Читать книгу The Affair at Flower Acres - Carolyn Wells - Страница 6

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Luncheon that day was not a festive affair. Finley caught Nan alone for a moment, just before they were summoned to the diningroom.

“Would you rather I went home to-day?” he asked, briefly.

“No, oh, no,” she said, and a look of distress came to her face. “Don’t do that! Stay—stay and protect me—something may happen—”

“Sweethearting as usual?” came Raynor’s caustic voice and the two started guiltily apart. Though utterly innocent in word or deed, the consciousness of their mutual feelings made them especially sensitive to the jibes of Nan’s husband.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” their tormentor went on. “Some men would object to their wives’ snatching every chance for a whispered word with an old sweetheart, but I’m a magnanimous sort, aren’t I, Nan?”

He slipped his arm round her, and drew her close to him, chuckling as he noted her almost uncontrollable shrinking away from him.

“There, there, my beauty,” and he touched her cheek caressingly, “she’s a restive little filly, Malcolm, she needs a bit of taming yet.”

“You don’t want me too tame, I’m sure,” Nan said, brightly, but Finley saw the look of utter aversion in her eyes, which Raynor could not see.

Nor was it difficult to understand. Though a handsome-featured man, Douglas Raynor had a pale, anemic look that contrasted sharply with Nan’s fine, wholesome color. He seemed, too, a little short of breath, though whether this meant the man was ill or merely in a temper, Finley wasn’t sure. But he did wonder if the dietitian knew her business, for, to his mind, Raynor was in need of medical advice.

At the luncheon table he was moody; now bursting into a perfect stream of chatter, then, as suddenly, lapsing into a sullen silence. He called frequently for water, draining his glass so often that Miss Turner looked at him thoughtfully.

“Stop looking at me, Eva,” he cried out. “I suppose water is free,—if some other beverages are not. Can’t a man drink a glass of water without being held up for it?”

“I haven’t said a word, Mr. Raynor,” the nurse observed.

“You don’t have to. You just roll those hard-boiled eyes of yours at me, and I know what you mean. Hatfield, give me a pitcher of water,—a thermos jug of it. I will have what I want in my own house! Confound that damned clock! I never heard such a racket of ticking! Finley, what do you think of a wife who buys a noisy, clattering clock, and hangs it on the dining-room wall, for no reason but that she knows I detest to hear it tick?”

“Oh, come now, Douglas,” and Nan smiled bravely, “you know you wanted me to find a real old banjo clock—”

“But not to put in the dining-room—of all places! Hatfield, take the beastly thing down!”

The butler looked at his mistress for confirmation of this order, and as she nodded her head, he took the offending timepiece down and carried it from the room.

Finley was watching Nan, who at the moment was pouring coffee into demi-tasses. Her lips quivered a little, but she was calm and smiling as she handed the cups to Hatfield. Still looking at her, Finley saw a little movement of her hand over the cup destined for her husband.

Surely, surely, she dropped something into it. And then, with a furtive, almost frightened air, she glanced quickly around the table as if to see if she had been observed.

“Saccharine, of course,” Finley said to himself. “What’s the matter with me? I’m seeing things. Probably his nibs is forbidden sugar. But why the scared glance? Why, probably he doesn’t know it, and would scold if he did. What a brute he is! The very worst sort of a beast! I wish I could kill him!”

Orry, across the table, was nervously twisting the corners of his napkin into spirals. As a result of shell-shock in the war, his nerves were still in bad shape, and of late it was feared they would never be better. Yet Orville Kent was not so much affected by the ticking of a clock or any material annoyances as he was by the mental atmosphere about him. And when Douglas Raynor broke into real tantrums, Kent not infrequently rose and left the table.

At this juncture, however, they all left the table.

Raynor went off at once for the confab with Miss Turner that followed every meal, and that settled the menu for the next one. Thus, three times a day Nan was sure of a half-hour’s respite, and those were the only times she was sure of.

“Come, sit in the swing a moment or two, Malcolm,” Nan said, her eyes emphasizing the invitation.

“Me, too?” asked Goddard, very much on the watch against indiscretions.

