Читать книгу So Evil My Love: Based on a True Crime Story - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 9

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Susan, who had been confused and silly during dinner began to weep as soon as she was alone in the garden room with Mrs. Sacret. “You see how detestable Mrs. George Rue is?” she complained. “She only comes here to torment me! You heard how she sneered and showed me up! And Martin supported her!”

“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Sacret. “And I don’t understand how you endure it. Why don’t you display some spirit? You have some of your own money—and you could make your husband give you what he invested for you—”

“I should never dare to ask him!” sobbed Susan.

“Instruct your lawyer, dear.”

“Oh, that would mean a shocking quarrel!”

“As for that—isn’t it a quarrel, now?”

“Oh, not like that would be! Martin doesn’t scold so when his mother stays away and when he hasn’t just seen her—”

Mrs. Sacret reflected that she did not know the whole of the story of Susan and her husband; they spent hours together in the large formal bedroom and dressing room upstairs—perhaps they were not entirely estranged, nor Susan entirely open with her friend. Perhaps there was something in her marriage that Susan wished to keep. To Mrs. Sacret’s taste Martin did not seem worth contending for, she found him slightly repulsive in spite of his youth and good looks that accorded so unpleasantly with his nervous nagging and intense concern with his health, a habit formed and encouraged by his possessive, ignorant mother. She was always able to get hold of him, reflected Mrs. Sacret, by fussing over his chest or his headaches—she made a coward of him for her own ends.

“I wish I had had children,” sighed Susan, pulling the long bell rope.

Mrs. Sacret rallied to this new topic that Susan had never touched on before.

“I am glad I did not,” she replied. “The responsibility would have been too great. They might have inherited Frederick’s poor constitution. The Lord knows best.”

“Oh, dear, we both married invalids!” exclaimed Susan, wiping her eyes on her long lace handkerchief.

“I don’t think Mr. Rue is an invalid, he has been cosseted by his mother; he doesn’t take any exercise, either, and then, those medicines he makes up himself—”

“I’m sure you are right,” murmured Susan. “What can I do? I have no influence, and, as you say, dear, his mother encourages him in all his whims.”

“You had him alone in Florence. I wonder you persuaded him to go abroad.”

“I didn’t. He thought the climate would be good for his chest. We had the dullest time! Martin sat on the veranda all day.”

“He should have been cured.”

“No—he caught a chill, the sun drops suddenly and the nights are bitter; really our room was like a vault at night and only a pan of charcoal with which to heat it.”

The maid entered and Susan ordered a bottle of sherry and some glasses to be brought.

Mrs. Sacret turned to her own affairs.

“I have an applicant for my little house, Susan. I told you I put a card in the window? I found a letter on the mat, when I went there yesterday. From one Mark Bellis, a painter. I wrote to make an appointment with him.”

“I hope that means you are staying here indefinitely, dear.”

“Why, no. I thought I would let the house for three months, then I shall have rested and be able to go back. I can’t afford to allow it to remain empty.”

“I wish you would permit me to give you—a—stipend,” said Susan hurriedly and timidly.

“You pay for my clothes, dear.”

“But—pocket money—”

“No. I could not. I have no expenses. I don’t even pay anyone to look after the house. I do that myself. I have sufficient money. I’m here to help you, Susan. Not to make a profit for myself. I’ve to pay poor Frederick’s doctor’s account.”

Susan glanced at her swiftly.

“Have you burned the letters, Olivia?”

The servant brought in the sherry and two glasses. Mrs. Sacret waited until she had gone before replying.

“I had forgotten all about them, Susan. They are so unimportant.”

“Yes, of course. Where do you keep them?”

“I believe they are in the bottom of my little trinket box,” said Mrs. Sacret carelessly. “With some other dear souvenirs. Really I shall dislike to destroy your handwriting, reminding me of those happy days.”

She believed that she spoke sincerely, and she looked in a kindly fashion at Susan. But behind the kindness was curiosity. Susan drank two glasses of sherry in silence and her friend bent over her gossamer needlework.

Martin Rue entered awkwardly on the privacy of the two quiet women, seated daintily in their satin and gilt chairs in the rosy glow of the silver lamp. He glanced at once toward the sherry bottle.

