Читать книгу Sands of Fortune - Alan Sullivan - Страница 3

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FROM whatever angle one may regard the Crewe affair it seems that no member of the family was more profoundly affected than little Mr. James Crewe, who was the head of it; because to him more than to any of the others it meant the rediscovery of himself: and if one makes this sort of thing at the age of forty-seven it is a matter of considerable importance.

He was a small man with a rather wistful face and a manner slightly apologetic. He was apologetic because he was forced to do his work, so to speak, under the nose of the family instead of being able to carry it away and reappear later with the finished product. Behind this manner lurked a satirical streak in which he was but seldom able to indulge, because there is small opportunity to be satirical with seven hundred and fifty a year, a wife and two adult offspring. The seven hundred and fifty—it averaged this—was earned by writing potboilers, and the production of these stories—one every four months—had been his vocation for years past. As in many another case, it was the matter of making profit out of an emotional outlet. And to get a fair picture of little Mr. Crewe, you must visualise him seated in the one double bedroom the house possessed—and which he re-entered every morning the moment the bed was made—banging away at his typewriter, one eye on the clock, his tongue in his cheek, while his fancy conducted him through scenes that were far distant from the clatter of dishes in the kitchen below, and the rattle of the milk cart as it halted at the rusty gate of Acacia Villa. The thing had gone on now so long and so regularly that to Matilda, his wife, to Humphrey, his son of twenty-three, to Joan, his daughter of twenty, the unending click of those tilting keys expressed the head of the family perhaps better than anything else.

They all accepted it; Matilda with a certain amount of resignation that in no way affected her belief that she was made for bigger things, the other two with that kind of affectionate pity so often entertained by youth when it realises that a middle-aged parent has gone as far as he is likely to go—which is not very far. They were all genuinely fond of him, but in all these years nothing had happened to show how really deeply they loved him. Tragedy often does this, or great danger, or a great loss—and none of these had visited Acacia Villa.

The day used to begin—that is up to the time of the Crewe affair—in something after this fashion. Mrs. Crewe would come down early to see that breakfast was ready, inspect her letters and those of everyone else, then call up to Joan in a voice that, though tired, had retained a thin musical trill. Joan would appear a quarter-hour later, very fresh and fair, followed by Humphrey, who descended the stairs like an avalanche and brought with him an appetite like that of a horse. These two also inspected the letters, and when Joan slid one into her pocket without saying anything—as she sometimes did—Humphrey winked knowingly at his mother. The meal was always half-way over before Mr. Crewe came down, when his wife would say that without an electric heater it was impossible to keep things hot. She had been hoping for a heater for years. James would rub his small hands, nod to them all in the kindest way possible, say that he was not hungry, and butter a triangle of cold toast. Then, with a cup half-way to his lips, his mild eyes would take on a far-away look, and, jabbing the air with the toast as though marking off invisible paragraphs, he would say, “My dear, with regard to the fourth instalment, I’m going to have the villain take her to his rubber plantation and not the desert—which is far too much overworked nowadays.” Immediately one could see the little man on his way to the plantation. Long before he got there, Humphrey would be off to the office, Joan be clearing the table, and upstairs Mrs. Crewe might be heard tidying the double bedroom.

It was Mr. Crewe’s closely-guarded secret, guarded even from his wife, that a good deal went on in that bedroom with the gas grate—the lithographs—the picture of Ralph Simonds, a fish-faced relative of James of whom more will appear presently—the worn carpet, and the neat pile of manuscript on the mantel—a good deal more went on than was at all visible on the surface. Had Matilda been able to disembody herself and leak in under the door, she would not infrequently have found her husband leaning back, his small face transfigured with a passionate hunger, because at this particular moment the big thing he aspired to write had smothered the thing he was forced to write, and he was wandering afield, seeing himself accepted as an author who had made his mark in the world of letters.

He was not perfectly sure he could pull it off, given the chance, but, heavens, how he longed to try; and would sit like this for some moments, till, a step sounding on the stairs, he would stiffen up and set his fingers going, while the villain became more villainous with every sentence, and the heroine stood in more imminent danger at every click. So if one says that tragedy had not yet visited Acacia Villa, it is as well perhaps to qualify and explain that a thing is not a tragedy unless it beats down and crushes the sufferer. Mr. James Crewe was not beaten down in any sense, nor did he propose to be.

