The Square Peg or The Gun Fella полностью

After the meal, while they were waiting to start for the Hall, Frampton heard Aranowski ask Zapritska in a low voice, whether Mrs. Haulover were Mr. Massilio’s amie. Zapritska replied that in England all the men were vierges and all the women like to remain so. Then they went off to the Hall, singing as they went.

He watched the evening’s performance with a beating heart. In two of the three ballets Sorya danced; in the divertissements she danced a bayadère. He did not care what the others on the stage did; he sat staring at her through his glasses whenever she appeared, not doubting that she was Margaret come back to him.

“She will have a lover; she cannot fail to have a lover,” he kept thinking. “But I’ll beat him from her.”

When she was on the stage, the certainty that she must have a lover somewhere made him sick with jealousy. The grace of the creature so often made him sure that she was Margaret’s spirit, moving as Margaret had never moved. Presently, they danced Les Sylphides; Margaret danced the Prélude. She made that dingy stage an unearthly garden hovered in by the butterflies of the soul.

The storm had gathered by this time into something of its full intensity. The Hall contained an audience of twenty-nine persons, who had come, they did not quite know why, or because tickets had been given to them. Some of these would no doubt have left early but for the pouring of the rain. Frampton looked at them from time to time. They looked unreal in that place and light; they were unreal; they were not feeling. He was more deeply moved than ever before in his life; he was shaken to his foundations. At the same time, he was confirmed in his certainties. He was on the side of Margaret and this her spirit; he would make Spirr a sanctuary; he would fight the insensitiveness of stupid Stubbington, which sat so dead and lout-like while this Margaret danced. He thought of Faringdon, toiling at the figure which was to stand for Margaret up at Holtspur. Why, here was the model for him. The living Margaret was here. These lovely movements and groupings should be the birthright of the children born at Holtspur. He would begin a new England up there in the Waste.

Presently the wonderful evening ended, and the people went out into the roaring and the darkness. Once again he helped his five into the car, and set off after them alone.

He did not have much talk with any of the five that night. He lay long awake listening to the storm and thinking of this Margaret Sorya. When he woke, at about five in the morning, the wind was still roaring, but he could see a star or two through his open window. He thought that if this troupe were going on to Sulhampton for a week’s stay, they might, if they wished, stay with him and go and come by car. He would see more of her thus. He prayed that they might choose to do this.

He rose early, as soon as it was light, and made himself a French breakfast, of strong black coffee and bread. Following his custom after any night of storm, he took a two-prong, and went along the brook, breaking up all the dams of branches and dead leaves. Going indoors presently, he found Sorya there reading Who’s Who.

“I’m just looking you up,” she said, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“That will give you the outline,” he said. “Will you tell me something of yourself? Are you a Circassian?”

“I’m a South Russian. My grandmother was English. She was a Miss Holtspur from a place called Windlesham, in Berkshire.”

“What?” he said. “But that is extraordinary. She was the daughter of the old man who made the money?”

Margaret seemed surprised at his knowledge. She nodded.

“Yes. But it was a run-away match, not much approved on either side. My mother always spoke English. My father was a landowner. He was taken away in the Revolution. We never heard, but we cannot doubt, that he was murdered. An old woman got us away, that is my mother and myself. My two brothers died before the War. It was a frightful time for Mother, of course, getting away, with me hanging on to her. I took it as a child will, not knowing about the danger. I used to be frightened at the shooting sometimes. We were very lucky in getting taken on board an English transport at Odessa; Mother’s English was a real help then. We were taken to Prinkipo, where nobody wanted any of us. After a long time, we got to Paris, where Mother worked as a seamstress; some friends helped her and had me trained as a dancer.”

“Is your mother alive still?”

“Yes, in Paris. She has done well as a dressmaker. She employs nine women now, and has saved enough to live on. She doesn’t come to England. Her rather distant English cousins weren’t at all helpful when we were in distress. There was a Mr. Holtspur of Windlesham, to whom she wrote.”

This had been Margaret’s father, Frampton supposed. He had not known him, but had heard that he was a hard man in his later years.”