Читать книгу Nothing Venture - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 7
V
ОглавлениеWhen Nan Forsyth had shut the street door behind her, she crossed the road. She wasn’t tired any more. Her feet carried her lightly. She felt as if she was being swept along by a strong current. The current carried her and she went with it. Her heart had stopped knocking against her side, and this was a great relief.
She walked a little way, and then back. As she turned again, Jervis Weare was striding down the street, and, still without any sense of effort, she quickened her pace so as not to be left too far behind. When he turned the corner, she crossed to the same side of the street and ran. She had to keep him in view and to find out where he was going. She had no thought that it would be difficult to come to speech with him. She hoped that he was going home to the big Georgian house in Carrington Square, which was one of the things that would pass from him to Rosamund Carew if he did not marry within the time set by his grandfather’s will.
Nan lifted her head. Neither the house nor anything else that was his should pass to Rosamund Carew. The current that was carrying her along was a current of protective love. Ten years ago she had saved his life, and he had never known it. Now she was going to save him again. Rosamund shouldn’t rob him; neither should he rob himself.
She looked back across the ten years to the little girl of twelve, with her passionate adoration for the dark boy of twenty who did not so much as know of her existence. He had never noticed her, never spoken to her. But when the great adventure came, she had flung down her life with both hands to save his. He had never known, and he would never know, but it was her most secret happiness. She dreamed sometimes of the rocky pool with the salt, cold water coming in on a flood tide. She felt his weight on her straining childish shoulders, and the sea flinging her against jagged rock. Then she would wake and touch the white scar on her arm and go over the whole adventure in her mind. Sometimes she wondered whether she would ever come across the little man with the queer name who had come to their rescue—Ferdinand Fazackerley. Such an extraordinary name. It would be odd if they met again—but odd things happen, for she had met Jervis Weare.
Jervis Weare walked straight on, giving her enough to do to keep up with him. Nan became more and more certain that he was going home. She came up with him just as he was crossing into Carrington Square.
The sun struck hot on the dark rusty green of the trees. The little square was empty. She crossed the road half a pace behind him and spoke his name as her foot touched the kerb:
“Mr Weare—”
He must have been very deep in his own bitter thoughts, for she had to speak again, and louder:
“Mr Weare—”
He flung round then, and she saw his face cut with deep lines of pain and rage, his black brows meeting over hot dark eyes.
“What is it?”
The hot dark eyes held not the slightest recognition.
She said, “Mr Weare—I’m from Mr Page’s office.” That was quite an easy thing to say, and she said it easily, the current still taking her on.
Jervis Weare stared.
“Well?” he said.
“I want to speak to you.”
“Why?”
“I am from Mr Page’s office. It’s a business matter.”
He paused, detached, not really aware of her.
“Mr Page sent you?”
Nan shook her head.
“It’s a business matter.”
Her repetition of the phrase caught his attention. He had not noticed her shake of the head. If Page had sent this girl—well—
“Where can we talk?” said Nan Forsyth.
“I don’t know.”
“You are going home—to your house.”
“Is it mine?”
For a moment his look disturbed her strange calm.
“Will you let me speak to you there? I have something that I want to say.”
He stared for a moment longer. Then he said,
“Oh, certainly.”
They went on together. The house rose up before Nan, heavy and square and grey. Jervis used a latchkey, and they went through the hall into a room at the back of the house—a man’s room, littered with a man’s belongings, littered also with what were obviously wedding presents—a handsome standard lamp; a cigar-box with the signatures of several donors sprawling across the crude new silver; half a dozen boxes half unpacked, with glass, china or silver showing here and there. Two windows framed in dark velvet curtains looked out upon a fair-sized garden bordered with trees.
Nan passed into this room, and felt its atmosphere close about her. When Jervis Weare had followed her and shut the door, she was standing against one of the heavy curtains. The current had brought her here. Now it ebbed away from her. She was Nan Forsyth facing something that was going to decide all the rest of her life, and all the rest of Jervis Weare’s life. For a moment she felt fear as she had never felt it before. And then courage rose in her like a flood.
He turned from the door and said,
“You wanted to speak to me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind saying what you want? I’m rather busy.”
“Yes,” said Nan. She put her left hand behind her and found the window-sill; she felt the need of something hard and firm to hold on to. Then she lifted her eyes to his frowning face and said, “I’m in Mr Page’s office.”
“Yes—you said so.” There was just the least impatient twitch of the lip as he spoke.
“I’m in Mr Page’s office. When you came in this afternoon you slammed the door. It didn’t latch. I was in the office. I heard what you said to Mr Page.”
She had been prepared for anger, but not for quite so bleak a look as this.
“You listened. Well?”
The look hurt her beyond bearing. She winced away from it, then gripped the window-sill and kept herself steady.
Jervis Weare did not see her wince. He was not really seeing her at all. His anger turned a cold edge upon this confessed eavesdropper.
“Well?” he repeated.
Nan kept her eyes on him. She didn’t mind his being angry; she only minded his being hurt. He was angry because he was hurt—and in his hurt, what further hurt might come to him? He was like a wounded man staggering blindly toward a precipice. If someone you cared for was doing that, you couldn’t stand aside and let them go on—you had to stop them even if they hated you for doing it.
A third impatient “Well?” brought stumbling words to her lips:
“I heard what you said to Mr Page.”
Jervis walked to the table and stood there. He touched it with one hand and leaned forward a little. It was the picture of him which had formed in her mind when she stood listening and heard him say in his bitter voice, “You have only to find me a wife.” He must have been recalling his own words, for he was looking at her, really looking, for the first time.