His wife also harboured secret ambitions. As a girl she had been very pretty, and at forty-five was still assured that with a month’s rest, change of air, and a slight aid from modern art as personally applied, with these touches and a little more money the world would be a different place. It occupied her mind more frequently than she was aware, this mirage of the impossible—the more alluring because it was out of the question. But, she asked herself, what was the use. It came to the top one morning when, with James clicking away upstairs, she found Joan reading a letter in the living-room.

“Stephen again?”

Joan nodded. “It’s always Stephen now.”

“Where did you go last night?”

“An Italian restaurant in Soho. You wouldn’t know it.”

“I shouldn’t think that would interest him much.”

“It didn’t—but I liked it.”

Mrs. Crewe sat down and began her weekly accounts, but the figures were rather meaningless. Stephen Hollis obtruded himself, with his square, strong face, subdued dress, punctuality, and general air of quiet decision. Not much romance there, she admitted.

“You don’t care for him at all?” she hazarded over her shoulder.

“Not in that way—and he doesn’t understand.”

“What, child?”

Joan made a gesture. “Art—if you like—or me. I know what you’re thinking, mother; but did you marry father to help your people?”

Mrs. Crewe sat up straight. No, she married because she loved. And she had gone on loving in a faithful if rather weary fashion, though life had been a humdrum affair for years past. The muffled sound of a typewriter seemed to confirm the fact.

“I don’t want any advice in that matter,” added Joan. “I’d sooner do the other thing, but I don’t like that either.”

Mrs. Crewe felt depressed. The other thing was to go into an antique shop and begin at ten shillings a week. Then, suddenly, she stopped thinking about her daughter, and began on herself.

“Has it ever occurred to you that I might want any thing myself?” she asked in a strained tone.

“What do you mean, mother?”

“It does sound queer, doesn’t it?” answered Mrs. Crewe plaintively. “But the word mother, as young people seem to use it nowadays, generally describes a woman who isn’t credited with having any desires or ambitions of her own. Of course she’s past all that. She’s just someone there for the purpose of being useful and keeping house, and is supposed to be contented with arranging for what other people want.”

Joan gazed at her with a sort of awe. “But, mother——”

“Exactly—that’s it—I thought you’d be surprised. I know it’s appalling to speak like this before you, and I’ve never hinted at such a thing to your father, who, thank heaven—no—if I’m honest I can’t be so frightfully thankful—anyway he’s quite contented sitting at that old machine—but this morning—well—I couldn’t help it.” She dabbed at eyes which were moist with her own emotion. “Now you just think of your mother as not feeling nearly so old as she probably looks, and with a heap of things she’d like to do, but never will, and Stephen won’t seem such a poor alternative to an antique shop where you’ll be on your feet all day showing things to people who have no intention of buying them.”

Joan gulped down her astonishment, and became at once very soothing.

“You’re not a bit old, mother, but a perfect marvel. I’ll never look as well as you do at your age. Humphrey and I often speak of it.”

“My figure is all right,” put in Mrs. Crewe reflectively, “but my skin! Oh, my dear, do you think I don’t know—and the beginnings of wrinkles that I try not to see—though I suppose the best type of mothers don’t mind a few wrinkles.” She sighed despondently. “Another five hundred a year would do it—all the difference in the world.”

Joan nodded. “Is there no chance of father——?”

“Not the slightest. His prices are established, and he’ll never earn any more. He can’t, the poor dear.”

“And Uncle Ralph?”

Mrs. Crewe pursed her lips. “Not a chance of a penny—which is really your father’s fault. Ralph is very satirical, but he’s so rich that he can afford to be. He’s accustomed to great deference from his relatives—all except your father, who has no deference at all, and lets Ralph see it.”

“Isn’t that very short-sighted?”

“Of course—and very surprising in so gentle a man. But there you are. Ralph is going to Italy to-day for some time. The others all called, but not your father, and Ralph said in a sort of prussic-acid way that he assumed he was not to have the privilege of seeing James. If you knew him, you’d know what that meant. It may have cost us thousands. So you can forget about him—worse luck.”

“It seems to be up to me,” said Joan shakily.

Mrs. Crewe came over and kissed her. “My dear, don’t expect to love as much before marriage as afterwards. I found that out for myself, and practically all women do. Young people begin by thinking of marriage as a sort of fairyland—but it’s the sort that needs a fence round it, if you know what I mean.”

