Then a doubt crossed his mind. “Of course the early ones aren’t nearly so good,” he explained. “You mightn’t like them. They give no idea of what was to come.”
By this time dinner was over and they were in the library. Mr. Burnaby voyaged up and down the shelves with a lamp in his hand. He pulled out Roderick Hudson and put it back. He hesitated between The American and The Awkward Age, but in the end it was The Spoils of Poynton he selected, and this Marcus chose as the book that they should read aloud together.
It was a cool evening and the fire had been lit. They had lingered over their coffee and when Mr. Burnaby began to read it was getting dusk. He sat in an armchair on the window side of the fire with the lamp on a table behind him so that its light should fall on the book. Marcus was sprawled in another armchair, deep and comfortable, on the opposite side of the fire. He was in the shadow gazing at the butterfly flame of the lamp and through the window at the bluish grey clouds of the evening sky.
“ ‘Mrs. Gereth had said she would go with the rest to church, but suddenly it seemed to her she shouldn’t be able to wait even till church-time for relief: breakfast was at Waterbath a punctual meal and she had still nearly an hour on her hands. Knowing the church to be near she prepared in her room for the little rural walk, and on her way down again, passing through the corridors and observing the imbecilities of decoration, the aesthetic misery of the big commodious house, she felt a return of the tide of last night’s irritation, a renewal of everything she could secretly suffer from ugliness and stupidity. Why did she consent to such contacts? Why did she so rashly expose herself? . . .”
Mr. Burnaby read slowly, his voice rising and falling, giving full emphasis to the cadences of the style. Marcus listened, but almost from the first he found it difficult to grasp the meaning of the sentences. What contacts, he wondered; and how was she so rashly exposing herself? It was like listening to a song: the meaning was drowned by the music. He missed a sentence or two and found himself in a fog. He watched Mr. Burnaby’s head moving slowly to and fro in time with his reading.
“ ‘. . . . There were advantages enough it clearly didn’t possess. It was hard for her to believe a woman could look presentable who had been kept awake for hours by the wall-paper in her room; . . .’”
Mr. Burnaby paused for slightly longer than the semi-colon warranted to see if this gentle gem had been appreciated, but being rewarded only by a look of dull puzzlement on Marcus’s face he went on hurriedly.
“ ‘. . . . yet none the less as she rustled in her fresh widow’s weeds across the hall, she was sustained by the consciousness, which always added to the unction of her social Sundays, that she was, as usual, the only person in the house incapable of wearing in her preparation the horrible stamp of the same exceptional smartness that would be conspicuous in a grocer’s wife. She would rather have perished than have looked endimanchée.’
“In her Sunday best, so to speak,” Mr. Burnaby interpolated softly.
Very soon Marcus gave up trying to understand completely the longer and more involved sentences. He grasped the main outline of the story, and it didn’t get on very fast. Staring straight into the light his eyes began to get tired and gradually he let his eyelids close. He could listen just as well that way, there was nothing any longer to distract him. Mr. Burnaby’s voice rose and fell, rose and fell. . . . It was like something impersonal, the wind in the trees, or the rush of a waterfall, or a tune being played far away. It was a pleasant, lulling sound. Marcus went to sleep.
What made him wake up he didn’t know. It might have been the flick of a turning page or a slight shuffle from the fire as the burning turves fell in upon themselves. At any rate Marcus was startled. For a moment or two he was wide awake and alert. He glanced anxiously at Mr. Burnaby. Had he noticed? But Mr. Burnaby hadn’t: he was wrapped in the story. He read on steadily enjoying the sound of his voice, the perfection of Henry James at his best.
Marcus listened intently.
“ ‘. . . . “Things” were of course, the sum of the world; only, for Mrs. Gereth, the sum of the world was rare French furniture and oriental china. She could at a stretch imagine people’s not “having”, but she couldn’t imagine their not wanting and not missing.’”
Marcus heaved a little, subdued sigh of relief. At least they were more or less in the same place—still gassing away about her old furniture, and her old house. It was a relief at any rate that nothing important seemed to have happened. But Marcus couldn’t feel relieved for long, or comfortable, for the desire to go to sleep began again to grow upon him. He had been outside all afternoon, and bathing always made him sleepy. It was the strong sea air, something to do with the salt in it and the iodine. Besides it was very cosy in the library. How delicious it would have been if he could only have relaxed and let himself go to sleep quite openly.
For another chapter and a half he battled against sleep; first with the tip of his forefinger against the flesh behind his chin, so that every time his head drooped forward he was jabbed uncomfortably by his finger-nail. Then he tried sitting bolt upright and gripping the arms of the chair tightly with both hands. ‘Fleda Vetch!’ There was something stuffy about the very name, and the way she and Mrs. Gereth were always falling sympathetically into each other’s arms.
“Well,” Mr. Burnaby demanded looking up with an air of kindly triumph, an air of having brought a quite unexpected treat out of the hat. “Do you like it?”
