Читать книгу The Window - Alice Grant Rosman - Страница 11

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Christopher Royle unconsciously assisted Mary Winter's plot to attach him to Dorne, by strolling that afternoon through the village, for its beauty attracted him and his zest for fishing was not so great that he was in any hurry to begin.

Towner, landlord of the Duffield Arms, had recommended a stretch of water running through an estate just outside the village, had obligingly seen the owner for him, and then in person shown him a short cut to the river. The walk there and back had given the visitor an opportunity to ask the old man one or two questions, but they had been unproductive as far as his purpose was concerned.

"I suppose there are some old estates in Dorne?" Christopher had suggested.

"Not as you'd say old, sir. There's the Manor, Colonel Willingdon's place, but it only goes back a century, they say. The Colonel, he bought it from Sir Peter Duffield eighteen years back, Sir Peter wanting something bigger and more stylish. He built Highways, which you will see on the other side of Dorne, a rare big place and a precious waste of money if you ask me, him being always abroad as he is."

"Oh, well," Christopher had consoled him, "no doubt when a man builds a place like that, he is thinking of his sons."

Towner had shaken his head.

"Sir Peter, he never had a son, and if he had he'd 'a been killed by now, I daresay. It's the only sons the War took, mostly, it seems to me. There was Colonel Willingdon's boy and my own lad and a dozen others in Dorne alone I could mention. You'd think it was done a-purpose, only the rector he won't allow that."

"Hard luck," said Christopher, and then with a little smile: "I was one of two, and we both came through it."

"Well, there you are, sir, but glad I am of it since you're bringing a bit of money to the Arms," said Towner with a twinkle.

Christopher laughed, liking the old rascal, but he was thinking: "I've come to the wrong Dorne then, evidently, if none of the local people had a son who came through."

He was in no mind to hurry away, nevertheless, for the country was beautiful and Towner seemed likely to make him comfortable, so after luncheon he set off for the village.

The church of St. Michael at least was old, he saw, and he was gazing up at it when the Rev. Austin Winter came into the churchyard from the Rectory garden.

Christopher, who disliked those intelligent people who roam the country, looking knowingly at old buildings, felt as though he had been caught on somebody else's property.

"I was trying to make out the period," he said in apology.

"Norman, superimposed on Early English," explained the rector. "It puzzles many people. Some of the interior of the church is rather fine, if you are interested in such things. Won't you come in and see it?"

Christopher, seeing himself labelled intelligent, and properly caught, followed him into the church.

"Glass, you will notice, is not our strong point," said the rector, when they had examined the thirteenth century rood screen and Saxon font, with somewhat laborious politeness on both sides, "but there we are in luck. One window is shortly to be filled with old Italian glass ... a memorial to our local War hero, young Willingdon from the Manor. But perhaps you are a stranger to this part of Gloucestershire?"

"Absolutely," confessed Christopher. "I came to get some fishing to tell you the truth, though it is rather late in the season, and the landlord of the Inn has arranged for me to try my luck on a private stretch of water ... Woden, is it?"

"Oh, yes, Miss Eden's place."

"I believe that was the name Towner mentioned. I didn't go myself ... rather funked it, in fact. It seemed impertinent rather ... asking to invade somebody else's property like that."

Austin Winter found himself suddenly liking the other man.

"Not a bit of it," he declared. "Almost any property owner is glad to make a little extra money out of his estate in these hard times, Miss Eden in particular. By the way, the Rectory has the distinction of being the oldest house in Dorne if you'd care to come and have a look at it."

"It is extremely kind of you, but I'm afraid I am taking up rather a lot of your time."

"Not in the least. It is a pleasure to meet some one who appreciates these old things. Locally perhaps we have known them too long. By liking them you revive their beauty and make us forget that the church is draughty and the Rectory damp. My wife always declares the house droops when visitors revile it."

Christopher found this statement rather attractive. It was part of what he came to think of later as the unrectorial attitude of the Winters.

"Why not?" he said. "Reviling can spoil almost any sort of beauty, the way we play upon each other. Some people, I think, carry a destructive atmosphere with them wherever they go, though perhaps as a churchman you won't agree to that."

"As a churchman it is part of my job to know it," said the other smiling. "Almost the most important part, I'm inclined to believe ... certainly more important than preaching two indifferent sermons a week, above the heads of more than half the congregation and beneath the intelligence of the rest."

"I shall come and see if you do," said Christopher promptly.

"Splendid! And you won't revile me afterwards? By the way, my name is Winter.... Shall we go in this way?"

As they passed into the Rectory garden Christopher mentioned his own name and his host, not without inward amusement, said reflectively:

"Royle?... There was a Royle at Caius with me, but he would have been an older man than you. Let me see, H. E. Royle, I think."

"He was my brother."

"Was?" said the other, sympathetically. "The War, I suppose?"

"No, he came through the War all right. He died six months ago."

"I am sorry to hear that. Not," added Winter frankly, "that I knew him very well."

"Oh, neither did I," said Christopher, and the two men smiled in sudden understanding.

Mary Winter saw them approaching, guessed the stranger's identity and, being a lady of resource, ordered the tea-table to be taken into the garden. As they reached the house she herself came out of it, carrying a plate of fruit. ("For," she thought craftily, "all men are children and he will never be able to resist my strawberries.")

Christopher, already pleasantly disposed to a lady who disliked her house to droop, was more interested in looking at her than the fruit she carried, noting the tall figure in its bright blue linen gown, the attractive curve of her short gray hair and her keen, humorous glance.

