did,» said Mr. Murchison. «I remember her describing it. Yes, she did indeed.»
«Was she pretty?» asked Vicky. «Was she full of life?»
«Oh, yes, »said Mr. Murchison. «Very lovely. Very alive. Alive in a way — well, perhaps I'm growing old. In these days people don't seem to be alive that way. Alive like a bird singing. Except, of course, you, my dear,» he added politely.
«And was she nice?» said Vicky.
«Yes,» said Mr. Murchison. «Very nice. Later on, some people thought, she grew a little — different. But she was so young when first I knew her. She must have just come from this house. Yes, very nice. 'Her lovely ghost!' Dear me! Well, I'm glad you are looking after the old place, my boy. It would be a pity if — if it went to ruin. Oh, my God!»
«What? What is it, Uncle Ben?»
«What is that I smell?» cried he. «Do I smell burning? I do!»
«Burning?» said Mark.
«I know!» cried Mr. Murchison. «Keep your heads, pray! Remain precisely where you are! I shall be back in a moment.» And he hastened from the room.
«Well, I'll be damned!» said Mark to Vicky after they had stared at one another for a time. «Has the old boy gone crazy, or what?»
«I think I did smell smoke,» said she. «Can he have left a cigarette in the cellar, do you think?»
«Maybe,» said Mark. «I suppose he'll shout if it's anything serious.»
Soon afterwards, Mr. Murchison returned. «Nothing at all,» said he, smiling. «Just my fancy. I knew it.»
«But you have a great smear of black on your face,» said Vicky. «And look at your hands! Uncle Ben, you left a cigarette in the cellar.»
«Well,» said he, «perhaps I did. I confess I did. Don't be angry with me, Vicky.»
«Angry!» said Mark, laughing. «We are, though — for putting it out. Why didn't you let the confounded place burn down?»
«My dear boy,» said Mr. Murchison, «I know you are joking. That would be a very serious crime. Arson, in fact. Besides, a house, you know, is not like a — a haystack. There is something alive about an old house, Mark. It has its memories.»
«When we go,» said Mark, «this house will have a hangover.»
«I can't help feeling you somehow don't care very much for the place,» said Mr. Murchison. «You said you find it hard to rent or sell?»
«Not hard,» said Mark. «Impossible.»
«Not impossible,» said Mr. Murchison. «You could sell it to me.»
«You, Uncle Ben?» cried Vicky. «You live in this dismal place? Alone?»
«I don't think it dismal,» said Mr. Murchison. «I don't think I should feel lonely.»
Everything was speedily arranged. In a very few weeks, Mark and Vicky were back at Willowdale. Various other friends of Mr. Murchison's dropped in to see them. «How is he getting on?» they asked. «Does he like it?»
«He thinks it's fine,» said Mark. «You know, the old boy really is marvellous. Always the perfect type. He's the eccentric squire nowadays. Have you heard about him and the fire brigade?»
«No. Let's hear it,» they cried.
«Well,» said Mark, «first of all he raised hell. He said the service wasn't efficient. He wrote letters, called a meeting, went round to all the farmers — God knows what all.»
«And then?»
«Then he must have waved a check at them or something. They elected him chairman, captain, the whole works. We were over that way last week; they all said he drills hell out of 'em. And we saw them charge through the village with the new engine, and there was Uncle Ben sitting up by the driver, smiling all over his face, with a damned great axe in his hand.»
«He always was a bit fussy about the chance of fire,» said the others.
WITHOUT BENEFIT OF GALSWORTHY
The minute I left the golf links, I gave a sort of sniff. «Damn it! Poetry about!» I said. I can always tell it; I've got that sort of streak in me. «Where does it come from?» I said. «Sunset tints? Going round in eighty? Or what?» Passed a couple of schoolgirls, giggling in a gateway. I could just imagine their conversation: one saying to the other, «Who's the wicked mustache?» and the other replying, «Why, that's our handsome Major.»
Life suddenly seemed like a bottle of champagne. Cheltenham looked like a first-class oil painting, only with a lot of decent people living in it. There was Poona Lodge. «Good old Poona Lodge!» There was Amritsar. «Cheerio, Amritsar!» There was my little box, The Laurels. Poetic streak again, you see, calling it that. Better, maybe, if I'd just been an ordinary, damfool, wooden-headed soldier man. Still, if it wasn't for these sneaking Socialists ———
Well, in I went. Adela looked out of the drawing-room. Good old Adela! Sound through and through. Troopships, kids, marvellous head of hair, everything. She gave me a sort of hiss. «She's come,» she said.
I knew who she meant. We had that sort of understanding. It was the new parlourmaid. «Grand!» I said. «Tell her to bring my tea into the Den.»
I went into the Den. Snug little cubbyhole. Mixed myself a peg. «Hullo! What's this? Poetry's getting stronger!» Had a good look round; caught sight of my mustache in the looking glass. «Wicked mustache, eh?» That was the word. Gave it a pat. «Well,» I said, «damn it!» Very nearly burst out laughing.
In she came with the tea. Ten minutes past five; the moment my life changed completely. Here had I been going about with a streak of poetry all my life; this was the woman it was meant for. Woman, did I say? Little more than a girl. Slip of a girl. Yet, mind you, a touch of the goddess.