Joan nodded. “Yes, I see,” and slipped off to her own room to fight the thing out. Her mother went back to the household accounts. Presently she stared into the wall mirror over the desk, and saw a small, delicately-shaped face, brown hair that as yet had no sign of grey, lips with a piquant little arch, a nose slightly tilted, hazel eyes that were still limpid, and a small round neck with a distinctly girlish curve to the shoulders. She was smiling wistfully at the image—and how wistfully it smiled back—when the door of the double bedroom opened, and she heard the voice of Mr. James Crewe on the upper landing:

“Matilda, could you come here a minute?”

She sighed a little, and went up, knowing what he wanted. He was pacing the room, nodding to himself, his eyes quite bright.

“Sit down a minute, my dear, and lend me your brain.”

She folded her slim hands, managing to look really expectant.

“It’s about the heroine at the plantation,” he began. “I’ve given rather a neat twist to the plot. You see, when he gets her there all to himself, and she remains adamant to—er—his wishes, he has a tremendous struggle—not with her but himself. That takes place out under the rubber trees. Finally, moved by her beauty and helplessness, he conquers himself, and, giving her the bungalow, lives in a tent. Then she begins to love him. She thinks he is only the manager of the plantation, but he owns it, has sunk all his money in it and has been losing for years. He gets fever and she nurses him. While he is delirious, rubber jumps from eight pence to four shillings a pound—you know it really did that—and when he comes to his senses he is rich. They are married. You see, she thought she was nursing a ruined man, while in reality his fortune was going up with his temperature, the difference being that it stayed up—while the temperature came down. Rather a neat point, don’t you think?”

He walked up and down, a little carried away with himself, shooting at her innumerable little glances that all demanded approval, while she sat, hands still folded, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. Every word of it assured her that the family of Mr. James Crewe would never get any further except by their own unaided efforts.

“It’s too wonderful,” she said, with entire truth, “and I don’t know where your ideas come from. But I wish you had some other place to work in.”

That pitched his thoughts toward the unattainable, and he did not answer at once. A study to himself—panelled in mellow oak—a big table—a hearth fire—mullioned windows opening to a velvet lawn—a study where firelight would flicker on winter evenings, and thoughts—big immortal thoughts—would encompass him like spirits waiting for expression. Then he gave his characteristic little laugh.

“Of course I’d like it, but, really, my dear, we’re quite happy as we are—aren’t we?”

“Perfectly.”

He kissed her. “I often wonder if you would have been even happier with a man who could have given you more. As to myself, I’m quite contented if I can just jog along, not mortgage my future, and write this kind of thing. Not much blood, you know. I’ve only written one bloodthirsty thing—and hated it.”

“We should never expect you to do that again, James. Now I ought to go out.”

“Just a moment—it’s about Humphrey. He asked me yesterday if I could find him a hundred pounds. It seems that he and a friend in the office have the opportunity to make a quick turnover with very little risk and a large profit. I was sorry to have to tell him that I could do nothing. So if he’s a bit out of sorts, that’s why.”

“Wouldn’t the bank let you have it?”

“They might—they’ve always been most civil—but on my income I don’t feel justified in asking. I hope Humphrey won’t be upset.”

Mrs. Crewe sighed. “He knows if it had been possible you would have done it. But nothing extra seems to come our way, does it?”

The little man shook his head. “No, but we’re not poor compared to many. I often think that the worst kind of poverty is when one forgets what one has and dwells on what one desires. And, thank Heaven, none of us are like that.”

His wife sent him an odd smile. “I never heard of a more thankful man than you, James.”

On the morning after these various heart searchings, a letter lay beside the plate of Mr. Crewe, a missive with “General Fiction Syndicate, Limited” on the envelope. Mrs. Crewe saw it first, and her pulse gave a flutter, for she had been told many times that if her husband could get in with that lot it would mean a good deal. So she laid the letter, flap up, in the middle of his plate. Joan saw it next, then Humphrey. He gave a low whistle.

“Think the governor’s struck it at last?”

“It would be too wonderful, dear.”

“Hasn’t sold them anything—ever?”

“Not yet.”

A tense silence fell over them, while in three minds the dream and the vision stirred again. Mary, who had a letter to Stephen in her pocket, was rather pale. Mrs. Crewe had her own thoughts. Humphrey reflected that he might yet wangle that hundred. They exchanged glances that were almost furtive. The toast grew cold. Then the step of Mr. James Crewe as he came into the upper hall. It was very, very suggestive.

They regarded him breathlessly as he entered, rubbing his palms. He nodded brightly, because the heroine now knew that rubber was going up, and he felt as though he had some shares in the plantation himself. His eye fell on the letter. He opened it—and made a little sound in his throat.