Marcus gave himself a slight shake to drive back the drowsiness which encircled him on every side like a warm blanket. He didn’t dare to say what he really thought. He wasn’t sufficiently dishonest to pretend that he had enjoyed the reading as much as Mr. Burnaby seemed to expect. “I suppose it’ll get more interesting later on,” he answered haltingly. “I mean we’re just at the beginning, aren’t we? He’s just sort of setting the scene, isn’t he? I think nearly all good books begin that kind of way. . . .”
“But it’s so beautifully done,” Mr. Burnaby broke in. “The touch is so light, so delicate.” He made a little gesture with his right hand. “It’s like painting a picture—every brush stroke matters, is something added.
“You must be missing it all,” he went on, “and there’s so much to miss—the style, the manner, the way the sound is made to help in evoking the exact shade of meaning he wants to convey.”
“Yes,” Marcus said.
Mr. Burnaby looked at him. “I suppose you’re sleepy,” he decided. “It’s quite late. Maybe it’s time we went to bed.”
The queer thing was that when Marcus got to his room he felt quite wide awake again. He had bought, to read in the train coming down, a copy of The Strand Magazine and The Gangs Come to London by Edgar Wallace. He wasn’t as a rule very fond of Edgar Wallace thrillers, though he liked his African stories, but the idea of American gangsters working in London appealed to his imagination. However, there had been enough short stories in The Strand to keep him amused on the train, and he hadn’t started the book. He had put it in a drawer of the dressing-table with his handkerchiefs and collars. Now he thought he would have a look at it.
He undressed quickly and propped on his elbow began to read by the light of the candle beside his bed. It was a thrilling story. He had only intended to read a page or two, but he read on and on, chapter after chapter. Presently he became conscious that his right arm had gone to sleep, and at the same time he began to feel guilty. At page seventy he stopped abruptly. He felt that Mr. Burnaby was standing behind him, watching him. In his hurry to start reading he must for the first time have forgotten to lock the door. He was horrified. For two or three minutes he didn’t dare to move. At last he decided that he would roll out of bed suddenly on the opposite side to Mr. Burnaby. He took a deep breath and did it. He landed on the floor in a crouching position and scrambled round on his knees so that he could see across the bed. No
one was there.
He examined the room carefully and tried the door. He had locked it. He looked on each side of every bit of furniture, and opened the wardrobe. He peered under the bed. Yet he wasn’t satisfied. The impression of someone there—of Mr. Burnaby in fact—had been too strong. In an old house like this there might even be a secret door in the wall and a passage leading to Mr. Burnaby’s room.
For a while he sat up in bed, glancing first at one part of the room, then another. He remembered a ghost story in which the candles one after another had gone out of their own accord. He took the electric torch from his bedside table and tried it. It was working all right and he kept it in his hand. He had more faith in it than in any candle.
Suddenly he was very sleepy again. He didn’t want to go to sleep, but he realized he would have to go to sleep sometime. His sleepiness was making him gradually less fearful. He lay down, and at last, when he knew he could keep awake no longer, he blew out the candle and put the torch under his pillow where he could grab it in a moment. He had a vague idea that it was dangerous to let a candle burn out, that it might set the house on fire. He went to sleep.
Slowly and silently a door in the wall was swinging open. Marcus could see it clearly, though everything else in the room was dim. Behind the door was a black space. Marcus grabbed for his torch but it had gone: it had been slipped away from under his pillow while he was asleep. He wanted to get the matches and light the candle, but now he was paralyzed in every limb. He lay still and in terror.
Next moment he awoke, really woke up this time. The torch was there all right. He switched it on, and shone a shaky beam round the room. Everything was as before. There was no sign of a secret door and the candle was still on the table beside his bed. He lit it and kept awake for another half-hour.
CHAPTER XX
IN the morning Marcus was very sleepy. He was late for breakfast, and afterwards, sitting with Mr. Burnaby in the tower-room, he could hardly keep his eyes open. At first Mr. Burnaby made no comment, though it was obvious from his manner that he wasn’t pleased. But after he had put the fourth picture in position he turned round suddenly and caught Marcus in the middle of a jaw-cracking yawn. Marcus forced his mouth shut, his eyes watering with the effort. He blinked and saw Mr. Burnaby’s face turn white with anger. “What’s the good of this?” he exclaimed. “How d’you expect to work when you’re half asleep?”
“I’m afraid I am a bit sleepy,” Marcus admitted.
“Of course you’re sleepy,” Mr. Burnaby returned. “How could you be anything else—sitting up half the night reading penny dreadfuls?”
For a moment Marcus didn’t take in the full implication of this. He began by apologizing: “I didn’t mean to go on for so long. It was so exciting and I didn’t think about it making a difference.” Then, seeing Mr. Burnaby’s uncompromising face, he suddenly became angry himself. “All the same,” he added, “I don’t like people spying on me.”
“That’s an extremely unpleasant remark to make,” Mr. Burnaby said. His voice trembled. He had almost lost control of it. “As a matter of fact I looked in for perfectly friendly reasons. I expected to see you asleep after your supposed tiredness. I had no idea it was just an excuse to get reading your Edgar Wallace.”
“I was sleepy,” Marcus retorted indignantly. “I could hardly keep my eyes open.”