“Yes, indeed; I’ll sit between you,” and Nan appropriated the middle cushion of the wide swing on the west terrace.

“I can’t bear that dietitian person,” she said abruptly, and decidedly.

“Why do you have her here, then?” Goddard inquired.

“Because Douglas thinks he’s ill,—or would be, if he didn’t have his diet carefully watched. But I think he’s less well since she came than before.”

“He doesn’t seem very well,” Finley agreed. “Is that the reason he scolds you so much, Nan?”

“I daresay. Though he’s always been pettish if I cross him in any way.”

“You oughtn’t to put up with it!” Finley burst out. “It’s outrageous—”

“It’s none of your business, Mal,” Goddard interrupted. “You’ve no right to speak like that.”

“No, you haven’t,” Nan said, gravely. “Whatever he says or does, he’s my husband, and therefore entitled to my respect and the respect of my guests.”

“Hullo!” cried Dolly Fay, suddenly appearing before them. “Here you are, and, oh, Nan, I say, what do you think? That Fairy Prince of mine isn’t a Fairy Prince at all! He’s a whitewashed sepulcher! A base dee-deceiver! What do you think he did? He called me a brat! Oh, how I hate you, Mr. Finley!”

“I did,—I own up,—but it was in a moment of anger. I apologize.”

“And take it back?”

“Well—no,—I think not.”

“Bah!” and Dolly made a saucy face at him. “Then I won’t play tennis with you,—and I do want a game.”

“Take me on,” and Goddard rose to oblige her.

“Glad to, I’m told you’re a crack player. Come along, then.”

“That was good of old Ezra,” Finley said; “I may not get a chance with you alone again. Nan, can I help you in any way?”

“No, dear, of course you can’t.” Then she flushed enchantingly at the unintentional word, and said, very seriously, “We can’t hide it from ourselves,—I do care for you, Malcolm,—I think I always have cared, but I am a wife,—and,” she drew herself up proudly, “I am a Cæsar’s wife. Never shall I fail in the most minute particular of any duty I owe my husband. I am saying this to you now, once for all. I do want you to go away,—and I never want to see you again—as long as Douglas lives. If he should—if anything should happen—Oh, Mal, I am at the end of my rope! I can’t live with him! I can’t! I can’t! You’ve no idea how awful he can be—”

“You needn’t live with him, Nan. Surely you can get a separation—”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean that!” Nan’s horrified eyes spurned the thought. “But—oh, I don’t know what I mean—only, Malcolm, I am his wife, and as such I owe him all honor and all duty,—and I propose to pay it!”

“Fine talk, my dear,—but a bit hifalutin!” Raynor stepped out from the house, and came up behind the pair in the swing. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much. You can bet you’re going to pay me all you so truly say you owe me. I’ll see to the payment, myself. Now, Mr. Finley, as you seem to be a menace to the tranquil happiness of my home, perhaps it would be as well if you began to think of making your farewells. I asked you down here to learn how matters stood between you and my wife. I’ve learned, therefore you are no longer necessary to my plans.”

“But I too have learned something,” Finley said. “I have learned how matters stand between you and your wife, and I have a remark to make,—which is that unless you give me your promise as man to man to treat her with more kindness after I am gone, than you have done during my stay here, I shall not go at once.”

“That is a strange thing to say to a husband.”

“It is, because you are a strange husband. Now, if your unkindness to Nan has been simply because of my presence here, and if it will cease with my departure, I will go away immediately. But not otherwise.”

“Bless my soul! You presume to dictate to me! And about my most private and personal affairs!”

“I do. As a friend of your wife, and as a friend of humanity, I insist upon the promise I require.”

“And you shall have it. Mr. Finley, I promise you that if you will remove your presence from my roof-tree, I will at once transform myself into the most gentle, loving and kind-tempered of husbands. I will give my wife her own way in everything. I will be docile, meek and mild. Can I say more?”

“You can never say another word to me, of any sort whatever!” And in a fury Finley left them and went into the house.

He was sure he had made a fool of himself. Sure he had harmed Nan rather than helped her. Yet who could stand against the fiendish power of irritation that that man possessed?

