Читать книгу Down Under - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 6

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No one at the Vicarage went to bed that night. Rose Anne had walked out of it at half past six on her wedding eve to go and see her old nurse’s sick child. At that moment the Vicarage lost her. Twenty minutes later she left the Angel—Mrs Garstnet was very positive about this—and Hillick St Agnes lost her too.

It is not at all a large village. You could not lose yourself in it if you tried. Rose Anne had lived there all her life. The church, the Angel, and the Vicarage are clustered together at one end of the green. There are a number of cottages, two or three better houses, and, on the far side of the village, the entrance gates of the Hall, which has stood empty ever since old Lady Fountain died. There is a pond in the middle of the green. Hillick is the Hill Wick—the hill village. It lies in a fold of the hills, and a steepish road runs down from it to Malling. A little way off this road, and only just clear of the village, are some old lead workings, but the entrance was filled in thirty years ago after a child had strayed there and been lost for a day and a night.

Oliver drove the three miles to Malling, and got there in time to miss the 8.37. The red tail-light was all that could be seen of it as he came upon the platform. No one had got in at Malling except Dr Thorpe from Grangecot, who had been in visiting his married daughter and her new baby.

“No young lady got in?”

“Oh, no, sir. Only Dr Thorpe—and a young chap that’s working for Mr Penfold.”

“No lady?”

“No, sir—only Mrs Thorpe that was with the doctor.”

In the end it did seem certain that Rose Anne had not boarded the 8.37. Oliver’s heart contracted. Rose Anne running away from him—Rose Anne catching a train to escape him.... In what unimaginable nightmare had he to act as if such a thing were possible? Yet as an alternative there were worse nightmares still. If she had not gone of her own free will, how had she gone, and to what? The Angel and the Vicarage lay a bare two hundred yards apart. Within the space of those two hundred yards Rose Anne had disappeared. By mischance? ... What mischance? By foul play? He shrank appalled.... Of her own free will? ... It was the least dreadful possibility of the three.

If she was not on the 8.37, what other train could she have caught? Mrs Garstnet said she was out of the Angel by ten to seven. She might have reached Malling station by five-and-twenty to eight if she hurried—if she hurried to get away from him.

He asked, “When was the last train?”

“Eight thirty-seven, sir—just gone.”

“No, no, not the eight thirty-seven. What other trains have there been since half past seven?”

“Up or down, sir?” The porter was a little rosy man, most anxious to help.

“Either—it doesn’t matter—anything that stops.”

“Well, there’s the seven-fifteen.”

Oliver shook his head. She couldn’t have walked it in the time. But she might have got a lift, and if they had to take lifts into consideration, they must go right back to seven o’clock, because Mrs Garstnet’s “ten to seven” was nothing to rely on.

There had been five trains since seven o’clock—the 7.15 down, the 7.17 up, and the 7.22, also an up train but slow and stopping at every station. After that nothing till the 8.10 down, and then another gap until the 8.37. The 7.15 had put down a lot of passengers and taken none up. The porter was quite sure about this. The 7.17 hadn’t taken up anyone either, but half a dozen passengers had boarded the slow local train at 7.22. Five of them were men, but the sixth was a lady. The porter hadn’t seen her face, but she had on a bright green hat.

“I couldn’t say nothing about the rest of her clothes, sir, and I never saw her face. The light’s terrible in the booking-hall, but she went right under a lamp going out on to the platform and I took particular notice of her hat—very bright green, sir.”

Rose Anne hadn’t a green hat. At least he had never seen her in one. Elfreda said there was no hat missing. Rose Anne wouldn’t have worn a hat just to run over to the Angel. She might have worn one if she had meant to run away.

“She took a ticket for London,” said the porter, friendly and helpful.

No, it couldn’t have been Rose Anne.

There was one more train, the 8.10 down.... The 8.10 was a complete wash-out. Nobody had got out, and nobody had got in.

Oliver tipped the porter and drove back to Hillick St Agnes. At intervals of a few hundred yards he stopped the car to stand by the side of the road, to call Rose Anne’s name, to listen for some possible faint response.

Until you listen in the night for a sound that does not come, you do not know how many sounds there are. There seems to be no wind, but when you listen like that you hear the breath that moves a leaf, and the breath that stirs the grass—dry leaf, dry grass, dry whispering breath. Oliver’s own throat was dry as he called, “Rose Anne!”—and his tongue dry in his mouth—and his heart dry in his body. The whisper went in the grass. Something moved, scuttering on the hill above. Something went by on an almost noiseless wing. But Rose Anne did not answer.

He came back to the Vicarage, and went out again, walking the paths, walking the road, walking the hills till the dawn. Then back to the Vicarage.

The house was full of red-eyed women. There might have been a death. Perhaps there had been a death. Perhaps Rose Anne was dead.... Something in him said “No” very insistently. Then she had left him.... Either way he had lost her....

It was his wedding day. He ate and drank, and went down to the Angel with James Carew.

“You are sure she left you before seven, Mrs Garstnet?”

They were in the parlour of the Angel. Mrs Garstnet, dissolved in tears, sobbed out her answer.

“Oh, indeed yes, sir.”

“Please, please, Mrs Garstnet, you must control yourself,” said Mr Carew impatiently.

Oliver said nothing. He stood by the window, his clenched right hand hidden in a pocket. It was all over. He had lost her. All this was mere torture, but it must be gone through.

