Читать книгу The Ivory Dagger - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 12

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Lady Dryden took her way to the study. If Eric Haile had arrived, she would not be able to see Herbert Whitall alone, but there was a good chance of being able to plant a few well chosen hints.

She said, ‘May I come in?’ and was gratified to find him alone and already dressed.

His ‘Of course’ was all that it should have been from a well bred host, and yet a sensitive person might have been aware of a faint sarcastic undercurrent. If Sybil Dryden was aware of it, she could dismiss it as immaterial. What she had to say would be said, and unless Herbert Whitall was a complete fool, it should have a beneficial effect.

With a slight gracious smile she crossed the room to stand beside him and remark that a fire was really very pleasant now that the evenings were drawing in.

He received this highly original sentiment with amusement.

‘My dear Sybil, did you really seek me out to say that? If you didn’t—Eric Haile will be here at any moment. He also has an urge to see me. I imagine he hopes to touch me for a loan. So if there is anything you want to say——’

She showed no resentment.

‘Only this, Herbert. I have just found Lila in tears. Eleventh hour nerves—the sort of thing every girl goes through, but it wants handling with care. Don’t be too affectionate.’

He gave a short laugh.

‘I don’t get much chance, do I? I practically never see her alone.’

‘It is just as well. Believe me, you really cannot be too careful. That is all I came to say, so I will leave you to your interview with Mr. Haile. I hope it will be a pleasanter one than you seem to expect.’

He laughed again.

‘I assure you it won’t disturb me. Keep your good wishes for Eric—he is going to need them.’

‘That sounds——’ She paused for a word, and then said, ‘vindictive.’

‘But that is just what I am. Didn’t you know it? I expect my uttermost farthing. If I don’t get it—if I don’t get it, Sybil, I can be extremely—vindictive. You will remember that, won’t you?’

He had been walking beside her to the door. He opened it now and stood aside for her to pass. She went out with her head high.

She came into the drawing-room, and found herself alone there. Rather a formal room, with its four windows hidden by curtains where pale brocaded flowers bloomed on an ivory ground. Couches and chairs had loose covers repeating the same shades. An Empire mirror between two of the windows showed her her own image, a very handsome one in close-fitting black, which did full justice to her tall and upright figure. There was a double row of pearls and a diamond flower to relieve what was otherwise the extreme of severity. Very few women of her age could show such a faultless turn of neck and shoulder—no blurring of the line, no sagging of the flesh, no wrinkling of the skin. She was a beautiful woman, in a maturity as yet untouched by the least hint of decline.

At the sound of voices in the hall she turned and went to meet the Considines. She was very well aware that her effect would be a little daunting.

Mabel Considine had been a dowdy girl, and was now a dowdy elderly woman. Like Corinna Longley, she was an old schoolfellow. Even in those far off days, and with the help of a school uniform, she had never managed to achieve tidiness. At fifty her hair broke into ends and stuck out in unexpected places. She had a good deal of it, of an unbecoming pepper-and-salt colour, and she did her best with hairpins and a net, but without any marked success. She had been a thin, poking schoolgirl. She was still thin, and she still poked. As for her clothes, they were lamentable. She had a passion for picking up remnants and handing them over to the village dressmaker to be contrived into some horrid shapeless garment. The one she was wearing tonight had been pieced together from a length of over bright artificial silk eked out with crimson satin. A long coral chain had been passed three times about a distressing neck.

She came in beaming, voice and manner much younger than her face.

‘Sybil—how nice! You look as if you had stepped straight off the cover of Vogue! How do you do it? Doesn’t she look marvellous, George? No one would think we were the same age, would they?’

George, large and florid, covered his embarrassment with a hearty greeting. He detested smart women, and especially smart elderly women. Sybil Dryden made him feel that his dinner-jacket was twenty-five years old, and that his hands were rough. And why not? He did things with them. He had just finished a new hen-house, and he had been digging potatoes. Of course his hands were rough, and he hadn’t quite got the creosote off his right thumb. Well, he had done his best, hadn’t he? And he liked his old clothes. He had had some good times in them, and they were comfortable. He liked a woman to be comfortable. Thank the Lord, no one could say Mabel was smart. Comfortable—that’s what she was. And kind. Always doing things for people. Did too much. He had to put his foot down, or she would be everybody’s slave. Too unselfish. But when his foot was down it was down.

