Читать книгу: «The American Boy», страница 7

Albemarle-street was a quiet, sombre place, lying under the shadow of death. The acrid smell of sea coal filled my nostrils. I crossed the road and glanced back at the house. For an instant, I glimpsed the white blur of a face at one of the drawing-room windows on the first floor. Someone had been standing there – staring idly into the street? or watching me? – and had retreated into the room.

I walked rapidly down towards the lights and the bustle. Charlie had said he wanted to watch the coaches, and I knew where he would have gone. During my long convalescence, when I was staying with my aunt, I would sometimes walk to Piccadilly and watch the fast coaches leaving and arriving from the White Horse Cellar. Half the small boys in London, of all conditions, of all ages, laboured under the same compulsion.

I stepped briskly into Piccadilly, dodged across the road, and made my way along the crowded pavement towards a tobacconist’s. The shop was full of customers, and it was a quarter of an hour before I emerged with a paper of cigars in my pocket.

A few paces ahead of me walked a couple, arm in arm and muffled against the cold. The man raised his stick and hailed a passing hackney. He helped the lady in, and I think his hand must have brushed against her bosom, though whether on purpose or by accident I could not tell. She turned, half in, half out of the hackney, and tapped him playfully on the cheek in mock reproof. The woman was Mrs Kerridge, and the cheek she tapped had a familiar dusky hue.

‘Brewer-street,’ said Salutation Harmwell, and followed Mrs Kerridge into the coach.

There was nothing suspicious about that, of course, or not then. It was not unusual to see a white-skinned woman arm in arm with a well-set-up blackamoor. Dusky gentlemen were rumoured to have certain advantages when it came to pleasing ladies, advantages denied to the men of other races. But I own I was shocked and a little surprised. Mrs Kerridge had seemed so sober, so prim, so old. Why, I thought to myself, she must be forty if she’s a day. Yet when she looked down at Harmwell, her face had been as bright as a girl’s at her first ball.

I stared after the hackney, wondering what the pair of them were going to do in Brewer-street and feeling an unaccountable stab of envy. At that moment a hand touched my sleeve. I turned, expecting to see Charlie at my elbow.

‘I always said Mrs Kerridge was a deep one,’ said Flora Carswall. ‘I believe my cousin sent her on an errand to Russell-square.’

I raised my hat and bowed. An abigail in a black cloak hovered a few paces away, her eyes discreetly averted.

‘And where are you off to, Mr Shield, on this dreary afternoon?’ Miss Carswall asked.

‘The White Horse Cellar.’ It did not seem quite genteel to confess that I had been looking for a tobacconist’s. ‘I believe Charlie may be there.’

‘You are looking for him?’

‘Not really. I am at leisure for an hour or so.’

‘It is vastly agreeable to see the coaches depart, is it not? All that bustle and excitement, and the thought that one might purchase a ticket, climb aboard and go anywhere, anywhere in the world.’

‘I was thinking something very similar.’

‘Most people do, probably. How I hate this place.’

I stared at her for an instant. Why should a girl like Flora Carswall dislike a city that could gratify her every whim? I said, ‘Then for your sake I hope your stay here will be brief.’

‘That depends on poor Mr Wavenhoe. But it is not being in town that I dislike – quite the reverse, in fact – but the gloom of Albemarle-street and some of the people one is obliged to meet there.’ She smiled at me, her outburst apparently forgotten. ‘I wonder – if you are at leisure, might I request the favour of your company? Then I could send my maid home – the poor girl has a mountain of sewing. I have one or two errands to run; they will not take long.’

I could hardly have refused even if I had wanted to. Miss Carswall took my arm and we threaded our way through the crowds down St James’s-street. In Pall Mall, she scanned the latest novels in Payne and Foss’s for a few minutes and spent rather more time with Messrs Harding, Howell, & Co. The people there made much of her. She bought a pair of gloves, examined some lace newly arrived from Belgium, and inquired after the progress of a hat she was having made for her. She even asked my opinion about whether a certain colour matched her eyes and prettily deferred to my verdict. She was excessively animated; and the longer we were together the more I liked her, and the more I wondered whether our meeting had been coincidental.