It seemed possible to follow the contents by his changing expression; first hope—a sudden acute interest—a gasp of pleasure—a shade of doubt—an exclamation of protest—and—finally—a look entirely baffling. His face turned almost hard.

“Well, James?” Matilda’s voice was high and rather ragged.

He glanced round the table, licking his lips which had become dry, blinked rapidly several times, balanced his glasses, sent a signal to his wife that might have meant anything, and began to read:

“Our attention has been drawn to a recently published serial of yours entitled ‘The Stain of Blood.’ We are interested in work of this kind, and are prepared to negotiate with you for your entire output for——”

“James!” breathed his wife. “It has come at last!”

“——your entire output for a period of, say, three years. We would expect three serials a year, and are prepared to pay four hundred pounds for each on completion to our satisfaction.”

A gasp ran round the table, the moment being too great for speech. Invisible hands were twitching away the curtain that hung over the future, and a profound exaltation pervaded the room.

“We would require, however, that these be all of the type of ‘The Stain of Blood’ and contain the same vivid action. Mr. Hugh Summers, our assistant fiction Editor, will indicate the general trend of each story.

We will be glad to hear from you at your earliest convenience, as we are at present in need of red-blooded material of this nature.”

Mr. Crewe put down the letter. His face had screwed itself into a sort of mask and had a strange rigidity. Then he spoke in a small voice, quite gentle, but saturated with decision.

“It’s very complimentary—in a way—but unfortunately quite out of the question.”

This announcement, made with a calmness that rendered it doubly impressive, produced a stupefying effect.

“You are disappointed,” he went on, “and I dare say think me mad. I would be if I entered into this contract. I hate sanguinary stories—and ‘The Stain of Blood’ is enough. My dear, you assured me only yesterday that——”

“I know,” gulped Mrs. Crewe, “but this possibility was far from my thoughts. Won’t you reconsider it?”

He shook his head, so small it was, but at that moment so formidable.

“I am sorry—very sorry—but I can’t. Let us forget it. We are all really very happy here, ar’n’t we?” He knew that he wasn’t happy himself, but they didn’t know it.

Joan looked at him with large reproving eyes. Stephen Hollis seemed to be waiting at the door. Didn’t her father see what a quandary she was in? If he didn’t, he was blind. If he did, he was cruel.

“I can’t picture anyone turning down twelve hundred a year,” she said stiffly, “not even you, father.”

Mr. Crewe noted that she said “father” and not “Dad,” which brought a little flush to his cheek, so that he looked like a guilty schoolboy prematurely aged. But she did not know, nor did any of them know, that he was in arms to defend what he took to be his immortal soul. Then, much to his surprise, Humphrey struck in.

“I don’t think we ought to say anything at all. It’s Dad’s business, anyway.”

That, thought Mr. Crewe, was a good deal from Humphrey under the circumstances, and he gave a little sideways nod.

“I thank you, my son.” Then he began on his toast, which was now like leather, eating as a squirrel might eat at quarter speed, and watching his wife and daughter with a dwindling hope that they might be moved to forgiveness and mercy.

But neither felt any prompting of this kind. Mrs. Crewe was struggling with a vision of a hundred a month, and the struggle swamped all else. James had dashed the cup from her lips. Joan was readjusting her previous ideas of fatherhood, much to Mr. Crewe’s detriment. Presently something broke loose.

“I won’t marry him! I won’t!” she exploded violently.

Mr. Crewe held his toast motionless. “Eh—what in the world——”

“I think,” put in his wife, “that—well—I quite sympathise with Joan—to say nothing of Humphrey and myself.”

Mr. Crewe lost every remnant of appetite. He had had his own secret battle before giving voice to the contents of that letter, and what he considered the unfairness of this remark was no less bitter. He blinked, pushed back his chair, and looked extremely uncomfortable. Then Humphrey plunged in again.

“You can leave me out of that last, mother; and, Joan, you’re not playing the game. You needn’t sacrifice yourself for anyone if that job is still open. I thought you liked Stephen. If not, why not wash him out? He won’t be lonely for long.”

He stalked off, head rather high, trying not to think of the hundred pounds that for a moment was so near. Mr. Crewe, who felt distinctly touched, was sorry to see him go and had an odd sense of being left unprotected. So he gave a little sigh, slipped the offending letter into his pocket and betook himself upstairs. It would have been wiser to say nothing—but that was impossible. A man’s club came in here, he reflected, where his correspondence was all his own. But Mr. James Crewe had no club.