"Let me introduce you to my wife," said the rector. "Mary, my dear, this is Mr. Royle, with whom I seem to have a number of things in common, including ... shall we say a slight acquaintance with his brother, who was at Cambridge with me?"

"Splendid," said Mary. "You are just in time for tea. But don't take too much notice of my husband in his more unclerical moments, Mr. Royle. He can be quite orthodox, really."

"I can't impose upon you like this," Christopher protested to the suggestion of tea.

They overruled him, for which he was grateful, for he had been all too long away, he felt, from the people of his own kind. And as he followed his hostess to the tea-table, he said:

"I am afraid I like what you call his unclerical moments. Every layman does. If I knew Mr. Winter better I should say it was very clever of him." Then, turning to Austin, he added: "And if you had said 'De mortuis,' I should probably have sprinted out the gate and never have been seen again."

"I don't know that I could have blamed you," said Austin, amused, "but exhortations of that kind are so perilously easy that for very shame one must avoid them. It is appalling to think how much ancient wisdom we have converted into nonsense by misusing it for our own private ends. De Mortuis nil nisi bonum. Don't libel a man, who being dead cannot defend himself. But to detest a man in life and then call him 'poor dear old So-and-So' because he is dead is a nice mixture of impertinence and hypocrisy. We have no right to suppose he is poor and certainly never considered him dear."

"Your sermons may be over my head," said Christopher to this, "but I'll swear they are entertaining."

"Ah, well, I suppose it is better that you should consider the church a place of entertainment rather than a penitentiary," the rector consoled himself with mournful humor.

Christopher Royle had found friends ... a miracle to a lonely man. There was mutual liking in the easy flash of words about the tea-table, while the old house seemed to smile upon them, tranquil and lovely, and an army of flowers stood by.

Then into the Rectory garden there walked another visitor and enchantment fell upon him.

He had never seen such a beautiful old lady. There are, strictly speaking, no old ladies any more, but Mrs. Willingdon had not discovered this, or perhaps had ignored it. Her white hair was uncut and, beautifully dressed, showed like fine silk beneath her drooping hat. Her gown of rich gray was touched at the neck and wrists with old rose point, which Christopher, being a man, did not identify, but he knew it was exquisite.

It was her face however that caught and held him, for it had about it a glow, a radiance, that at any age in any woman can wring the hearts of men. Her skin was matchless, soft and white as a child's, her eyes beneath curling lashes were deeply brown, coquettish eyes, yet wide too and innocent.

There should have been some flaw; she was almost too perfect, too adorable, but Christopher could not detect it. White, slender, little feet, and even a voice to match the whole.

"Oh, my dears," she said, including Christopher, for since he was evidently a friend of the Winters, her glance seemed to say, he must be a friend of hers, she being old and having known them so long.

Austin, perforce, introduced the other man, and she smiled upon him, as she continued, sinking into the chair that Mary brought her:

"I simply had to come and see you about my beautiful Window. I couldn't wait. It's coming to-morrow, or perhaps the next day, so you see my dream is coming true and my darling boy will be remembered after all."

"He has never been forgotten," said Mary Winter bluntly.

"I know, I know. He is in all our hearts, but this will be a real remembrance for the world to see. And I wanted to ask you about the inscription. I think we should have all his splendid deeds set out, but John is so obstinate and so military and he says they speak for themselves."

"Don't you think his honors speak for them," said the rector with his gentle smile. "The M.C. and D.S.O."

"Ah, but he should have had the V.C.," said Mrs. Willingdon, as a triumphant answer to that.

Why did the phrase wake a familiar echo for Christopher Royle? He could not remember, and he said quickly, afraid lest disappointment should dim that beautiful face:

"So many brave chaps should have had it, but I suppose there were not enough to go round."

"Ah, but if he had lived they would have given it to him. His commanding officer practically told me, and that's why I think we should mention the things he did. You must see our wonderful Window, Mr. Royle. Old Italian glass. I have a very fair picture of it. Mrs. Winter shall bring you to the Manor to-morrow."

She had the air of a queen conveying a favor and certain of being obeyed, but Mrs. Winter said, calmly:

"Sorry, but I am going to Hillthorpe to-morrow, Mrs. Willingdon, and Mr. Royle has come to Dorne to fish. We must not interrupt his sport."

The old lady smiled at Christopher.

"Indeed we shall," she said. "Young men are all alike. I know them. They love to get into old clothes and make a thorough mess. My boy was just the same. But you will be kind to an old woman and leave the fishing long enough to come over to tea at five o'clock. There will be just as good fish in the Severn the day after."

"I shall be charmed," said Christopher.

Oddly the Winters had receded into the background of the picture in the presence of their lovely guest, but now he caught Mary's sardonic glance upon him, and it brought him to his feet. After all, he was a stranger here, an interloper. He felt he had stayed too long.

As the rector accompanied him to the gate, he said, like a sleeper who suddenly awakes:

"I ought not to have said I would go, of course. She imagines I am a friend of yours. What do you think I should do? Send a note of apology?"

"My dear chap, no. You must go, of course. Why not? She will expect it and after all we must pity her. He was her only son."

"And when you are at a loose end, don't forget that my wife and I will be delighted to see you at any time," added Austin. "Don't hurry away from Dorne."

"Thanks, awfully. I shall not forget," said Christopher.

The rector's words went with him oddly. "We can only pity her." Surely the phrase was all wrong. You could not pity such a woman. You could only wonder and admire.