David Lindsay - Sphinx

by

David Lindsay

Sphinx by David Lindsay.

Version 1.2.

ISBN 978-0-9934239-6-3

First published by John Long, 1923.

This edition published by Bookship, 2017. (Updated 2019.)

Cover design 2019 Murray Ewing.

This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and locations portrayed in the story are entirely imaginary. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, organisations, companies and other bodies, is coincidental.

Sphinx

Contents

I

Arrival

The local train, with its three coaches, pulled up at Newleigh Station at half-past four, and Nicholas Cabot alighted. It was a Friday afternoon in early June. The day was gloriously fine, without a cloud in the sky, but with a crisp breeze tempering the otherwise overpowering sun. He sniffed the air, which was particularly fresh and sweet to London nostrils, and it was more by force of habit than any feeling of unpleasantness that, in gazing around him at the same time, his mouth took on a half-contemptuous expression. There was little to see, for the platform was nearly deserted; no one else appeared to have got down. He was a pale, lean, shortish, inconspicuous young fellow, in the middle twenties, with rather delicate upper features, but with strong-looking eyes, a determined jaw, and the full, thrust-out lips belonging to an audacious mind, as distinguished from an audacious temperament. He wore grey flannels, with a new white straw hat, of the straight type affected by the city dweller. As he was in the act of making his way to the rear van to see after his trunk, which a porter was already tumbling roughly on to the platform, another man, dressed in a soiled white chauffeurs coat and uniform cap, came up to him and saluted.

For Mereway, sir?

Mr. Sturts houseyes.

Car waiting, sir. That all your luggage?

That trunk and this bag. Has a packing-case arrived for me, do you know?

Havent seen aught of it, sir.

The porter lending a hand, the trunk was installed in the somewhat dirty and battered four-seater which stood waiting in the station yard. Nicholas gave up his ticket and followed them out. He thought it strange that none of the family should be here to meet him, but was relieved that he should not be called upon to talk platitudes with unknown people on his way up to the house. He guessed that, Sturt himself being an ex-actor, they were rather on the Bohemian side. The conjecture was supported by the appearance of the car and its driver. The latter had great hands, like horn, a bowed back, and was getting on in years; he evidently combined the care of the garden with his other occupation.

When all was ready for a start, the car moved out of the yard into the village street. Newleigh proved to be quiet, ugly and undistinguished. With the exceptions of the railway tavern and half a dozen shops, it consisted, as far as he could see, entirely of labourers cottages. Few people were about. They were soon past the houses, but the road for the first half-mile had no features of interest. When, however, it commenced to ascend, it grew leafier and more picturesque. The rays of the burning sun were intercepted by the over-hanging branches, while the cool, green woodland on either side of the road became increasingly exquisite.

The journey was a quite short one, the modern, fashionable residential settlement being less than two miles from the station, and very soon the first of the nice houses began to appear. Some enterprising builder had conceived the notion of dividing the whole estate into lots of three, five or ten acres, for the purpose of erecting high-class residences in the bungalow style for that numerous class of leisured people who delight in sunshine, nature, pseudo-solitude, and new art. Each house so far erectedthere might be twenty or thirty of themstood in its own grounds, and was red-tiled, many-gabled, and of fantastic shape. Each was separated from its immediate neighbours by strips of scattered pinesthe melancholy residue of the original forest, which had held a population of birds. The woods began just beyond the last houses. There was a little forest lake not far off. Most of the houses possessed bizarre names, and each had its tennis court and rose pergola.

Mereway, when they came to it, turned out to be just as grotesquely pretty as the rest, though rather larger than some. It had the same queer, unmeaning gables, chimneys and window-bays, sticking out at all sorts of angles; and the same cobbled pathways, pergolas, arbours, trellis-work and rustic garden furniture. A tennis net was up on one lawn; another was set for croquet. Gay flower-beds showed everywhere, while Nicholas caught a glimpse at the back of the house of kitchen gardens and a fowl-run. The whole establishment had a holiday air. The house, from its appearance, might have been put up yesterday, yet, actually, it had been standing for more than twenty years.

The car turned up the miniature drive to the front door, which was next to the conservatory entrance, and he got out. A smart maid was standing in readiness just inside the porch.

Wheres this trunk to go? demanded the driver.

Stand it in the hall a minute, George. Ill show the gentleman to the drawing-room, then Ill come back to you.

Is your mistress at home? asked Nicholas, as he followed her through the hall.

The ladies are out visiting, sir, but I will go and fetch the master.

In that case, perhaps I had better go straight to my room.

Afterwards, sir, if you wish, but I was told to show you into the drawing room.

As she spoke she opened the door of the room in question, stood aside to allow him to pass in, and immediately returned on her steps. Nicholas seated himself on a chair near the open window, overlooking the lawn, with its background of dark trees. The sunlight streamed in, and the caressing breezes were delightful. The apartment was elegantly appointed. The carpet was soft and rich, the chairs luxurious, expensive Japanese coloured prints were on the walls, while a Bechstein baby-grand stood obliquely across one of the corners. It was open, and a torn paper-covered volume of Chaminade was on the rest. A half-worked daffodil-yellow jumper, with its companion skein of silk, was lying on a chair-seat.

The maid came back, bearing in tea on a three-tiered table, which she set in the bay. The sun, shining full on the red china, made it a blaze of splendour.

The master wishes you to begin tea, sir. He will be here directly.

Nicholas nodded with assumed carelessness, but thought that he had come to a queer place. Pouring himself out a cup of tea, he took it, with a cake, to his seat by the window. A minute later a man, who could only be his host, entered the room, stifling a yawn. It was a tall, thin, rather jauntily-dressed individual, true to a professional type, scarcely handsome, but quite distinguished-looking, with the long, reposeful face and incurved lip of the old-time tragedian. His cheeks were somewhat blue. He extended three fingers negligently, before dropping on to the sofa.

Charmed to make your acquaintance, sir! He spoke in a sort of sepulchral boom, drawling most of his long vowels.... Would you be so good as to give me tea?

Nicholas stared, but obeyed.

They have just aroused me from sleep, proceeded Sturt, depositing the cup on the carpet beside him, and yawning again. A drowsy country!... I see you have weird cakes thereare they eatable? He examined the proffered plate at some length, his guest standing before him the while, and ultimately selected one. For a few moments he munched it meditatively, with drooping eyes.