Mr. Burnaby shrugged his shoulders, and walking over to the window stood with his back to the room, looking out: “A strange sort of sleepiness”, he commented, “——disappears at sight of an Edgar Wallace. If you’d been reading something decent I mightn’t have minded so much.”
Marcus, with his head between his hands, and his elbows on the table, stared at Mr. Burnaby. He hated rows and scenes. He knew he shouldn’t have gone on reading for so long, but really he hadn’t meant to—and he hadn’t thought about it making him sleepy this morning. In any case it was only one morning and they’d lots of mornings before them. Mr. Burnaby was just as wrong as he was . . . . coming into the room to watch him. Surely he was entitled to some privacy, sometimes. All the same, he supposed, he’d better repeat his apology. One of them had to apologize, or the row would go on for ever—and Mr. Burnaby didn’t look in the least as if he would. “I’m sorry,” Marcus mumbled. “I didn’t mean to spoil the work.”
He waited hopefully, but there was no response from Mr. Burnaby. He was like God, Marcus thought, with a fresh wave of dislike. Everything you did, he knew about—and he was always right. It would be impossible to get away from him, even if he were to give up and go home. Whatever he did he would have the feeling that Mr. Burnaby might be watching him, might even be influencing his thoughts. He wished that he was an ordinary person, that his mind had never wandered out when he was asleep and attracted Mr. Burnaby’s attention.
Presently Mr. Burnaby turned round. “Would you like to go?” he asked. “Give all this up and go home? If you would, you can—now’s your chance. I’d promise to leave you alone, let you live your life in peace—never trouble you again.” Marcus hesitated and Mr. Burnaby went on slowly: “Think of what a good time you’d have. No doubt you’d go into your father’s office. Think of the interesting people you’d meet there, and of course, seeing who you were, they’d all be very nice to you. After a year or two you’d ‘go out on the road’ and meet more interesting people of the same kind. ‘Commercials,’ they’re called—that’s short for ‘Commercial Gents’. You’d congregate in the evenings in the bars of Commercial Hotels, and you’d hear the latest dirty stories and be advised that so-and-so was a bit shaky and that somebody else was taking longer credit. And later on, I suppose, being who you are, you would ‘come in off the road’ again and take your father’s place. How satisfactory that would be, to know that you were leading just the same life as your father had led—and perhaps your grandfather too, following in their footsteps, carrying on the grand old traditions. . . . But of course, the real attraction would be to know that you were completely ordinary and respectable, a business man among business men, a useful member of society, one among millions and millions, all useful members of society. You might even become a Mason.
“I wonder why they’re called useful members of society,” Mr. Burnaby reflected. “What use are they? Do their lives make the slightest difference? They leave everything as they found it. It wouldn’t make a pick of difference if any one of them hadn’t been born.”
“But it would if none of them had been born,” Marcus pointed out, brightening up a little, and feeling that the crisis had passed.
“Yes,” Mr. Burnaby replied. “There’d be fewer people in the world.”
Marcus was silent. For a minute or two he had been tempted to accept Mr. Burnaby’s offer. The description he had heard of commercial life had even appealed to him a little. If only he could do just as Mr. Burnaby said—follow in his father’s footsteps and feel satisfied with his position, feel that he was one of the great commercial community, a brother among brothers, feel that he was a useful member of Society. But he knew he couldn’t. He would always feel spurious, that he was only acting a part. Besides he would never forget that he had had the choice and had chosen the lower rather than the higher. All his life he would be conscious of being a traitor. However miserable he was going to be, living his life to Mr. Burnaby’s rules, he felt that it was better to be miserable and matter, than happy in that sort of way. And anyhow it wasn’t as if, now, he could be happy that sort of way. There was no choice for him.
“Well,” Mr. Burnaby asked quite kindly, “do you want to go?”
“No, I’ll stay,” Marcus said. “I think it must be horrible.” Mr. Burnaby’s point of view had suddenly become his own.
“It’s wonderful how cheerfully they all put up with it,” Mr. Burnaby commented, with the ghost of a smile, “though I suppose the only thing is to be cheerful, or religious, or to drink. H
owever I’ll make a promise. I oughtn’t to have spied on you last night—though I didn’t intend it to be spying—it was only the fact that you were doing something you shouldn’t have been doing that made it spying, in an objectionable sense. But I won’t do it again. I can see that it would make it impossible for you—to have no privacy—but you will be a good boy after this, won’t you? It’s a pity to waste even one morning. It means that you’re a whole day further back just for the sake of an hour or two—and I don’t suppose that you really enjoyed that hour or two. You had an uneasy feeling all the time, hadn’t you?”
“I’m not a boy,” Marcus said. “I’m grown-up.”
All the same the row was over.
For the rest of the summer everything went fairly smoothly. It was good enough fun playing tennis and bathing in the afternoon, though Marcus would rather have played with someone a little younger than Mr. Burnaby and bathed with someone who bathed too, instead of sitting on the rocks wrapped in contemplation. He was happiest when he was alone with a book: but he found it a bore listening to Mr. Burnaby reading Henry James in the evenings. He wasn’t interested in style, or second methods.
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