On the way back to Piccadilly, neither of us talked much. Once she slipped in the mud, and would have fallen if I had not been there. For a moment her grip tightened on my arm and I saw her looking up at my face. When at last we returned to Albemarle-street, she removed her hand from my arm and we walked side by side but unattached. As we drew near to Mr Wavenhoe’s house, she walked more slowly, despite the cold and despite the rain which had begun to fall.

‘You have met my father?’

‘Yes – as I was leaving the house just now.’

‘I daresay you thought him a little brusque,’ she said. ‘Pray do not answer. Most people do. But I hope you will not allow his manner to offend you. He is naturally choleric, and the gout makes it worse.’

‘You must not distress yourself, Miss Carswall.’

‘He is not always as amiable as he might be.’

‘I shall bear it as best I can.’

She looked sharply at me and stopped walking altogether. ‘There is something I wish to tell you. No, not exactly: it is rather that I would prefer to tell you myself than have you discover it from someone else. I –’

‘Sir! Cousin Flora! Wait!’

We turned to face Piccadilly. Charlie ran towards us. His cheeks were pink from the cold and the exercise. The side of his coat was covered with mud. As he came close, my nose told me that it was not mud but horse dung.

‘Sir, that was the most famous fun. I rubbed down a horse. I gave the ostler sixpence and he said I was a regular out-and-outer.’

In his joy, he let out a whoop of delight. We were now standing beneath the very windows of the house where George Wavenhoe lay dying. I looked over Charlie’s head at Miss Carswall. I think each of us expected the other to reprove the lad for making so much noise. Instead we smiled.

Then Miss Carswall went briskly into the house and left me to wonder what she had been about to tell me.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

IN MY ABSENCE, the schoolroom had filled with smoke. No one could remember the last time a fire had been lit in there. The flue of the chimney appeared to be partly blocked. The sweep was summoned for the following morning. In the meantime, Mrs Frant decided that Charlie and I should use the library on the ground floor for our lessons.

We sat at a table drawn near to the fire. I set Charlie to construe twelve lines of Ovid. He was willing enough but his mind could not stay on the task for long. I too found it hard to concentrate. Then the door opened, and the servant showed Mr Noak into the room. He wore evening dress, plain but respectable.

I sprang up, ready to withdraw with Charlie. The footman said sulkily that he had not realised that anyone was using the room.

‘Pray do not disturb yourself,’ Mr Noak said to me. ‘If I may, I shall sit here and turn the pages of a book until Mr Frant is at leisure.’

The servant withdrew. Mr Noak advanced towards the fire holding out his hands.

‘Good evening, sir,’ Charlie said. ‘We met at my father’s house a few weeks ago.’

‘Master Charles, is it not?’

They shook hands. Charlie was a well-bred little boy, and he now turned to me. ‘May I present my – my tutor, Mr Shield, sir?’

Noak held out his hand to me too. ‘I believe I saw you on the same occasion, Mr Shield. We were not introduced, and I’m glad to remedy the deficiency now.’

The words were gracious but Noak had a harsh, staccato way of delivery which made them sound almost insulting. I moved aside the table so he could warm himself at the fire. He looked down at the open book.

‘I do not approve of Ovid,’ he said in precisely the tone of voice he had used before. ‘He may have been a great poet but I am told he was licentious in his mode of life.’

Charlie stared wide-eyed at Mr Noak.

I said, ‘We choose passages which display his genius but do not dwell on his less agreeable qualities.’

‘Then again, one must ask oneself what is the utility of studying the languages of antiquity? We live in a world where commerce is king.’

‘Permit me to remind you, sir, that Latin is the language of natural science. Moreover, the study of the language and the literature of great civilisations cannot be wasted effort. If nothing else it must school the mind.’

‘Pagan civilisations, sir,’ Noak said. ‘Civilisations that passed their peak two thousand years ago or more. We have come on a little since then, I fancy.’

‘That we have been able to build so high is surely a tribute to the strength of the foundations.’