With all this in his mind, he shook hands, and was presently saying ‘Not at all—not at all’ to Herbert Whitall, who strolled in with a casual apology for being late.

There was one of those aimless arguments as to whether the quarter had struck or not. The village church had its chime, but if the wind was not just right, the sound did not carry as far as Vineyards. Anyhow nobody had heard it. Mrs. Considine consulted her wrist-watch on a leather strap and made it five minutes to eight, at the same time admitting that it gained five minutes a day, and that she had no idea when she had set it last.

In the middle of all this Mr. Eric Haile walked in. If he had just had a disagreeable interview with his host, he showed no sign of it. His handsome ruddy face was all smiles as he greeted Lady Dryden and the Considines, his manner affable to the point of familiarity.

‘My dear lady, I needn’t ask how you are—so very, very easy on the eye! ... Mrs. Considine—wearing yourself out with good works as usual! ... Ah, Considine—how are the hens?’

If Lady Dryden stiffened a little, it did not trouble him. He had dark dancing eyes that went from one to the other, and an air of being quite certain of his reception. He could not have appeared more perfectly at home if Vineyards and his cousin’s great fortune had been his own by right of birth. He was just saying, ‘I hear you acquired some new treasures at the Harrington sale, Herbert’, when Professor Richardson was announced, a little round man with a bald head and a face like a cross baby. He rolled into the room, protesting that he wasn’t late. He never was. People didn’t look after their watches, and then went out of their way to put the blame on other people who did.

‘As for Whitall’—he was shaking hands with Lady Dryden—‘he’d put anything on to anyone. Don’t trust him a yard. Never did. Never shall. Get the better of a blind orphan starving in a snowstorm—ha, ha!’ He gave a short explosive laugh. ‘Well, Whitall, isn’t that so? Isn’t it?’

He got an affable smile and a touch on the shoulder.

‘My dear Richardson, I fly for much higher game than blind orphans. You for instance, or Mangay. And I rather think I brought it off at the Harrington sale. Mangay would have liked that dagger.’

The Professor stared.

‘Daresay he would. He hasn’t got a bottomless purse—nor have I. Not that I wanted the thing myself. Probably spurious. Didn’t trouble to go to the sale.’

Herbert Whitall smiled with those thin lips of his.

‘No—you had Bernstein bidding for you, hadn’t you?’

Professor Richardson’s bald head glowed. The red frill which stood up all round the back of it like an Elizabethan ruff appeared to quiver as if every individual hair was angry. His eyebrows, a shade more sandy, bristled. He glared and burst out laughing.

‘Me? Not at all! Who told you that? Lot of damn lies flying round! Very doubtful origin, that dagger. A fake, likely as not. Mrs. Considine, my housekeeper told me to tell you those pullets she had from you have started to lay. She is as pleased as Punch.’

‘Isn’t that nice!’ said Mabel Considine in her warmest voice.

Miss Whitaker came in, and made her unobtrusive greetings. She had done the conventional things to her face, but there was an underlying pallor. Like Lady Dryden she wore black, but with a difference—high neck and long sleeves, skirt to the ankles. At the throat the kind of brooch that a humble dependant may wear. But she didn’t look humble. Outwardly perhaps, but not to the discerning eye. Herbert Whitall was pleasantly aware of a seething pride. Eric Haile was intrigued. Mabel Considine, moving to speak with gentle kindness to the least considered member of the party, was thinking, ‘Dear me, I’m afraid that girl isn’t happy. I do hope she hasn’t become too much attached. Secretaries so often do.’

Herbert Whitall looked at his watch.

He said, ‘Lila is late,’ and turned to Lady Dryden. ‘Is she all right?’

And then the door opened and Lila came in with Adrian Grey. She wore the ivory crepe dictated by Lady Dryden. There was a Greek simplicity in its graceful lines. She looked lovely, pale, and dreadfully tired. Adrian was speaking to her as they came in. She had a faint smile for him.

Marsham sounded the gong, and they went in to dinner.