Читать книгу The Window - Alice Grant Rosman - Страница 8
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In the end Christopher gave Adelaide another month at Windyhill, not very gracefully perhaps, since it was hard that Herbert should have died at forty leaving no heir; but the tragedy of old Pollock was still too fresh in his mind and too immense; and her poor pretense of having stayed on so long merely on his account annoyed him, she who, when he was the underdog, had never even troubled to tolerate him as a guest.
What a bachelor would do alone in a great place like Windyhill, Adelaide said insinuatingly, she didn't know.
"Unless of course you are married," she added, and in the darting glance of her clever eyes, he saw her all ready to class his hypothetical bride as undesirable.
"Not at the moment," answered Christopher, with a malicious desire to keep her guessing. Hang it all, he wasn't sending her homeless into the world. She had a good income and a place in town. He would not have her running his house and lording it over him.
"Then you'll stay now you're here, won't you?" said Adelaide, brightening, "and as soon as I can manage it, I'll get away."
"Possession nine points of the law, eh?" thought Christopher and shook his head.
"No thanks. I'll wait until you can get out."
"Really," said Adelaide, annoyed. "You are very peculiar, Christopher, and very foolish. I have a great many friends in the County and you won't find much favor among them by treating me like this."
Christopher grinned.
"But favor is deceitful and beauty is vain," he quoted.
"Oh, poetry!"
"Yes, lot of poetry in the Old Testament."
It was too bad, he supposed, to catch her out like that, and, seeing her stormy look, he added: "You see how badly we get on, and why on earth, when there are already so many unpleasant things in life, should you want to live in the same house with somebody you detest?"
"Oh, well, if you are determined to be inimical...."
"At close quarters absolutely. At a distance no doubt I shall be able to curb my hate. I'll do my best."
Christopher's smile was faintly wistful and if she had laughed his long resentment might have melted away, but Adelaide instead stalked from the room.
There was further unpleasantness about getting the new man Field away from Windy Farm, and young Felix Woollf, already sore at receiving his own marching orders, was inclined to be high-handed.
"I'd like to know what the law would have to say about it," said Felix, hotly.
"Very well, if your friend wishes to go to law, I'm ready," said Christopher. "I am offering him fair compensation, and if it comes to that the law may have a few bright remarks to make about turning out an old stock like the Pollocks who have been farming Windy for two hundred years."
"Of course if you choose to go into Court and throw mud at your own brother's memory ..."
"Then you admit," Christopher calmly caught him up, "that it was a dirty trick?"
Young Woollf, much to his own surprise, began to revise his opinion of the new owner.
"Look here, Mr. Royle," he said impulsively and with unexpected humor, "I daresay it does look to you as though the whole place had been chucked to the wolves, but I give you my word I had nothing to do with this, though Field is a friend of mine. Your brother and Pollock had a big bust up before I ever came here. Herbert had his knife into the old man properly."
Christopher nodded.
"Into me too," he said, faintly smiling. "All right, my boy, I don't blame you, but you can understand that I want to run the place in my own way. I'll tell you what. Persuade Field to go reasonably soon and I'll add a hundred to your cheque."
"Decent of you," said the young Woollf, and the two shook hands.
ii
"And now what?" Christopher asked himself, going back to town.
He had been able to obtain Pollock's address in Canada and would write to the old man that night, he thought. To-morrow he would see the lawyers again, but after that there would still be a month of exile before Windyhill would be free of the wolves.
Felix had won him by a phrase for, hang it all, he said to himself, you can't help liking a chap who can make a joke with the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune falling thick and fast. He would have to keep a friendly eye on Felix and lend him a hand if necessary. Odd how just once in a while you can get to know a fellow in a moment.
Christopher was reminded by this thought of Robertson and that vague clew he had intended to follow up one day. And here were occupation and interest for the month ahead.
The letter from the dead man's wallet was in his pocketbook and he took it out and read it through again. It was dated from a woman's club in London, and while suggesting several things, it gave him little enough to go upon.
"Dear Terry," it ran,
"Your letter came this morning and I took a few hours off and went to see her at once. She was suspicious at first but, when she found I came from you, she could hardly bear to let me go. She is very pretty and very frightened, poor child, but quite well and comfortable, and the people in the house seem kind. Of course I will look after her, in fact after them both when the time comes. Don't worry too much, though if you could wangle leave, even for a couple of days, it would do her more good than anything.
"I was at Dorne for a few minutes on Sunday and found them all well. Your mother was in high feather, having dreamt you had won the V.C.
"Take care of yourself, old man. I'll write again as soon as there is any news.
"Yours ever,
"Pat."
"The V.C., eh?" thought Christopher without cynicism. "Poor old chap."
He liked this letter; he felt he could like the girl who had written it, for it was clear she had had a delicate mission and she had fulfilled it calmly and without a fuss. Not even a hint of reproach or censure and Christopher approved of that, for who was she, or who are any of us to judge a man in the heat and uproar of such a time? She would stand by him, by both of them, by all three, if three there were ... that was the gist of it, and here was a use for the diamonds possibly. For if, as seemed likely, Terry Jim Robertson had given a hostage to Misfortune, said Christopher whimsically to himself, hard cash might help to pacify the jade.
After all, if the search proved hopeless or injudicious, he could give it up, but at least it would take him into summer England, which seemed fairer to him than London at the moment. For all his passion for it, he knew that London is the city of kindred spirits ... no place for a lonely man; and he was lonely. Most of his friends were scattered far and wide in the aftermath of war, and coming home he had known he would have to build his life anew.
He planned to find Dorne first, if possible, and work backwards from there, seeing and hearing as much as might be, or very likely nothing at all.
"For I daresay this is all a tale," he thought, "and I'm a crazy fool. Most of us are, if it comes to that."
He searched next day in gazetteer and railway guide, but could find no town or village named Dorne in either. A postal directory however contained two, a Dorne Welling in Yorkshire and Dorne-on-Severn, Gloucestershire. Yorkshire he thought too far away, for the girl, Pat, had been in London and would hardly speak in that casual way of spending a few minutes at Dorne.
Dorne-on-Severn! He found the name attractive, and there might be fishing, which would give him a pretext for spending a few days in the place. He decided to buy a car, rods and tackle, and set out without delay.