He saw a girl in a neat grey dress and a close black hat, a girl who held herself very straight and looked at him with steady grey eyes. Her face was pale, her lips pressed firmly together. He looked at her and said,
“Did Mr Page send you?”
“No,” said Nan.
“Then—will you explain?”
“I heard what you said to Mr Page.”
“So you said. And what did I say?”
Nan held her head a little higher.
“You said that you must be married by the sixteenth. You asked him to find a girl who would marry you at twenty-four hours’ notice.”
The hand behind her drove the edge of the window-sill deep into her palm. She saw the cold anger of his face break suddenly. Something broke it—a different anger, a flash of humour, a something else which she could not define.
“So that’s it? You’ve got a nerve—haven’t you?”
Nan said, “Yes,” quite soberly.
He burst out laughing.
“Well, why not? I haven’t time to pick and choose. Since you overheard what we were saying, you know that. To be married on the sixteenth, I must put in for a licence today—but it is unfortunately necessary to give the lady’s name, so if you’re really offering to step into the breach, perhaps you’ll begin by giving me your name.”
“Nan Forsyth,” said Nan.
He took his hand off the table and swung a chair round.
“You’d better sit down.”
He came round, took the writing-chair, picked up a pen, and filled it.
“Did you say Anne Forsyth?”
Nan came forward. It was very difficult to let go of the window-sill. Her legs felt as if they belonged to someone else. She sat down a little stiffly. It was like being interviewed for a situation. She was being interviewed for the situation of Jervis Weare’s wife. It was like something in a dream. But there was Jervis, looking at her and repeating.
“Anne Forsyth?”
“No—just Nan. I was christened Nan.”
“Nothing else?”
“No, nothing else.”
He wrote “Nan Forsyth,” and without looking up asked her age.
“Twenty-two.”
“Parents?”
“Dead.”
“Any near relations?”
“A sister.” She thought suddenly and warmly of Cynthia, and the dream shook a little.
“Older, or younger?”
“Younger—” She paused, then added, “Nineteen.”
Jervis had stopped writing. His pen dug holes in the paper. He didn’t want to know the answers to any of these questions. She had a well-bred voice. If she was in Page’s office, she was likely to be a respectable girl.... What did it matter to him what she was? She was the stone he was going to send smashing through Rosamund’s plan. What did it matter where the stone came from? He looked up, and met her steady eyes. He asked abruptly,
“Why are you doing this? For money?”
There was only a moment’s hesitation before she said,
“Of course. It’s a business arrangement.”
“Oh, entirely. That ought to be quite clear.”
“Yes,” said Nan. The hand that had held the window-sill went down and gripped the edge of her chair. She repeated her “Yes.” Then she said, “If it’s a business matter, do you mind discussing the details?”
She got a curious look, and he laughed again.
“Mind? Why should I mind? And what details do you want to discuss?”
Nan’s hand tightened on the chair.
“I’m earning my living,” she said. “I’m doing it because I have to.”
“Yes?” said Jervis.
“If I do this, I shall lose my job.”
“You mean you’ll lose your job if you marry me.”
“I don’t think Mr Page would keep me on.”
Jervis laughed with a certain hard amusement.
“I don’t suppose he would. But the law obliges me to support you, you know.”
She never took her eyes from his face—serious, steady eyes.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“If it’s business, it ought to be done in a business way.”
“I see—you want a settlement.”
For the first time her colour rose. It flushed her pale cheeks and ebbed rapidly.
“No, I didn’t mean that.”
“Will you say what you do mean?”
Nan gripped the chair and thought hard about Cynthia. Impossible to leave Cynthia unprovided for.
“I want something now.”
He did not laugh this time, only looked at her with the hard amusement in his eyes.
“What—cash on delivery? Is that it?”
Nan didn’t speak.
He thought suddenly that she had courage at any rate.
“Well?” he said. “How much? Five hundred pounds?” Nan shook her head.
“What—not enough?”
She shook her head again, then spoke.
“It isn’t enough. I shall lose my job, and I’ve got someone depending on me.”
She felt better when she had said that. But Jervis was staring at her.
“Depending?”
“Yes—my sister. I couldn’t just take this on and leave her.”
He threw himself back in his chair.
“Well, how much?”
“Two thousand pounds,” said Nan, and set her teeth.
Jervis Weare regarded her with frank admiration.
“You certainly have a nerve!” he said.
It was heartening to be told so. At the moment Nan felt exactly like a sawdust doll from which the last grain of sawdust has leaked away, leaving it quite flat, quite empty. She said, in what she was surprised to find was a steady voice,
“It’s because of Cynthia. I can always get a job.”
“And she can’t?”
Nan shook her head. She looked young, mournful, and serious. The contrast between her appearance and what Jervis Weare had just described as her nerve was so extreme as to be ludicrous.
Jervis pushed back his chair and got up.
“So you propose to turn two thousand pounds over to Cynthia? And how much do you want for yourself?”
“I don’t want anything—I can get a job.”
“And why should I give Cynthia two thousand pounds?”
Nan looked up at him with a perfectly steady gaze.
“You won’t give it to Cynthia—you’ll give it to me. Mr Weare left you a hundred thousand pounds. I’m helping you to keep it. The two thousand pounds will be my commission.”
“What a business head!”
“I’ve had a business training.”
She looked away at last, not in embarrassment, but because she had said what she had come to say. She relaxed a little, let go of the chair, folded her hands in her lap, and waited.
Jervis Weare walked across the room and back again.
“All right,” he said, “you can have your commission.”
