Читать книгу Nothing Venture - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 12

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Nan had had no answer to her question. She did not need one. She knew very well what would happen to Jervis Weare’s property if he died without children. Everything would go to Rosamund Carew—Rosamund Veronica Leonard Carew. She had typed old Ambrose Weare’s will, and she remembered its provisions. If Jervis wasn’t married within three months and a day of his grandfather’s death, everything went to Rosamund. And if Jervis died without leaving a child, everything went to Rosamund.

Rosamund Veronica Leonard Carew..... Nan was unshaken in her conviction that she had heard Robert Leonard arranging for an accident to happen to Jervis. Perhaps Rosamund didn’t know. She had gone on into the house, and Robert Leonard had come back to speak to the driver. A faint cold shudder ran over Nan. Rosamund Carew couldn’t know. Only a week ago she and Jervis were engaged—they were going to be married. They must have planned their life together—they must have kissed. The shudder came again. She saw Jervis stooping his dark head to kiss beautiful Rosamund Carew. Rosamund could not know.

She began to walk, and came out of the station. What was she going to do next?

There wasn’t anything for her to do. The affair had passed out of her hands. She had warned Jervis, and he didn’t believe her. She wondered if he truly didn’t believe her, or if he just wouldn’t believe her. Whether he believed her or not, he couldn’t un-know what she had told him. A man who has been warned can never go back to where he was before the warning. The weight that had been upon her lifted. A little of Jervis’ own scepticism touched her. After all, she might have made a mistake. No, she hadn’t. Then again, chill and reasonable, that “Suppose it was a mistake.”

She had a vehement revulsion. She had been a fool to be frightened. There was nothing to be frightened of. She began to think about the evening. If she hadn’t got to be frightened about Jervis, how frightfully exciting it would be to look forward to dining at the Luxe with Ferdinand Fazackerley. How extraordinary to meet him after all these years! She had always wondered whether she would know him again.

She got into a bus and sat there thinking how strange life was, and how interesting. Ten years ago Ferdinand Fazackerley, walking on Croyston rocks, had chanced on an unconscious young man and a frantic child of twelve. She shut her eyes and saw the rocks, the low grey sky, and the sea coming up, coming nearer, with its frightful irresistible force. It was a picture that had never faded. Like the scar on her arm, it no longer hurt. If she looked at the scar, she could see its triangular shape and the white crinkling of the skin; and if she looked into her mind, she could see the flooding pool, Jervis ghastly white, the stain of his blood on her shoulder, and her straining agonized efforts to keep his head above water. Then F.F.—Ferdinand Fazackerley—and the high, kind voice with its unfamiliar accent going right on through her half-consciousness ... She was most terribly pleased to have met him again. But not for the world was he ever to guess that they were meeting again, a grown-up Mrs Weare couldn’t possibly evoke any memory of the half-drowned child of ten years ago.

Having settled this to her satisfaction, Nan got out of the bus. If she was going to dine at the Luxe with Mr Ferdinand Fazackerley in a clawhammer, it was quite certain that she must buy herself a dress for the occasion, and she knew just what dress she was going to buy. Cynthia had not been married without a modest trousseau. To buy pretty frocks for Cynthia had been balm to Nan’s own heartache. She had bought for Cynthia, and had resisted the temptation to buy for herself; but there had been one temptation which it had been very difficult to resist. She had got as far as trying the pretty filmy thing on. It had given her a delicious sense of being somebody else, someone who hadn’t a care in the world.

She opened the door of the shop. Suppose it was gone..... The pleasant dark girl who had been so interested in Cynthia came forward.

Nan had a sudden brilliant idea.

“May I telephone?”

“Oh, certainly.”

She gave Mr Page’s number, and then had a nervous reaction. Suppose Villiers didn’t answer the telephone. Mr Watson must be back from his holiday. Suppose it was he who answered. It was so difficult to realize that Mr Watson no longer mattered. She heard the click of the receiver, and the voice of Miss Villiers.