He gave a long sigh, settled himself at the machine—the table on which it stood had one leg shorter than the other and needed a new paper wedge every day—and began wrestling with the hero’s temperature. He was sending it up in giddy leaps—though his own seemed to be dropping steadily—when, with a tap at the door, his wife came in and pretended to look for something in a bureau drawer. But James knew better than that.

“I wonder if you realise what you’re doing,” she said, with no respect for his poised fingers.

“I hope so, my dear. I’m doing it with my eyes open.”

“Not to the needs of the family, James.”

Mr. Crewe looked puzzled. “I hesitate to say it, but I think I have always considered the family—though that doesn’t sound modest. It is not easy for me to decline that offer, Matilda.”

“Easier than it is for the rest of us to——”

She was interrupted by Joan, who came in, very excited.

“Mother, I think it must be Uncle Ralph who’s just getting out of a car. There’s a lot of luggage on top.”

“Impossible! He hasn’t been here for ten years!” She darted to the window. “James—it is Ralph!”

Mr. Crewe displayed surprisingly little interest. “Will you see him, please.”

She stared. “How ridiculous! Change your coat and come down at once.” She vanished in a flutter, and he heard her voice in the hall. “What an unexpected pleasure! Do come in.”

“Pleasure!” murmured Mr. Crewe sardonically, and changed his coat. He found his wife and daughter sitting with their eyes fixed on the person of an elderly man who wore sombre, perfectly cut clothes and seemed the same width all the way up. His long face was sallow and quite expressionless, his mouth hardly moved when he spoke, and in general he was about as communicative as a clam. His face did not change when Mr. Crewe advanced and shook hands mechanically, and the hand he put out was as cold as a fish. But there was a slight change in James—whose lip had an unaccustomed curve.

“Well, Ralph, how are you?”

“Passably well. I’m on my way to Italy.”

Mr. Crewe wondered if he had come to say that, and there ensued a chilling pause till his wife put in the appropriate thing about Italy.

“How wonderful. I always hope that Joan will go there some day. Her art, you know.”

Judging by the visitor’s face, Joan might walk. Perhaps Mrs. Crewe saw it too, for she experienced a renewed pang of revolt, contrasting these two men, one with so little, the other with so much.

“This morning I did think there was a chance—just for a moment,” she added significantly.

“Eh?” said Mr. Simonds.

“Yes; James declined an offer of twelve hundred a year.”

The fat was in the fire now, as she had meant it to be, for surely she could count on this man’s support. No one ever knew him to refuse money.

“Ah!” said Mr. Simonds. “Declined it?”

“Yes—exactly.” Mr. Crewe’s cheek held a faint colour. “It meant selling my immortal soul, and it’s not for sale. Life’s too short.”

Mr. Simonds stroked his chin, so that one could almost see him doing some appraising on his own account. Then Matilda, realising that it was a field day for her, came in again. The opinion of this man of affairs should carry considerable weight with James. The eyes of Mr. Simonds seemed a little less glazed while she talked, and he looked at the culprit with what nearly amounted to interest.

“Have you actually committed yourself?”

“No—but I shall by to-night’s post.” Mr. Crewe didn’t care a hoot what outsiders thought of him, least of all this one.

“Then I can only be glad that the question of money is of so little importance here. Quite unusual in my experience.”

Mrs. Crewe had anticipated nothing of this kind, and her heart sank rapidly, but her husband only smiled. He appeared to have enjoyed the remark.

“It is not the most important—here.”

Mr. Simonds looked at him again. “You have not asked my advice in the matter, so of course I do not offer it.”

“Thanks,” said Mr. Crewe, “that’s quite all right. Will you be long in Italy?”

“Yes—for some months. Well, good-bye, Matilda; good-bye, Joan. And you, James,” here he paused for a fraction of a second, “I trust you will not regret your valuation of your immortal soul. Ha!” He gave a dry chuckle. “Excellent!”

Mr. Crewe, feeling rather like a Crusader, showed him out. The car purred—slid forward—vanished. The door of Acacia Villa closed again. Mr. Crewe, heading for the stairs, ventured to look round. His wife and Joan stood staring at him, and there was no question of what the stare implied. He did not speak, but, mounting hastily, shut himself in with a defiant click. Then he drew a long, long breath.

“Gad,” he whispered, “I’ve torn it now!”