Finley went to his room, but he did not at once begin to pack his things. He sat down by a window and gazed out over the flowers, to the sea and sky, and let his thoughts grow calmer and more practical.

Was there no way he could help Nan? Was there not something he could do? No task would be too hard, no service too difficult, if he could but make up for the trouble and annoyance he had caused her.

For he had small doubt but that Raynor would wreak on his wife the anger he must feel toward himself, Finley.

A long time he thought and sighed as he pondered.

And then, instead of packing his kit and starting for the train, he bathed and dressed and presented himself on the western terrace just as tea was being brought there.

Finley did not look at his host or speak to him, but as there were present most of the family, and a few neighbors, this omission was not noticed.

Dolly Fay was very much in evidence, and Finley began to wonder whether, after all, she was a little nuisance or a captivating child. For she was so pretty and well-mannered, she helped Nan with the tea service so capably and daintily, that he said, as he took his teacup from her, “Mayn’t I be your Prince again? I’ll take back what I said.”

“Oh, yes, then you may,” she beamed. “After I pass the buns, we’ll talk it over.”

Finley had seated himself, not near Nan, but where he could watch her. In fact, he was beside Miss Mattie, who was more than ready to entertain him.

And it was during one of her long and rambling discourses that Finley, watching Nan, again saw that quick, furtive motion as of dropping something in Raynor’s teacup.

“Saccharine, sure,” he thought, and smiled as he saw that Raynor himself was all unconscious of it.

“She can fool him then,” he thought. “But seems to me she could fool him oftener and better than she does. She fairly invites his diatribes.”

Tea over, they lingered on the terrace. Another gorgeous sunset was under way, and feminine expressions of admiration were enthusiastic, while the men gazed at it in silence.

“Rarely does that old sun get a chance to sink to rest in such a bed of beauty,” said Eva Turner, who was always loquacious at tea time.

“There she goes!” cried Dolly, as the last of the great flaming disk dropped out of sight. “And I must go, too, or mother will blow me up sky-high. Who’ll walk to the bridge with me?”

“I will,” said Orry, who was a born cavalier, and likewise fond of gay little Dolly.

But they tarried until the other guests had taken leave and then, as they sauntered across the lawn, down toward the bridge over the tiny brook that separated the two estates, the sinister dusk was creeping in from the darkening horizon.

“I’m jealous of your other Prince,” Kent bantered, and Dolly said, seriously, “He isn’t really mine, he’s Nan’s.”

“Nonsense! What has Nan to do with Princes?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter that she’s married to that old hobgoblin. I mean that can’t stop her loving her Prince.”

“Don’t, Dolly; it isn’t nice for a little girl to say things like that.”

“Nice or not,—it’s true talk. You see, Nan ought to have married Mr. Finley in the first place.”

“Hush, Dolly,” Kent spoke sternly, “I can’t have you talking of your elders like that. Besides, Nan’s my sister, and I forbid you to gossip about her.”

“All right, Orry, I won’t. Miss Mattie isn’t your sister, is she? May I talk about her?”

“Yes, if you like,” and the young man smiled.

“Well, she’s a meddlesome Mattie. What do you s’pose she’s doing now? She’s looking down here at us!”

The two were on the bridge now, the little rustic affair that added picturesqueness to the scene. Dolly had turned and was looking back toward the house.

“What sharp eyes you have,” Kent said, looking too. “I can scarcely see her. The dark comes quickly.”

“Yes.” Dolly looked at her wrist-watch. “It’s just seven o’clock. I must run. Good-by, Orry.”

“Good-by,” Kent said, looking at his own watch, and starting off toward the house.

Meddlesome Mattie had been looking out her window at the two strolling across the lawn, but there was no more to it than idle curiosity.

It was her habit to watch everything and everybody, in hope of learning something she was not meant to know.

For some time she had been sitting in the twilight, listening for nothing in particular, but just from habit.

From her own room, with the windows all open, she had heard her brother leave the terrace and go into the sun parlor,—that was doubtless to avoid the dampness.

