Читать книгу Quicksands - B. M. Croker - Страница 5

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Trains from the station nearest to Beke ran at inconceivably inconvenient hours; for instance, a quarter to eight in the morning, and half-past four in the afternoon, the latter wandering into London about midnight. Ronnie, of course, departed by the first, and I took leave of him in the front hall with copious tears (the professor, in a plaid dressing-gown, and with dishevelled locks, peering over the banisters).

“Buck up, old girl!” he said; “it will be all right; within six months you will be hugging me in India. Mind you write every mail, take great care of yourself—and—er—good-bye.” Then he tore himself away, and ran down the tiled footpath to where an aged fly—once the equipage of a countess—and a sprightly young horse were waiting to transport him to the junction.

As I watched the light-hearted animal plunging and straining at the shafts I was conscious of a guilty hope that he and the venerable vehicle would part company, and thus spare me Ronnie for a few hours; but no, tottering and swaying, the ancient landau rolled away intact.

Then I went upstairs to my own room, locked the door, and huddled down in the deep window seat, there to mourn and meditate. I seemed to have come to the end of my hopes and had now nothing to look forward to. A painful conviction for a young and sanguine soul!

For one whole year Ronnie’s return had been my lodestar; my first thought in the morning, my last at night; now he had come and gone—it was all so soon over. Surveying the future, what a bleak, monotonous outlook lay before me. It appeared to me that I might almost as well have been born a cabbage or a thistle! So far as the result of Ronnie’s letter was concerned, I had not been foolishly sanguine; I knew Aunt Mina, from what might be called her “wrong side,” and how she disliked anyone to interfere with her settled plans; her plan with respect to me was that I should remain harmlessly at Beke, and I had frequently heard her express a horror of India—a country that, in her opinion, was full of second-rate people, fast, disreputable women and impecunious gambling men; no, there would be no gorgeous East for me, and I could not reasonably expect to see Ronnie for three long years.

I must confess that for some days after my brother’s departure I was a moping, undesirable house-mate; even a letter from Marseilles, a gold wristlet watch, and Tossie’s enthusiastic admiration for my beloved, scarcely helped to raise the clouds. Still, it comforted me to talk about him to Lizzie and Tossie, who were both sincerely sympathetic—not so the professor, who became portentously glum whenever Ronnie’s name was mentioned, and sat silently aloof with an air of Olympian detachment. Apparently their antipathy had been mutual, for he imparted to the parson, who told Tossie, who told me, that “young Lingard was a conceited, empty-headed dandy, just a good-for-nothing, impudent jackanapes!”

It was about this time, I imagine, that he began to work with arduous enthusiasm upon a new play, in which the ne’er-do-well and scapegrace was a full-sized portrait of my brother—so far as his personal appearance was concerned; particulars dealing with his dress were given in microscopic detail. For once there was much mystery concerning this effort. Naturally the professor never read it to me, and for this “let off” I was profoundly thankful, for it was something of an ordeal to sit in a stuffy study, which reeked of stale tobacco, dust, and worm-eaten furniture, whilst Uncle Sep read aloud with sonorous complacency, occasionally pausing to look over his glasses and say, “That is a fine speech, eh? How does it strike you?”

Lizzie, who was not a fellow sufferer, warmly approved of these readings. “It was better,” she declared, “not to disturb the amiable delusions of our fellows, but to encourage such friends to believe in themselves!” The result was that I was immured in the study, administering to Uncle Sep’s vanity, whilst she bustled about the village, doing parish work or conferring with the rector.

The rector, a distinguished looking white-haired old widower, had contrived to appropriate Lizzie as lay worker and curate. Beke was a large and scattered parish, and she visited various outlying hamlets on her bike, controlled the Sunday school, undertook mothers’ meetings, the Red Cross, the village nurse, Girls’ Friendly Society and the choir, whilst the Reverend Clement Chesterfield enjoyed an amount of spacious ease, and had ample leisure to read the Guardian, the Spectator, the heavier monthlies and the particular class of literature which appealed to him. When the rectory had guests or entertained the bishop, Miss Puckle managed the housekeeping; when the rector was sick, she made poultices and beef tea, and nursed him most efficiently. All the village believed it would be “a match,” although Mr. Chesterfield was seventy. The rumour went further, and one of his married nieces had lately invaded Beke; her manner to Miss Puckle had been pointedly disagreeable, and she was reported to have “said things.”

