Читать книгу The Woman Who Stole Everything and Other Stories - Arnold Bennett - Страница 9
ОглавлениеIN THE GARDEN
Mr. Simeon Todd had found a shady and screened corner in the garden, and was reclining fairly comfortably on a crescent-shaped marble bench with a curved back to it and ends carved into the shape of heraldic lions.
Known throughout the West End of London as “Sweeney,” he was a muscular man of thirty-nine or forty at least, with hairy hands, arms and chest, well-shaved expanses of slaty-blue on his chin and upper lip, very white and very regular teeth, and black eyes. The hair on his head was black, and it shone. He had been a Territorial major, an actor, and a club secretary. He had sold motor-cars, champagne, and cigars on commission, and was ever ready and anxious to take up agencies for something or anything. The Turf Club would generally “find” him. No other address could be relied on. He frequented the racecourses near London, and his deep, vibrating voice made a familiar sound in all the finest West End restaurants. He was always spending money, yet never had money. He carried a cheque-book, but seldom had the courage to use it. Women, one heard, had died for him. Sweeney, however, though once he had been bankrupt, still lived.
Cora searched for him in the empty garden, flitting from lawn to lawn.
“Oh! There you are!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been looking for you for ages. I thought you’d run off with the car and deserted me.”
She stood smiling at him, ecstatic, and then sat down closely by his side. Sweeney’s policy was one of benevolent inaction.
“Oh! You’ve found my bag. I knew you would.” She seized and opened the bag. “Don’t look at me while I do my face. I’m a fright. Now don’t dare to look at me. You needn’t be jealous of this hanky—it’s uncle’s; he lent it me.” She worked away at her features, a mirror in one hand and apparatus in the other. “Uncle’s a queer old thing—did you notice him? Not you! He thinks he understands everything, but really he understands nothing. I’ll tell you what he is—he’s neuter.” She laughed. “He likes me simply awfully and I like him—we’re the greatest friends—but there’s not much to him. Now he can sell things on commission; all this place here comes from commission—think of it! He comes out on the right side every time. No bankruptcies for him! Are you thirsty, darling?”
“I am,” said Sweeney, with true feeling.
“I was afraid you must be. Uncle offered me a dry Martini—or what they suppose is a dry Martini in this house. Why don’t you look at me? Why do you keep on staring at the grass? I know why it is. I’m hideous. Uncle thinks I look my full age. He didn’t say so, but I’m sure he thought it. I’m too old. I’m too old for you, and you don’t hide it. You hate me. I can’t thrill you any more.”
“You asked me not to look at you, Corry.”
“Yes, you needn’t tell me that.” Her voice rasped. “You know I didn’t mean it. You’re so literal. I’ve yet to meet the man that isn’t.... Great silly!”
She suddenly turned and faced him and laughed victoriously as she caught the expression in his black eyes. She kissed him. He held her by the shoulders, and his clutch hurt her. She was happy, oblivious of everything but her happiness.
“Darling!”
Her voice was silken again, fainting, dying. She leaned on him. He continued to gaze at her with a serious air. He knew exactly what his eyes could do. Nevertheless, being still passionately fond of her and always uneasy when away from her, his gaze and mien were quite sincere.
She remembered that she had not re-packed and closed her handbag (some of whose contents she lost daily, not to say the bag itself). When she had set the important matter right, and given herself a little murmurous praise for doing so, she melted into him again, and her shoulders seemed to be aching for the clutch of his strong hands, which slowly he gave them. Perfect bliss shone from her features. Few human beings could have experienced an intenser felicity than was hers then. At worst she knew what she wanted, and how to procure it; and when procured it fulfilled all her hopes. She was not of those who strive, and strive in vain, living for a future which never comes. Her wisdom was practical; it achieved an entirely satisfactory result by the simplest means. Thus her absolute belief in herself was justified; she had nothing whatever to learn from philosophy and might legitimately boast to the rest of mankind: “What you go down to the grave without winning—for all your efforts, I attain daily.” She was unanswerable.
She put her lips on his. He shifted.
“If anybody happens to come round these bushes suddenly——” he began.
She frowned, and her neck flushed in an instant.
“There!” she cried, tragically resentful. “If you were really in love with me you couldn’t say a thing like that. You just couldn’t say it. I know I’m hideous. I know I’m old, passée. And it’s all through you. Here, I’ve just done my face,” she blubbered feebly, “and you make me cry again!” But she managed to restrain her tears.
Sweeney pinched her pale forearm, pinched it to excruciate. Cora winced, and was brave. She liked to suffer at his hands, liked every manifestation of his physical strength.
“That’ll be black to-morrow,” she breathed contentedly. “But I shan’t powder it. I shall keep it to look at.” Her bliss was restored as quickly as it had been marred. She leaned her hair on the back of the seat and closed her eyes, and ejaculated low:
“Sweeney! Darling!”
The powerful darling’s hand was still on her arm, but if he had withdrawn it no Paul Pry could have accused Cora of anything graver than dozing in the heat of the summer afternoon and neglecting her handsome companion.
She said dreamily, her eyes still closed:
“You don’t seem to realise, you sleepy old thing, you being here with me has got me into a most terrible mess. I was never in such a hole. It’s simply frightful.” She sighed.
This was her first reference to the predicament in which she found herself, and though the words she used were grievous, the tone belied them; it was almost serene. Nor did she criticise her conduct—only the result of it. Not the conduct, but the result, was an enormity.