Mr Noak stared at me but said nothing. In my present position I could hardly afford to anger anybody. Yet he had talked such obvious nonsense that I felt it my duty to advance some counter arguments, if only for Charlie’s sake. At this moment the door opened and Henry Frant came in. The almost foppish elegance of his dress was in stark contrast to Mr Noak’s sober attire. Charlie caught his breath. I had the curious impression that he would have liked to shrink into himself.

‘My dear sir,’ Frant cried. ‘How glad I am to see you.’

As he advanced to shake hands, I gathered up our possessions and prepared to leave.

‘You have been renewing your acquaintance with Charles, I see, and with Mr Shield.’

Noak nodded. ‘I am afraid I have disturbed them at their studies.’

‘Not at all, sir,’ I said.

Mr Noak continued as if I had not spoken. ‘Mr Shield and I have been having a most interesting conversation concerning the place of the classical languages in the modern world.’

Frant shot me a quick glance but swerved away from this subject. ‘I have kept you waiting – I am so sorry. It was kind of you to meet me here.’

‘How does Mr Wavenhoe do?’

Frant spread out his hands. ‘As well as can be expected. I fear he may not be with us long.’

‘Perhaps you would prefer it –’ Noak began.

‘I would not on any account postpone our dinner,’ Frant said quickly. ‘Mr Wavenhoe is sleeping now, and I understand from his medical attendants that an immediate crisis is not to be expected. Nor is he expected to wake for some hours. They tell me the carriage is at the door.’

Noak lingered by the fire. ‘I had wondered whether I might see Mr Carswall here,’ he remarked. ‘He is Mr Wavenhoe’s cousin, is he not?’

‘He has indeed been here today, and may look in again,’ Frant said smoothly. ‘But I believe he is not in the way at present.’

‘I had the pleasure of meeting him and his daughter briefly the other evening. Though of course I knew him by reputation already.’

At the door, Noak paused, turned and said goodbye to Charlie and myself. At last the door closed and we were alone again. Charlie sat down in his chair and picked up his pen. All the colour and excitement of the afternoon had drained away from his face. He looked pinched and miserable. I told myself that a father must inspire awe in his children as well as affection. But Mr Frant always made it easier for Charlie to fear him than to love him.

‘We shall shut up our books for the day,’ I said. ‘Is that a backgammon board on the table there? If you like, I will give you a game.’

We sat opposite each other at the table by the fire and laid out the pieces. The familiar click of the counters and the rattle of the dice had a soothing effect. Charlie became engrossed in the game, which he won with ease. I waited for him to set out the counters again so I might have my revenge, but instead he toyed with them, moving them at random about the board.

‘Sir?’ Charlie said. ‘Sir, what is a by-blow?’

‘It is a child whose parents are not married to each other.’

‘A bastard?’

‘Just so. Sometimes people will use words like that when they have no basis in fact, simply with the intention of wounding. It is best to disregard them.’

Charlie shook his head. ‘It was not like that, sir. It was Mrs Kerridge. I overheard her talking to Loomis –’

‘One should not eavesdrop on servants’ tittle-tattle,’ I put in automatically.

‘No, sir, but I could hardly help overhearing, as they spoke loud and the door was open and I was in the kitchen with Cook. Kerridge said, ‘the poor mite, being a by-blow’, and afterwards when I asked her what it meant, she told me not to bother my head about it. They were talking about Uncle Wavenhoe dying.’

‘And she said you were a by-blow?’

‘Oh no, sir – not me. Cousin Flora.’

CHAPTER TWENTY

HENRY FRANT HAD miscalculated. While he was dining that evening at his club with Mr Noak, George Wavenhoe rallied. For a short time, the old man was lucid, though very weak. He demanded that his family be brought to him.

By then, the Carswalls had returned to the house and were dining with Mrs Frant. Charlie was in bed, and I was reading by the fire in a small sitting room at the back of the house. Mrs Kerridge asked me to wake Charlie and bring him down when he was dressed; she could not go herself because she was needed in the sickroom. A few minutes later, Charlie and I descended to the second floor, where we found Mrs Frant in whispered conversation with a doctor on the landing. She broke off when she saw Charlie.

‘My love, your uncle desires to see you. I – he wishes to say farewell.’

‘Yes, Mama.’