Lizzie’s time, as may be supposed, was fully occupied, but I had many empty hours in spite of practising and readings. Some of these hours I filled in with visits to my intimates in the villages, to the Soadys, or by long tramps over the country, accompanied by Kipper. To Myson’s Dyke was his favourite excursion; here were rabbits, rabbits, and rabbits—oh, such good hunting! Our path lay over a series of ugly flat fields, ending in the palings and outlying plantations of one of the big places.

On this particular occasion, although it happened to be my birthday, my reflections were by no means cheerful. The morning’s post had brought me the gift of a lace pocket-handkerchief from my cousin Dora and a note in which she said, “Father had a letter from Ronald; he said that you are looking splendid—so much for Beke!”

So much for Beke indeed! Apparently Ronnie’s appeal had fallen flat; there was not a word about India. Alas! that door of escape was closed. As I turned my face towards the village, and contemplated the hateful, too familiar and forbidding path across the dried-up marshes, a memory suddenly flashed into my mind:

“Over the meadows that blossom and wither

Rings but the note of a sea-bird’s song;

Only the sun and the rain come hither.

All year long.”

I asked myself impatiently how long was I to lead this empty, dull existence? A life given over to the monotonous duties of an alien household and to pandering to the vanity of a garrulous old man! My school-fellows wrote to me from time to time. Several had asked me to visit them, but Aunt Mina vetoed all such hospitalities. “These people,” she said, “were not in our set. You must remember that your grandmother was a duke’s daughter and only associate with your own class, not with second-rate acquaintances.” It was evident that she liked to play dog-in-the-manger, and would neither suffer me to stay with others nor offer me an invitation herself!

As I strolled along in a melancholy mood, musing on the misery of my virtual internment, an acute sense of homelessness overcame me. My eyes were dim with tears of self-pity, when, through these tears, I discerned a distant speck on the pathway; it approached, gradually grew larger, and presently materialised into the figure of a man, tall, square-shouldered, and carrying a gun under his arm. Nearer and nearer he strode, and when within ten yards I saw that he was a well set-up, soldierly individual, in orthodox shooting garb, with dark, rather sleepy eyes and a masterful chin. He looked me straight in the face, as we passed almost touching—the sole human beings within sight over miles of space. Kipper, with his hackles on end, sniffed suspiciously at the man’s leggings, and then, so to speak, “accepted him,” and I proceeded homewards, listening to the steady tramp of a pair of heavy shooting boots till the sound had ceased. I had advanced a certain distance, when an imperative curiosity impelled me to halt and look back—I am well aware that this was a most unladylike action; nevertheless I fell! To my horror and embarrassment, I discovered that the stranger was doing precisely the same thing, standing apparently immovable as a milestone. Undoubtedly our curiosity and, I think I may say, interest, had been mutual! I was sincerely thankful that the distance was too great for us to distinguish one another’s features, and felt deeply ashamed, exquisitely flattered, and painfully shy. Before I could turn he had snatched off his cap and waved it to me! What audacious impertinence! My heart beat unusually fast, and my face flamed. Here was an adventure at last, and although its form was highly indiscreet—nevertheless I liked it!

Possibly it may not be surprising when I state that I thought of the stranger all the way home; my mind was so full of him that the monotonous miles seemed as yards. I recalled his upright bearing, his handsome eyes, his kindly word to Kipper. Was this the hero that every girl of nineteen sees in her dreams? It is a remarkable fact that at dinner I, who usually poured out my budget of small news—such as, how someone had broken Mrs. Hogg’s window, the postman’s baby had croup, or a party of motorists had stopped to tea at “The Beetle”—never once mentioned my experience, but kept it locked up in my heart; yes, even from Tossie, who brought all her joys and sorrows to me. Behold my first secret! After all how puny and insignificant; nevertheless, I hugged it like a child with her first doll! On Slacklands Flats I had encountered a good-looking stranger—no doubt one of the guns at Myson—who had stared hard, looked after me, and signalled a gay greeting. “Ships that pass in the night”—“a couple who pass at sundown.” I must confess that I allowed my mind to dwell on the adventure as I sewed, as I listened to the professor’s plays, yes, even in church, when naturally I ought to have been engrossed in holy thoughts and the rector’s short, crisp sermon.