She had heard Malcolm Finley, at the same time, leave the terrace and go into the house, walking through the rear hall, and out on the east veranda. She had listened intently but didn’t hear Nan follow him,—a distinct disappointment to Miss Mattie.

Mr. Goddard, she knew, was in his own room. And Eva Turner was bustling about, now in her bedroom, then on the stairs, then to the kitchen and back again,—of course, intent upon her dietary duties.

Despairing of any further sounds of interest, Miss Mattie snapped on her lights and looked at her clock. It was five minutes to seven then, time to begin to dress for dinner.

And then, though not listening intently, Miss Mattie’s ears were startled by the sound of a single shot.

Indeed, at first, she didn’t recognize it as a shot. So often a supposed shot had been a blow-out or a burst tire, that now when it was really a shot, she naturally thought it something else. For a moment no sounds followed, and then various light footsteps could be heard below.

Still unthinking of tragedy, Miss Mattie stepped out into the hall, and though hall and stairs were as yet unlighted, she felt her way to the banister rail and started slowly down the stairs.

When half way down she could discern a white figure standing in the door between the hall and the sun parlor, but as she went on, the figure which she knew to be that of Eva Turner went through the doorway and the next instant the lights of the sun parlor were flashed on.

Miss Mattie scurried the rest of the way down and peered through the hall door into the sun room.

On the floor lay her brother in an ungainly heap, near him stood Malcolm Finley, an automatic pistol in his hand, and by the door, her hand still on the light switch, stood Eva Turner.

She was not looking at Finley, but in the opposite direction, toward the west door of the sun room.

And at that door, in another moment, appeared Nan, white-faced and terrified.

Then, as Nan stepped into the room, Orville Kent also came in from the south side, through the outside door that opened on the lawns and flower beds that ran down to the brook.

“What is it?” he cried; then, catching sight of Raynor’s fallen figure, and taking in Finley with the pistol, Kent sprang across the room to put his arm round the shaking form of his sister.

“Move, somebody! Do something!” came from Miss Turner in an hysterical shriek, she herself standing like a stone image.

“Oh, Douglas!” Miss Mattie cried, and tottered to a chair.

“Who—who did it?” gasped Nan, her voice almost inaudible.

“Who did it?” mocked Miss Turner. “There he stands,—with his weapon still in his hand! Look at him!”

“I—I didn’t do it,” Malcolm Finley said, and quickly added, “I don’t think I did.”

“Oh, you don’t!” and Miss Turner’s scorn fell on him. “Well, then, Mrs. Raynor did it! As I came to this door I heard the shot, and before I could get the light on I saw you both—”

“How could you see without the lights on?” asked Orville Kent, sternly. “Better keep still, Miss Turner, till you’re asked to speak.”

Ezra Goddard came then, shocked and wondering; Hatfield, the butler, appeared, and several maid servants huddled in the background.

“Somebody must take charge here,” Goddard said, going toward the stricken man; “perhaps he isn’t dead.”

“Oh,” said Nan, her frightened eyes staring, “isn’t he?”

“Hush, Nan,” said her brother, “hush, Nancy, dear, don’t talk. Will you let me take you to your room?”

“No, no, Orry, I must stay here—I must! You stay by me.”

“Yes, Nan,” and Kent placed her in a big chair, and then sat near her.

“Yes, he’s dead,” Goddard said, after a brief examination. “I think the women should go to their rooms,—or, at least, away from here.”

But none of the women would do this, and as Miss Mattie showed signs of faintness, Eva Turner hastened away and returned with restoratives.

“Hatfield,” Ezra Goddard said, giving his orders curtly, “call the family doctor,—you know his number?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” and the butler disappeared.

“Did you shoot Raynor, Malcolm?” was the next question.

“No,” said Finley, but his face was so drawn with shock and sorrow that his word carried no clear conviction.

“Then what are you doing with that pistol?”

“I-I picked it up—as I came in—I—Look here Goddard, it’s none of your business!”—

“Oh, yes, it is,—I’m making it my business.

Have you no more to say?”

“No more,” said Malcolm Finley.

“I have,” said the nurse. “It was either Mr. Finley or Mrs. Raynor who fired that shot!