A Young Man's Year. Anthony Hope
Читать онлайн книгу.
try to come and see us now and then, when you're not too busy."
"Oh, of course I shall—and I'm not at all likely to be busy. Only one has to stop in that hole—just in case."
"I mean—just when you feel like it. Don't make a duty of it. Just when you feel inclined for a riot like this, or perhaps for a quiet talk some afternoon."
This was all just what he wanted to hear, exactly how he wanted the thing to be put.
Yes, but Mr. Sarradet would not always be so obliging as to be out! The thought of Mr. Sarradet, whom he had really forgotten, suddenly recurred to him unpleasantly.
"That's what I like—our quiet talks," she went on. "But you've only to say the word, and we'll have company for you."
Her tone was light, playful, chaffing. He answered in the same vein. "I'll send my orders about that at least twelve hours beforehand."
"Thank you, my lord," and, laughing, she dropped him a curtsey.
He left them still at their frolic and went home rather early. He had enjoyed himself, but, all the same, his dominant sense was one of relief, and not merely from the obligation which officious hands had sought to thrust on him, regardless of the fact that he was not ready to accept it and might never be. It was relief from the sense of something that he himself had been doing, or been in danger of doing, to his own life—a thing which he vaguely defined as a premature and ignorant disposal of that priceless asset. Together with the youthful vanity which this feeling about his life embodied, there came to him also a moment of clear-sightedness, in the light of which he perceived the narrow limits of his knowledge of the world, of life, even of himself. He saw—the word is too strong, rather he felt somehow—that he had never really wanted Marie Sarradet to share, much less to be the greatest factor in, that precious, still unexplored life; he had really only wanted to talk to her about it, with her to speculate about it, to hear from her how interesting it was and might become. He wanted that still from her. Or at all events from somebody? From her or another? He put that question behind him—it was too sceptical. He wanted still her interest, her sympathy. But he wanted something else even more—freedom to find, to explore, to fulfil his life.
So it was that Mr. Arthur Lisle, by a fortunate combination of circumstances on which he certainly had no right to reckon, found out, just in time, that after all he had never been in love—unless indeed with his own comely image, flatteringly reflected in a girl's admiring eyes.
Poor tender diplomatist! But possibly she too might make her own discoveries.
CHAPTER VII
ALL OF A FLUTTER
"Bernadette's got a new toy, Esther."
"I know it," said Mrs. Norton Ward, handing her visitor a cup of tea.
"Do you mean that you know the fact or that you're acquainted with the individual?"
"The latter, Judith. In fact I sent him to her."
"Well, it was she who went to him really, though Godfrey made some trouble about it. He thought the young man ought to have called first. However they got round him."
"They? Who?"
"Why, Bernadette and Oliver Wyse, of course. And he came to lunch. But Godfrey was quite on his high horse at first—stroked his beard, and dangled his eye-glass, and looked the other way when he was spoken to—you know the poor old dear when he's like that? Luckily the young man could tell Leeds from Wedgwood, and that went a long way towards putting matters right. Godfrey quite warmed to him at last."
"We like him very much, and I hope you did—even if you won't admit it. He's got a room in Frank's chambers, you know."
"I didn't speak more than six words to him—he was up at the other end of the table by Bernadette. But I liked the look of him rather. Of course he was all of a flutter."
"Oh, I daresay," smiled Esther. "But I thought we ought to risk that—and Sir Christopher felt quite strongly about it."
Judith Arden appeared to reflect for a moment. "Well, I think he ought to be," she said judicially. "I wouldn't give much for a man who didn't get into a flutter over Bernadette, at first anyhow. She must seem to them rather—well, irresistible."
"She's wonderfully"—Esther Norton Ward sought for a word too—"radiant, I mean, isn't she?"
"And there isn't a bit of affectation about her. She just really does enjoy it all awfully."
"All what?"
"Why, being irresistible and radiant, of course."
"That's looking at it entirely from her point of view."
"What point of view do you suppose she looks at it from? That is, if she ever looks at it at all. And why not? They ought to be able to look after themselves—or keep away."
"I really think you're a very fair-minded girl," laughed Esther. "Very impartial."
"You have to be—living with them as much as I do."
"Do you like it?"
Judith smiled. "The situation is saved just by my not having to do it. If I had to do it for my bread-and-butter I should hate it like poison. But, thank heaven, I've four hundred a year, and if I spend the summer with them, it's because Godfrey and Margaret want me. The winter I keep for myself—Switzerland part of the time, then Rome, or Florence. So I'm quite independent, you see. I'm always a visitor. Besides, of course, nobody could be more gracious than Bernadette; graciousness is part of being irresistible."
"I really do think that being pretty improves people," said Esther.
"Well, as far as I can see, without it there wouldn't be any Bernadette," Judith remarked, and then laughed gently at her own extravagance. "At any rate, she'd be bound to turn into something absolutely different. Something like me even, perhaps!" She laughed again, a low, pleasant, soft laugh, rather in contrast with the slightly brusque tone and the satiric vein which marked her speech. The laugh seemed to harmonise with and to belong to her eyes, which were dark, steady, and reflective; the tone and manner to fall into line with the pertness of her nose, with its little jut upwards, and with the scornful turn of her upper lip. Her figure and movements perhaps helped the latter impression too; she inclined to thinness, and her gestures were quick and sometimes impatient.
"Come, you're not so bad," said Esther with her pleasant cordial candour. "Now I'm quite insignificant."
"No, you're not. You've got the grand manner. I heard Godfrey say so."
Esther laughed both at the compliment and at the authority vouched in support of it.
"Oliver Wyse was at lunch too on the occasion, was he? How is he getting on?"
"Sir Oliver is still his usual agreeable, composed, competent, and, I'm inclined to think, very wilful self."
"Patient, though?" The question came with a mischievous glance. Judith's retort was ironic, both with eyes and tongue.
"I permit myself any amount of comment on character but no conjecture as to facts. That's the distinction between studying human nature and gossiping, Esther."
"Don't snub me! And the distinction's rather a fine one."
"No, gossip's all right for you, living outside the house. I live so much inside it that I think it wouldn't be fair in me. And above all, owing to the footing on which I'm there—as I've told you—I am emphatically not a watch-dog."
"Where's the child?"
"She's