Читать книгу The Woman Who Stole Everything and Other Stories - Arnold Bennett - Страница 11
ОглавлениеLATE
Dinner was for eight o’clock.
“Sharp,” said Henry, with a reluctant smile to Cora, whom he had avoided until seven o’clock, on the plea of having to occupy himself with household affairs.
“Yes, uncle. I know how particular you bachelors are about meal-times.”
Her tone and mien were quite submissive. She went upstairs to her room at once. Kearns walked in the garden, regarding neither the lawns, the flowers, nor the scenery. He was debating in his mind whether or not to telephone to Nick Ussher and ask him to come down to Cander at once—that night. For a while he could not decide between the pros and the cons of the scheme. He was afraid of the possible consequences of telephoning for Nick; but what in the end persuaded him to do so was the very fact that he had been afraid. He returned into the house guiltily full of the project.
The telephone was in the hall; there was no privacy about the telephone. He glanced up the stairs, lest Cora might perchance be leaning over the banisters of the landing, or one of the servants wandering about. The Exchange gave the opinion that on a Saturday night it ought to be easy to get London. He clearly articulated the number, having consulted the book; he articulated it twice. Whereupon he felt that he had cast the die, burned his boats, crossed the Rubicon; and immediately regretted his action as a foolish action that could lead to nothing but trouble—chiefly for himself. He got London in ten minutes, which seemed like ten hours to his fuming and pacing in the tiled hall. Mr. Nicholas Ussher was not at home, but he was at his club, or one of his clubs. Henry demanded the Club. More fuming and pacing. He distantly heard bells ringing at intervals, and now and then the scampering above of some maid who had gone upstairs by the back-staircase. In another ten minutes he got London again, and the Club, and finally—it seemed both miraculous and terrible—he recognised Nick’s voice in the receiver. Henry’s heart was noticeably beating. For a few seconds he could not think what the devil to say to the poor fellow. Then he saw that he must be brief and blunt:
“Cora’s here at Cander. Can you come down? Yes, to-night. Now. Drive down. You’ll be here in two hours or a bit more. Finish your dinner and come.”
Nick had too much sense to ask for reasons and explanations. He relied on his uncle-in-law’s common sense and good judgment, and said he would come, and cut off the communication.
Henry blew out breath; he was perspiring.
“My God!” he thought. “What have I let myself in for?”
Then he said to himself superiorly, and with false calm, that of course he had done the right thing, the only thing, and that he and Nick between them would be a match for any woman. At least matters would be brought to a head. The hall clock struck the hour, in silver, and the hour was eight. He had already observed that the clock was five minutes fast. He ran upstairs. Having enjoined punctuality on the disorderly Cora, he could not afford to be late; yet he would inevitably be late. His clothes had not been laid out in the master’s stately bedroom. Why not? It was twelve minutes past eight (Greenwich) when he descended, somewhat flustered and quite resigned to being apologetic.
Nobody in the ground-floor drawing-room, with its orange-shaded glowing lamps! Nobody in the dining-room, with its white-shaded glowing lamps and its dazzling table-array! (He would show the slut that a bachelor could have as good a notion of comfort and luxury as any woman.) Not a sound! He paced the drawing-room as he had paced the garden, smoked a cigarette, smoked another cigarette, drew the blinds—though he had given orders that they should not be drawn.
“Damn it all!” he muttered in exasperation. “I shall begin.”
He rang the bell. He heard the bell ring. No reply. He rang again. After an interval he heard a scuttering on the main stairs, and a girl, the housemaid, dashed rather rustically into the drawing-room. He instantly assumed the calm of a god.
“What is your name?”
“Amy, sir.”
“Well, Amy, where is the parlourmaid?”
“She’s upstairs with Mrs. Ussher, sir. We’ve both been up there.”
“Well, will you kindly go back to Mrs. Ussher and give her my compliments, and say that dinner is waiting. Thank you.”
He knew that dinner was not waiting, because the parlourmaid could not be simultaneously serving the dinner and attending upon Cora.
“I’m not very late, am I, dear uncle?” Cora said, strolling into the drawing-room at twenty-five minutes to nine. She smiled innocently. She wore a white embroidered frock, cut passably low in front and extremely low behind: it was an old frock, good enough for a country week-end.
“Not at all!” Henry replied lightly. “It’s the soup that’s early.”
What was the use of showing any trace of annoyance? She was a fact which existed, and doubtless no more responsible for her mind than a hunchback for his hunch. You could not be annoyed with a hunchback. But what a life—with her! He had said “sharp” and she was thirty-five minutes late, and thought absolutely nothing of it! Not a syllable of excuse! The parlourmaid did not immediately announce dinner. How could she? Six more minutes passed.
“I am glad I’m not late,” said Cora, with significance.
A cat! She probably assumed that dinner ought to have been waiting, and magically keeping hot, all ready to be swept from the kitchen into the dining-room the very moment her ladyship deigned to appear.
They went in to dinner. During the meal Cora chatted for the improvement and the impressing of the parlourmaid. As for Henry, he was continuously self-conscious, with an entirely illogical feeling of guilt—because he had secretly sent for her husband. In less than three hours the man would arrive. Then what? He dreaded the scene, which, however, he was bringing on himself. He could not face the hours before Nick’s arrival. At least he could not face them in inaction.
“Shall we take a walk?” he suggested, when she lit a cigarette at the end of dinner. “It’s easy to get up on to the downs from here.”
She paused, then said:
“Oh, uncle, what a heavenly idea! Do let’s.” And she rose at once. “I needn’t put anything on, need I?”
“Yes, you need, my child. You can’t go down our village street in only that frock.”
“But it’s dark.”
“It’s not dark enough,” he insisted firmly.
“It’s so hot,” she said, repining, and added, brightly acquiescent: “But just as you wish, uncle.”
Butter, apparently, wouldn’t melt in her little mouth.