‘You understand my meaning, Charlie?’

The boy nodded.

‘It is not at all frightening,’ she said firmly. ‘He is very ill, however. One must remember that soon he will go to Heaven, where he will be made well again.’

‘Yes, Mama.’

She looked at me. Her face was very lovely in the soft light. ‘Mr Shield, would you be kind enough to wait here? I do not think my uncle will detain Charlie for long.’

I bowed.

She and Charlie went into the old man’s room. The doctor followed them. I was left alone with a footman. The man was in his evening livery, his wig a great crest of stiff white powder, his calves like twin tree-trunks encased in silk. He examined his reflection surreptitiously in a pier glass. I paced up and down the passage, pretending to look at the pictures which hung there, though I could not have told you their subjects a moment afterwards. Somewhere in the house I heard the rumble of Stephen Carswall’s voice, fluctuating yet constant, like the sound of the sea on a quiet summer night. The door of the room opened and the physician beckoned me towards him.

‘Pray come in for a moment,’ he murmured, waving me towards him.

He put his finger to his lips, lifted himself on to tiptoe and led me into the room. It was large and richly furnished in a style which must have been the rage thirty or forty years ago. The walls above the dado rail were covered with silk hangings of deep red. There was a huge chimney glass above the fire which made the room look even larger than it was. Candles on ornate stands burned at intervals around the walls. A large fire blazed in the burnished steel grate, filling the room with a flickering orange glow. What compelled attention, however, was the bedstead itself, a great four-poster with a massive carved wood cornice, hung with curtains of floral-patterned silk.

Amid all this outmoded magnificence, this Brobdingnagian grandeur, was a tiny old man, with no hair and no teeth, with skin the colour of an unlit wax candle, whose hands picked at the embroidery of the coverlet. My eyes were drawn to him, as though the bed were a stage and he the only player on it. This was strange, because in many ways he was the least significant person in the room. Besides the doctor and Mrs Kerridge, who kept back in the shadows, there were four people clustered round the dying man. Near the head of the bed sat Mr Carswall, his body spilling untidily out of a little carved wooden gilt bedroom chair. Standing at his shoulder was Miss Carswall, who looked up as I entered and gave me a swift smile. Facing them across the bed was Mrs Frant, seated in another chair, with Charlie resting on one of the chair’s arms and leaning against her.

‘Ah, Mr Shield.’ Carswall waved me forward. ‘My cousin wishes to add a codicil to his will. He would be obliged if you would witness his signature, along with the good doctor here.’

As I stepped forward into the light, I saw on the bed a sheet of paper covered in writing. A writing box lay open on the dressing table nearby.

‘The lawyer has been sent for,’ said Mrs Frant. ‘Should we not wait until he arrives?’

‘That would take time, madam,’ Carswall pointed out. ‘And time is the one thing we may not have. There can surely be no doubt about our cousin’s intentions. When Fishlake comes, we shall have him draw up another codicil if necessary. But in the meantime, let us make sure that this one is duly signed and witnessed. I am persuaded that Mr Wavenhoe would wish it, and that Mr Frant would see the wisdom of such a course.’

‘Very well, sir. We must do as my uncle desires. And thank you. You are very good.’

While this conversation was going on, the old man lay propped against a great mountain of embroidered pillows. He breathed slowly and noisily through his mouth, sounding like an old pump in need of grease. The eyes were almost closed.

Carswall picked up the sheet of paper from the coverlet. ‘Flora, the pen.’

She brought the pen and the inkpot to her father. He dipped the nib in the ink, lifted Wavenhoe’s right hand and inserted the pen between the fingers.

‘Come, George,’ he growled, ‘here is the codicil: all that is required to make things right is that you sign your name here.’

Carswall lifted the paper in his other hand. Wavenhoe’s eyelids fluttered. His breathing lost its regularity. Two drops of ink fell on the embroidered coverlet. Carswall guided Wavenhoe’s hand to the space below the writing. With a slowness that was painful to watch, Wavenhoe traced his name. Afterwards the pen dropped from his fingers and he let himself fall back against his pillows. The breathing resumed its regularity. The pen rolled down the paper, leaving a splatter of ink-spots, and came to rest on the coverlet.