“Hello!”

Nan felt a difficulty about giving her name. She said quickly,

“Oh, Villiers—don’t tell anyone I rang up. I only wanted to know if Mr Weare had arrived.”

“Just come, dear..... Yes, that’s all right.”

“Oh, thank you!” said Nan. A feeling of happy relief bubbled up in her. Even to her own ears her voice sounded warm and soft. She hoped it didn’t sound like that to Villiers.

She rang off and turned to the now all-absorbing question of the grey dress.

Grey—any dull thing can be grey—hodden grey, field grey—grey sky, grey water, grey cloud. There ought to be a different word to give to beautiful things. Nan’s dress was beautiful, and it had that last subtlest quality of beauty—it made her feel beautiful too.

She put it on and looked, half frightened, at her own reflection.

“I’m going to rather a special party tonight,” she said to the nice dark girl.

The nice dark girl smiled.

“Well, you couldn’t have anything that suited you better,” she said.

Nan looked at herself rather solemnly. The dress gave her a slim elegance. There was just a hint of silver about it. She must have silver shoes to go with it, and she must have her hair cut and waved.

She bought the dress, and the coat that went with it, heard the amount of the bill without a tremor, and wrote her first cheque on the account which Mr Page had opened in her name. It was not only the first cheque on the new account, it was also the first cheque she had ever written. The dress wasn’t a dress at all; it was a symbol. It meant that she was Nan Weare, and not Nan Forsyth any more. It stood for a plunge into the unknown.

This was all rather solemn; but under the solemnity there were little warm currents of excitement and anticipation. Would Jervis like the dress? Would he like her?

At half past seven she was ready and waiting. Her hair had been cut and done in loose waves. It was so becoming that she had arranged then and there to have it permanently waved next day. She had silver shoes. Her dress was like a silver mist. It darkened her eyes and hair, and brought out the fine quality of her skin. The excitement put a rose in each cheek. She knelt in front of the low dressing-table to see her head in the very small mirror, and then mounted insecurely upon the bed to catch a glimpse of her silver feet. She practised a dance-step, and then stopped for fear of getting hot. It would be dreadful if the wave didn’t last through the evening. She wondered if they would dance. No, of course they wouldn’t. It would be marvellous to dance with Jervis.

She looked at her watch. Twenty to eight. She made up her mind to sit quite still and peaceful. Jervis would probably allow a quarter of an hour to get to the Luxe. He ought really to allow a little longer—you simply couldn’t count on not getting into a traffic block.

The church of St Tryphenius round the corner in Lasham Street chimed three times for a quarter to eight. Nan jumped up and went to the window. The entrance to the house was in Lasham Street, but her window looked into a narrow alley called Cutting’s Way. Taxis sometimes used it to avoid the corner where Lasham Street ran into the main road.

A boy went past on a bicycle. Three or four foot-passengers followed him. A cart went slowly and noisily by.

It was ten minutes to eight.

Nan ran down into the hall. It was narrow and dark, and it smelt strongly of the kippers which the Warren family had been having for tea. She opened the door, went out on to the step, and stood looking up and down the street. Something was beginning to say horrible things to her in a whisper. The whisper came from deep down in her own consciousness. She couldn’t really hear what it was saying; she only knew that it was something horrible. She stood on the step in her grey coat and her grey dress; and suddenly they were grey, not silver any more, and a shadow which she could not see came over the face of the sky and darkened her heart. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel it. Everything in her darkened and shrank.

She watched a dozen cars go by. Not one of them stopped. A girl and a man came out of No. 31 and walked away arm in arm. The thing that was whispering to Nan came nearer and spoke louder, “Jervis—they’ve got him. He wouldn’t take your warning. He wouldn’t believe you—they’ve got him.” It got louder and louder. The words rang in her ears, clanging and echoing back upon themselves. The clock of St. Tryphenius whirred, groaned, chimed four times for the hour, and began to strike eight.