“You drank enough at dinner, Sue,” he rebuked abruptly. “A pint of red wine, and more than enough sherry for a lady—and why two glasses? Mrs. Sacret always says she doesn’t drink alcohol.”

“Oh, but tonight I thought I would like a glass,” smiled Mrs. Sacret coolly. “I often do—though I refuse it at table—drink a little sherry here with Susan. Do you object, Mr. Rue? Is the wine measured out?”

“I like to keep a check on it,” he replied with hostility. “The weekly expenses are very heavy.”

“I pay my own wine bills, Martin,” whispered Susan, looking away from him. “You know that I have to have some to keep up my strength.”

“For what, pray?” he interrupted rudely. “And I wish you would not order wine—nasty stuff from the stores, fit only for bad cooking.”

“You always lock up yours,” retorted Susan, flushing. “And please don’t scold me so often, in front of Olivia, too.”

“Oh, Madam here knows all your secrets, of course!” exclaimed Mr. Rue with temper. “My mother says—”

Mrs. Sacret swiftly interrupted.

“Does she, sir? Neither of us wish to hear what she says, do we, Susan?”

Emboldened by this defiance, Susan gulped her third glass of sherry and agreed. “No, we really don’t. We are sick and tired of your mother, Martin.”

“You dare to tell me that—with this—friend—of yours abetting you?”

Mr. Rue turned with a vulgar politeness to Mrs. Sacret. “Madam, I don’t consider you a good influence on my wife. My mother supports me in asking that you bring your visit, your very long visit, to an end.”

“I shall leave when Susan desires me to do so, Mr. Rue.” Mrs. Sacret had no difficulty in maintaining her composure; she felt fully justified in what she did and not in the least afraid of this bullying man. “I am protecting poor Susan from these two disagreeable people,” she told herself, as if she were two entities, one of which dictated to and advised the other. “It must be God’s wish I should do so.”

“Yes, it is my house as well as yours,” declared Susan with forceful feebleness. “And I’m sure that Olivia is the only company and the only comfort I get. Why do you want her to go?” she added tearfully.

“Yes, why, Mr. Rue?” Olivia Sacret covered up this weakness on her friend’s part. “I never interfere with you and I cost you nothing.”

“That’s as may be,” he rejoined, with a full stare at her costly clothes, “but I like my house to myself.”

The missionary’s widow had some satisfaction in noting the crude defects in her opponent. She had met his type, considerably softened by austere training, in her chapel work. A mother’s darling, a school bully, idle, stupid and vain, mean and ostentatious. He married Susan for her money without caring for her in the least, she thought. And now he would like to return to Blackheath and be pampered by that doting old woman again.

Her fingers hurried over her needlework with delicate precision and an implied rebuke at idleness, while the unhappy couple remained sunk in a sullen silence. Susan drooped in her chair, staring from reddened eyes at the two stained glasses from both of which she had drunk. Her husband stood gloomily by the hearth, his hands in his pockets, his dark clothes out of place in the frivolous dainty room and the pink lamplight.

Mrs. Sacret considered him in a flashed glance, enjoying her dislike as she enjoyed her sense of power, for all keen emotions were new to her and therefore stimulating. She wondered if he had heard his mother’s quick guess as to “a hold” over Susan, and possible “letters.” She did not think so, he would have been more disturbed than he was, had this been so. Besides, old Mrs. Rue would have been very cautious with what might prove a precious weapon with which to oust her daughter-in-law. She would consider long before making what might be a false step.

How ugly he is, she thought. His features are good, but his hair and complexion are tinged such a repulsive ginger yellow and his eyes are like gooseberries—such a hangdog expression, too. Yet I suppose he would be termed a fine-looking man.

Martin Rue terminated what was to him an intolerable silence by ringing the bell and when the maid carne bidding her take away the sherry. “Your mistress has had sufficient.”

When the woman had gone, Susan broke into furious words. “Now you have insulted me before the servants! Everyone in the house will think I drink too much!”

“They know it already. I said—sufficient.”