‘And now, Mr Shield,’ Carswall said. ‘Pray oblige us by doing your part. Flora, hand him the pen. Sign there, sir, beside the writing box. No, stay, before you sign, write these words: “Mr Wavenhoe’s signature witnessed by me” – then write your name, sir, your full name – “on the 9th day of November, 1819.’’’

While he gave his instructions, he folded down the top of the sheet so I could not see the codicil itself, only Mr Wavenhoe’s signature. He handed the paper to Flora, who stood beside me, holding the candle so I could see what I was doing. I wrote what Mr Carswall required, and signed my name. Flora was standing very close to me, though without touching; but I fancied I sensed the warmth of her body.

‘When you are done, be so good as to pass the paper to the doctor,’ Carswall said.

I crossed the room and handed the codicil to him. Wavenhoe’s eyes were fully open now. He looked at me and frowned.

‘Who –?’ he whispered.

‘Mr Shield is Charlie’s tutor, sir,’ Flora said.

Wavenhoe’s eyes drifted away from me and he turned his head so he could see the Frants on the other side of the bed. He looked at Mrs Frant.

‘Anne?’ he said in a firmer voice. ‘I thought you were dead.’

She leaned towards him and took his hand. ‘No, Uncle, I am not Anne, I am her daughter Sophie. Mama has been dead these many years, but they say I am very like her.’

He responded to the touch, if not the words. ‘Anne,’ he said, and smiled. ‘I am rejoiced to see you.’

His eyelids twitched and he slipped into a doze. The doctor scratched his signature and gave the paper to Carswall, who flapped it in the air until the ink was dry and then folded it away in his pocketbook. No one told me I should leave. I think the little group around the bed had forgotten my existence. I withdrew and stood in the shadows by the wall with Mrs Kerridge and the doctor. Flora sat in the chair beside her father. Mrs Frant picked up a Prayer Book from the side table beside her and looked inquiringly at Carswall who nodded. She opened it and began to read from Psalm 51:

But lo, thou requirest truth in the inward parts: and shalt make me to understand wisdom secretly. Thou shalt purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: thou shalt wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Thou shalt make me hear of joy and gladness: that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.

As I listened, I thought that we were all imprisoned in a place between light and darkness, life and death, and that the only sounds that mattered in the world were the slow rasp of Wavenhoe’s breathing, the creak and sputter of coals in the grate and the rise and fall of Sophia Frant’s voice.

After a few moments, Stephen Carswall pulled out his watch. He sighed loudly, pushed back his chair, the legs scraping on the oak floorboards, and stood up, snorting with the strain of manoeuvring his big, clumsy body. Mrs Frant broke off her reading at the end of a sentence. Carswall made no sign of apology or even acknowledgement.

‘Shall we go down to the drawing room?’ he said to his daughter.

‘If you would not object, sir, I should prefer to remain here.’

He shrugged. ‘You must please yourself, miss.’ He glanced down at the little figure on the bed and nodded his head. It was a curious gesture: like the tip of the head a maidservant gives when she makes her obedience. He stamped across the floor and Mrs Kerridge opened the door for him. From the ground floor came a muffled knock on the front door and the subdued murmur of voices.

‘Ah,’ Carswall said, cocking his head, suddenly all attention. ‘That lawyer fellow, at last, unless Frant’s back early. If it’s Fishlake, I’ll deal with him.’

‘My love,’ Mrs Frant said to Charlie, ‘it is time for you to go to bed. Kiss your uncle goodnight, and then perhaps Mr Shield will go upstairs with you. We must not inconvenience him any further, must we?’

Charlie detached himself from his mother’s chair. I saw his face in that instant, saw him screwing up his courage for what had to be done. He bent over the figure in the bed and brushed his lips against the pale forehead. He backed away and, avoiding his mother’s embrace, walked unsteadily towards me.

George Wavenhoe coughed. Flora gasped, and all of us turned suddenly towards the bed. The old man stirred and opened his eyes. ‘Goodnight, dear boy,’ he said softly but with perfect clarity. ‘And sweet dreams.’