Swords Reluctant. Pemberton Max. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Pemberton Max
Издательство: Bookwire
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Жанр произведения: Языкознание
Год издания: 0
isbn: 4064066218522
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mountains … with somebody else's arms, to say nothing of somebody's else's spades."

      "Was that your only impression of him?"

      "Oh! force—hardly of character, perhaps—that and his restlessness. Why did everyone talk of him? Was it because he is worth eleven millions of money? Was that all that could be said of him?"

      "A very good reason nowadays. They say he has a contract with the French Government for five millions of the new rifles. Permissible exaggeration makes him the arbiter of peace or war. Did he not give you that impression?"

      "I hardly think so; he was mostly concerned about his boarhound's dinner. As far as I remember, he considers our party just harmless lunatics. I made him confess as much one day."

      Silvester passed by the admission.

      "He goes on a fearful journey," he said, falling unconsciously to the pulpit manner. "Of course such men know a great deal. He believes that there will be war in Europe in six months' time, and that our country will be concerned. Did he not tell you that?"

      "I think not, father. He was too busy asking me to arrange the roses in his cabin."

       "Ah! I remember them, pink roses everywhere in early December. What a feminine display!"

      "But not a feminine subject. I have never met a man whose character impressed me so clearly. He has only begun in the world—those were his own words."

      "Well, then, why should he not begin with us? Sir Jules believes that nothing would make a greater stir than his joining our Committee."

      "Then why don't you ask him yourself? He's in London until the end of the week."

      Silvester did not speak for some minutes. He seemed to have become a little shy of this outspoken wide-eyed daughter of his, who evaded the issue so cleverly.

      "I wish you'd write, Gabrielle."

      "To Mr. Faber?"

      "Yes; you seemed very good friends on the ship. I believe he'd join if you asked him."

      She shook her head.

      "I don't believe it would make any difference who asked him. I'll write, if you wish it."

      "Yes," he said, rising abruptly, "write now before you go to bed. You're sure you are not hungry?"

      Gabrielle laughed lightly.

      "I have left all my vices in America," she rejoined, "being hungry in the witching hours is one of them."

      III

      Her boudoir overlooked the great well wherein London lies. Though the moon was in the first quarter, the night was wonderful in stars, and the air quivered with the virility of frost. She could see St. Paul's and the City spires; the Carlton Hotel lay more to the west, and was hidden behind the slopes of Haverstock Hill. There was no snow, for this frost was black as iron.

      Just below, were the winding walks to which the pilgrims came in search of Keats. She had read the sonnets and tried to understand them, but candour compelled her to say that she preferred Tennyson. Sometimes she thought her whole interest in literature to be an affectation; but undoubtedly she was addicted to erotic poetry and the fire of Swinburne would burn in her veins. All this, too, was hidden from her father, who occupied himself but little with her affairs, and believed that her interests were entirely his own.

      Girls of twenty-three are usually fervent letter-writers and Gabrielle was no exception. She had furnished folios of gossip that very day for her friend, Eva Achon, who had been her intimate upon the ship. But when it came to writing "John Sebastian Faber, Esq.," her pen trembled upon the paper. How impossible it seemed to say anything to which such a man would listen. She depicted him as she had last seen him upon the deck of the Oceanic, stretched on a sofa-chair, and smiling at her philosophy. "Letters answered themselves," he had said. He got through life on cables and confidence. There was not a private letter in fifty which said anything worth saying. He had proposed a league for the suppression of private correspondence, and begged her to be one of the vice-presidents. She remembered her own disappointment that he had not asked her to write to him.

       So it was no easy thing at all to begin, chiefly because she feared his irony and was quite sure that her letter would achieve nothing. Half-a-dozen sheets of good "cream laid" note were destroyed before she could get her craft launched and she was still in harbour so to speak when she heard her name cried out in the street below, and opening the window immediately, discerned Harry Lassett with skates upon his arm.

      "Is that you, Gabrielle?"

      The cold was intense and filled the room with icy vapour. She shivered where she stood, and drew her dressing-gown close about her white throat.

      "Whatever are you doing, Harry? It's nearly eleven o'clock."

      "I know that. We've been skating on the Vale. There'll be grand ice to-morrow. Won't you come? You must!"

      "I haven't got any skates!"

      "Oh, send into town for some. I'll go myself if you'll throw me out an old boot. You don't mean to say you're going to miss it?"

      She shook her head and tried to shield herself behind the heavy curtains.

      "I fear I'll have to go visiting to-morrow."

      "What, those American dollars again! No! They're spoiling you; I thought you had done with that nonsense."

      "I did not say they were American. I am going to Richmond to see Eva Achon."

      "Oh, hang Eva Achon. We shall have bandy, if it holds. Throw me out that boot, and I'll go away. Your people go to bed in the middle of the day, don't they? It's all locked up like a prison down here."

      "I am not in bed, Harry. I am writing a letter."

      "American, of course?"

      "Of course," and she laughed at him. Then the boot was found, and tossed out.

      "How's that?" he asked—a man who had played for Middlesex and the 'Varsities could not have asked any other question.

      "Let me know just how much they are, and I will send it round in the afternoon. Father promised me a pair to-night. I'm glad you can get them for me."

      "Right oh! We shall skate on the Vale directly I return. Dr. Houghton of Grindelwald wants me to have a pair of his blades. You'd better have the same. They're grand!"

      "Anything you like, my dear Harry, if they'll keep me warm. I shall be a pillar of ice if I stand here."

      "Like Lot's wife! Was it ice, by the way? Well, good-night, then; or shall I post the letter?"

      "That's splendid of you. I'll just finish it. But I'll have to shut the window."

      "Imagine me a sentry doing the goose step. Will you be long?"

      "Just two minutes, really."

      He kissed his hand to her when she shut the window and began to stamp about to warm himself. They had been lovers since children, and were still free. Harry Lassett's three hundred a year "in the funds" just permitted him to play cricket for the county and to spend the best part of the winter at St. Moritz. He had not thought much about marriage.

       Gabrielle's two minutes "really" proved to be an exact prophecy. Haste bade her throw both preface and conclusion to the winds. She just wrote:

      "Dear Mr. Faber,

      "My father would be very pleased if you would become one of the Vice-Presidents of the International Arbitration League. Will you let me say 'yes' for you?"

      And that was the letter Harry carried to the post for her.

      Vanity promised her an answer. It would come over the telegraph wires, she thought.

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