“Curtis knew what you meant. Oh, really I can’t endure this life!” Susan moaned. “So dull, and you always scolding me! I am not to have a friend to stay with me, or even a glass of sherry! I must leave you—I really must—”

“Pray, do, if you please. I too find this sort of thing unendurable—I must consider my health—”

“Don’t say a word!” cried Susan, heated, pretty and uncontrolled. “I’m sick of hearing of your health—and your nasty medicines! And that horrid Indian basket you keep in your room, full of disgusting drugs! I wish I could be divorced!”

“Such things can be arranged,” said Mr. Rue bitterly.

Mrs Sacret rose.

“I cannot sit here, and listen to this,” she protested, folding up her needlework. “Divorce—arranged! Is that your respect for Christian marriage, Mr. Rue? I’ll not hear—”

“You need not have heard anything had you wished,” he replied rudely. “You remained, listening for your own ends.”

“I stayed to protect your wife,” said Mrs. Sacret, lifting her clear, bright, hazel glance to her opponent’s heavy face. “Susan, dear, why not go to bed?” She helped her friend to rise. Susan stumbled in her long, frilled, pink dress. Her eyes were slightly blurred and beads of sweat showed on her brow and lip. Martin Rue made a sound of theatrical disgust. “Bah!”

“Your wife!” cried Mrs. Sacret reprovingly. “And so pretty and gentle too! I don’t know about such horrid matters, but surely she could get a divorce for your unkindness, Mr. Rue. And look at the state to which you are driving her. Yes, a divorce,” she repeated, supporting Susan’s florid beauty against her own firm shoulder, “and then you would have to return her all her money and she could live as she liked.” Mrs. Sacret had said more than she had meant to say, but she did not check the flow of her quiet triumph. “Then I could see Florence and such places.”

Mr. Rue took a crude revenge.

“I have my health to consider!” he shouted and flung out of the room, banging the door.

“It was kind of you,” murmured Susan, “not to give me away about the two glasses. I always order two in case you care to drink a little sherry and then I forget and drink from both.”

“Susan, that is an untruth. You know I never touch alcohol. And you use the two glasses deliberately to disguise how much you take. You really do exceed a little, dear. I know it is because you are so unhappy. And I won’t tell anyone—though I fear they all know.”

“Could you not drink at dinner? Just a glass?” pleaded Susan. “You see, I must have it.”

“No. It would be wrong to do that. Why don’t you try to get your money from Mr. Rue? Then you would be rich and could live as you pleased.”

“I would not dare,” wept Susan, “the lawyers—”

“If you are afraid of them, I daresay I could interview them for you. Now, you had better go to bed. I shall help you upstairs. You really have made yourself quite ill, one way and another.”

At the door, leaning on her friend’s arm, Susan whispered, “Why did you say—‘Then I could see Florence and such places’?”

“So you heard! I was thinking out loud, I suppose. Foolishly! Only—if you did leave Mr. Rue I could go abroad with you for a short time.”

“I don’t want to leave him. I couldn’t face being disgraced, stared at and cut. Why do you want to see Florence?”

“Susan, dear, you have drunk just a little too much wine. Do come upstairs, and lift up your dress and walk carefully.”

“You’ve seen Jamaica. I haven’t—why do you want to see Florence?” persisted Susan obstinately. “I don’t want to see Jamaica.”

“In Jamaica I was a missionary’s wife, tied to an invalid—”

Susan interrupted. “I’m tied to an invalid—that is all he thinks of—his nasty medicines.”

Mrs. Sacret hushed her, edged her up the stairs and to the door of her room; when the door opened she had a glimpse of that luxurious and forlorn apartment, formal, tasteless and chilly. The door to the dressing room was closed.

“Shall I send Curtis up?”

“No,” mumbled Susan, walking unsteadily to the large double bed, glittering in red mahogany and inlaid brass.

Mrs. Sacret left her. “I daresay he often finds her like that in the morning, asleep in her clothes. What a fool she is! She will spoil her looks. She is still very pretty indeed, though. And with beauty and money and a good place in society—well—almost good society, she could not even find a gentleman to marry.”

Yes, that was the case. Martin Rue, whatever his birth and education, was no more Mrs. Sacret’s idea of a gentleman than her own husband had been. She thought, with secret pride, of her father and this made her feel even more superior to Susan than before.