“She’s that upset, sir,” said Matthew Garstnet in a deprecating tone. A bluff, good-natured man, Matthew, to match his comfortable wife. Ruddy of face and stout of build, with red hair turning grey, he stood with his back to the fire in frowning embarrassment. He liked jollity and good fellowship. In the presence of grief he very heartily wished himself elsewhere.

“Oh, Mr Carew, I can’t say no different!” sobbed Mrs Garstnet.

Mr Carew sat up stiffly in the parlour’s best plush chair. His face was grey, and a muscle in his cheek twitched perpetually. He tapped on his knee and said sharply.

“Stop crying! You’ve got to help us. We shall have to go to the police. You were the last person who saw her. What was she wearing?”

Mrs Garstnet dabbed at her eyes with a soaking handkerchief.

“Her blue jumper and skirt, sir—and the coat that goes with them.”

“Miss Elfreda said there was a coat. She was wearing it?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“I don’t notice clothes. What sort of coat would it be? I mean—” He stopped, steadied his voice, and went on again. “Would it be the sort of coat she would wear if she meant—to take a journey?”

Oliver stood still by the window. The world stood still about him. That would be said, that would be thought—that Rose Anne had run away rather than marry him. There would be headlines in the press. What did it matter as long as she was safe? He would give his soul to know that she was safe.

Mrs Garstnet was babbling about the coat.

“A beautiful coat, sir, and such a lovely fur collar—one of the things she’d got for her trousseau. And I told her she didn’t rightly ought to wear it, not till she was married.”

“What did she say when you said that?” said Oliver. His voice was better under control than James Carew’s.

Mrs Garstnet looked at him with her face working.

“She said, ‘It’s warm, Nannie. I had to have something warm.’ ”

“You’re sure she said that?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“And it was the sort of coat she would wear for a journey?”

“Oh, yes, sir—lovely and warm.”

“Was she wearing a hat?” said Oliver. He forced himself to the question.

Elfreda had said no. She said there was no hat missing. She said anyhow Rose Anne wouldn’t put on a hat to run over to the Angel. But if Elfreda was wrong, if Rose Anne had been wearing a hat, then it would mean that she had meant to go farther than the Angel. How far, no one but herself could say. The question came hardly to his lips.

And Mrs Garstnet hesitated. She looked at Oliver with brimming eyes and said with a catch in her breath,

“Not when she come, sir.”

Mr Carew drummed on his knee.

“Good gracious! What do you mean by that?”

“She didn’t have anything on her head when she come,” said Mrs Garstnet dabbing hard. “She borrowed Florrie’s hat to go back with.”

“Florrie’s hat? Good gracious, Mrs Garstnet, why on earth did she borrow Florrie’s hat?”

Mrs Garstnet gulped.

“It was one she give Florrie only a couple of days ago. As good as new it was, only she didn’t fancy herself in it so she give it to Florrie, and Florrie looked a treat in it, green being her colour as you might say.”

Oliver broke in harshly.

“It was a green hat?”

“As green as grass, and Florrie was that pleased with it.”

“And Rose Anne took it back after giving it away?” This was James Carew with a faint note of surprise in his voice.

“We didn’t take it that way, not at the time, sir. The hat was hanging on a peg, and Miss Rose Anne she said, ‘Will you give me the loan of it, just to go back across the road? There was a drop or two of rain as I come along,’ she said, ‘and I don’t want to get my hair wet,’ she said. So I told her she was welcome, and she put on the hat and come along down for us to drink her health. And that’s the last we saw of her.”

“I’d like to see Florrie,” said Oliver.

Matthew Garstnet made an awkward movement of protest.

“We don’t want Florrie drawn in. She’s not fit,” he said.

“You won’t be able to keep her out, Garstnet,” said Mr Carew. “The police will want to see her. There’s no reason why she should be frightened. Good gracious me, I christened her! I suppose she can answer a question or two?”

“She’s so easy upset,” said Mrs Garstnet with a sob. “I’m sure I don’t know—”

“Will you fetch her, please,” said Oliver.

Mrs Garstnet looked at her husband. And then, before she could speak, the door was opened and a child looked round it. She had a little peaked face and a cloud of copper hair—wonderful hair, with all the glow and colour which were lacking in the small white face. James Carew said, “Come in, Florrie,” and she slipped into the room and stood just inside the door looking from one to the other out of greenish hazel eyes.

“Come here, my dear,” said James Carew.

She came and stood at his knee, not shy, just waiting to know what was wanted of her.

“So Miss Rose Anne gave you a green hat, Florrie?”

James Carew was at his best with children. He spoke kindly and simply.

“Yes, sir, she did.”

“And then she borrowed it again yesterday?”

Florrie looked at her mother.

“She’d just quieted down and wasn’t taking much notice,” said Mrs Garstnet. “And I’m sure she’d not grudge anything, not to Miss Rose Anne—would you, Florrie?”

Florrie had no answer.

“And you’d be pleased for Miss Rose Anne to have your hat—”

“I’d rather have it myself,” said Florrie.

“Now, Florrie—I’m sure you’d not grudge anything to Miss Rose Anne that’s always been so good to you!”

“I’d like my green hat back,” said Florrie in a little obstinate voice.

They made no more of her. She was neither shy nor distressed. She wanted her green hat. Rose Anne had given it to her, and she wanted it. From Florrie’s view point it was the green hat that had disappeared, not Rose Anne. Children want one thing at a time, and want that one thing passionately. Florrie wanted her green hat. She was to have worn it for the wedding. Since it was not there to be worn, the wedding ceased to be of any interest. She looked Oliver straight in the face and said,

“I want my hat. Why did she take it away?”