Читать книгу The West Wind - Crosbie Garstin - Страница 5

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The hall clock was chiming midnight when Ortho went to bed. The butler led the way up the panelled staircase, a candle-stick in either hand. Ortho followed, somewhat unsteadily. He was not precisely drunk, but it had been a long sitting. The butler showed him to his room, a dainty chamber done in white and rose, faintly scented with lavender.

The man coughed. “Ahem! Shall I pull your boots off, sir?”

“No, you shall not. I have been able to both dress and undress myself for some years.”

“Very good, sir. Good-night, sir.”

“Hi!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here’s something for yourself.”

“Thank you, sir.” The butler withdrew. It was the second douceur he had received from Penhale in four hours. “Common sort!” he sneered.

Ortho tossed his coat over a chair, wrestled his boots off and padded round the room in his socks, admiring the furniture, stroking the fine French polish, patting the spindle legs approvingly, pawing the deep pile carpet with voluptuous toes. The rose-pattern wall-paper was pretty too, also the flowered chintzes. All very dainty, very elegant. Meeting his reflection in a long mirror he winked at it. “Snug berth for a night—eh, old shipmate? We’ve met worse in our time, you and I.” The smiling reflection winked back. His presence in the room struck him as intensely funny. He gave a hoot of laughter, then, remembering where he was, clapped a hand over his mouth. “My stars! ... wake somebody ... careful!”

Pulling on a night-shirt he leapt into bed. The sheets were warm. Somebody had been at them lately with a warming-pan. That brown-eyed little chambermaid probably. Plump, pert little duck. He wondered where she was.... Perhaps.... He got out of bed and crept stealthily across the room, hand outstretched for the door-handle. Perhaps.... The pink roses caught his eye. He glanced round. Inlaid walnut, gilt, chintz ... the furniture seemed to be stiffening in well-bred reproach.

“Good Lord, what am I doing?” he muttered. “This ain’t an inn.” He was very stern with himself. “What the dicken do you think you’re about? Damme, this is a gentleman’s house!”

He returned to the warm sheets, snuffed the candle and was instantly asleep. Ten minutes passed, twenty.

There was a soft rustle of leaves outside. A window curtain stirred; a latch creaked. A sigh; a lifting whimper. The rustle of leaves was no longer soft. A window rattled. Instantly the rover was awake, propped on his elbow, listening. “West wind,” he mumbled. “Rising fast ... veer more cable ... MacBride!”

Then he laughed. “Oh lor’! I was forgetting”—fell back and was asleep again.