“Yes,” Sweeney agreed with her estimate of the result. He said no more at the moment. His tactic was to wait; and he could have waited for hours. “Let ’em begin. If you begin yourself you’re sure to be wrong,” was his thought, guiding his invariable practice with women in a delicate dilemma.
“You’ve got me into it, and it’s up to you to get me out of it, darling. I’m surprised I have to remind you of that.”
“I didn’t want to come here, my child. I said so several times. I most distinctly objected.”
“You didn’t object enough,” said Cora, sitting up “You ought to have refused absolutely. You’re so weak.”
“Only where you’re concerned, my dearest.”
Cora smiled, flattered.
“I acted for the best, as I always do,” she went on. “You’ve no money. Nor me either. I saw a way of saving twenty pounds. How could I have guessed that uncle would be here? It was my luck again. The usual thing. Well, something has to be done. And please I can’t do all the thinking and planning and scheming.”
“Seems to me we’d better hook it right away.” He knew by experience that she had already formed a plan, and that she would stick to it; and he hoped that his suggestion would not be at variance with her plan. But if it was, he would not mind very much. Any plan would suit him. He had nothing to lose—neither reputation nor money. She would not deprive him of her society, and he was indifferent as to the precise spot on the earth’s surface which she would appoint to him for the enjoyment of her society.
“Darling!” she gravely and forbearingly expostulated. “How can you possibly suggest that we should both go? Can’t you see I have to put things right with uncle? Somehow I must get him on our side. It’ll take hours and hours. He’s fearfully obstinate and old-fashioned and bourgeois. Of course I can do it, but it’ll take time. And I couldn’t begin to do it if you stayed on here.”
“I’m not going to leave you, girlie. You mustn’t ask me too much.”
“Darling!” She was enraptured. “Now I’ve got to deal with him”—she stroked “his” sleeve—“as well as with uncle. Darling, you must be reasonable. You must go away at once—now! I think the luggage is still in the car. Be sure you don’t run off with mine, by the way, and don’t just throw it out of the car as you generally do with luggage. Put it down gently. You’d better go to that hotel at Pulborough where we had a drink. And don’t worry about the bill. We’ll see to that later. Now, darling, do be reasonable! Your girlie implores you.”
“I won’t do it,” said he, chiefly as a matter of form.
She kissed him tenderly.
“Be good!” she mumbled, her lips on his. “Shall I have to go down on my knees to you?”
“All right!” he yielded gloomily. He was honestly surprised that she should advocate a separation for the night. And, as happens occasionally to all men who think that they have nothing to learn about women, he was visited by a doubt whether women were not after all utterly incalculable—even to the greatest masters of them.
As for Cora, she was both pleased and displeased, and perhaps rather more displeased than pleased. He had yielded too easily. He ought to have been obstinate to the point of a scene. He ought to have insisted on a quid pro quo for his acquiescence. Was he letting her slip from him without a pang?
“Can you bear to lose me till to-morrow—on our week-end?” she demanded.
He shook his head, several times: a reply which she expected, for with her it was a fundamental article of faith that every wish ought to be gratified and that the frustration of a desire was matter for a real grievance against destiny. She could not admit the value of self-control, which seemed to her monstrously unnatural.
“You shall not, dearest. I’ve thought of a scheme. You’ll take the car out again at about eleven o’clock to-night and meet me at the corner of the road at the end of the village here, say eleven-thirty. I’ll be there—waiting for you.”
He nodded. He well knew that he would have to wait for her and not she for him, since there was no record of her ever having been punctual for an appointment; but he merely nodded as if he believed her; he would probably not have to wait more than three-quarters of an hour.
“I can see you think I shan’t be able to get away,” she proceeded softly. “But I shall. I know Uncle Henry. He’s one of those who are always wanting to go to bed, always wanting to get up. He’s bound to send me off to bed at eleven. Besides, I shall say I’m tired.” She smiled; for just as she was never punctual, so she was never tired. “Then I’ll slip out to you. I’ll run—run down the road, and you’ll be waiting for me, and we’ll drive off into the night, very fast—very fast. You’ll drive faster than you’ve ever driven, through the night, and I shall be terribly afraid. But you won’t care, you cave-man.” She was whispering now. “You’ll drive up on to the downs, and over the top of the downs—you know we saw it all as we came along this afternoon; even then I was thinking how lovely it would be to do that. And we’ll go on till we come to one of those ‘Rings’—you know, trees in a ring, Druid or something, I forget—sacred, frightfully old—Celtic, was it?—and we’ll get out there and rest. And there won’t be anyone within miles and miles of us. We shall be all alone under the trees, and I do hope the moon will be shining through the leaves. But that doesn’t matter though—the darker the better. I’m so glad it’s so lovely and hot.”
Her dream was smouldering and burning in her eyes. She thrilled passionately to the stimulus of the dream, as to a magic annunciation. Her whispering voice trembled to it. She was uplifted, transfigured. She was drenched in the very fluid of poetry. Sweeney thought she was wondrous, miraculous, unique. He had never known any woman comparable to her, and he had known quite a few women of her type. He also thought that there were no roads on the downs; but that was a possible difficulty which could be met when the time came, and which to mention to her in her present mood of exaltation would be tactless.
“Go! Go!” she urged him, living in the dream. “Get away before uncle or anyone else comes into the garden. I want you to be clear away when he asks. We mustn’t have any hitches. Where have I put that handkerchief of his? Oh, in the bag. Do you think I ought to give it him back?”
