Читать книгу The Ivory Dagger - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 8

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Vineyards lay in the lap of the Downs. There was woodland to the right and to the left, with the house in a clear space between and the ground falling from terrace to terrace full in the eye of the sun. The site was much older than the house. There had been a Roman villa there. It was a Roman who had planted the first vines on those sunny slopes. The bomb which struck the third terrace had brought to light a tesselated pavement deep down under the soil. There was no sign of war damage now, but the painted tiles were displayed in the County museum. After the Romans had gone and the Normans had come in there had been a religious foundation, and monks had worked on the vines with sleeves rolled up and gowns hitched out of the way. Their house had gone as the Roman villa had gone, swept away by fire after the dissolution of the monasteries under Henry VIII. Elizabeth gave the demesne to Humphrey de Lisle, and he built on it a simple beautiful house with which he and five generations of de Lisles were vastly content. The vines languished and were done away with, all except the famous one on the house, and, sole survivor of the lower vine-yards, another giant which hung all one side of the bottom terrace with graceful leaves and clusters of pale green grapes. The de Lisles petered out like the vines. The last daughter of the house took the property into the Wootton family, who added a pillared front and ruined the Elizabethan hall with a marble staircase in the Italian style, complete with caryatids holding lamps. They also built on right and left, and presently ruined themselves. Vineyards was sold, and sold again. During the nineteenth century it changed hands four times. In 1940 it was requisitioned by the Air Ministry.

Six years later Herbert Whitall bought it and began to set it in order. Adrian Grey, who was neither secretary, architect nor steward, but an informal blend of all three, considered that they had made a pretty good job of it. The terraces went down in beauty, and the house had lost some of its excrescences. Only in the matter of the marble staircase had Herbert Whitall been quite intractable. He actually liked the beastly thing.

Discerning this unpalatable fact, Adrian, a peaceful soul, had sighed and put away his beautiful drawn reconstruction of the original oak stair going up nobly to the gallery which ran round three sides of the hall and served the bedroom wings. He was a tall, thin man with the scholar’s stoop which five years of military service had failed to correct. He had been wounded, a long time in hospital with a leg injury which would not heal, and finally relegated to light duty. For the rest he was forty years old, of a kindly and gentle disposition, and inclined towards peace with all men—even with Herbert Whitall, who sometimes tried him to the limit. Just lately it had once or twice occurred to him that the limit might be past. If this were to happen, he would find other interests and he was fortunate in possessing a modest private income, but he would miss Vineyards very much.

He stood on the upper terrace and looked away to a distant glimpse of the sea. The evenings were beginning to draw in. There was still sunlight, but it had a golden autumn look like the leaves which gilded the dark mass of woodland on either side. This terrace was a suntrap. He set a knee on the low marble balustrade and found it warm to the touch. There was no wind stirring. The night would be clear, and tomorrow would be fine again. This autumn weather was the best of all the year.

He went on looking away towards the sea and finding it good to be alone. House-parties were not much in his line, and he would have to entertain Lady Dryden, who always made him feel as if he had nothing to say. It did not matter of course, because she could, and did, do all the talking herself—which ought to be a relief, but in fact gave him the feeling of being out in a very high wind.

He had got as far as this in his thoughts, when a very faint sound made him turn his head. Lila Dryden had come through one of the long windows which still stood wide to the terrace. She wore a grey flannel coat and skirt and a white jumper, and she was bare-headed. Her pale gold hair was the only colour about her until the gold lashes lifted and he saw the forget-me-not blue of her eyes.

She came over and sat on the balustrade.

‘They’re talking,’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘About me. I wish they wouldn’t.’

She had known Adrian Grey for almost as long as she could remember. He had planned and built a marvellous doll’s house for her when she was seven years old. Grown-up people generally tried to make you do something you didn’t want to do. But not Adrian. He always tried to find out what you did want to do, then he helped you to do it. It gave you a very safe, restful kind of feeling. She was twenty-two now, but she had never had cause to change that seven-year-old opinion. People wanted things and they pushed until they got them. They said it was for your own good, or that you owed it to them, or that they were in love with you, but it all came the same in the end—they pushed, and you had to give way. Only Adrian didn’t push. He listened, and he was kind.

He was being kind now. He said,

‘Never mind, my dear.’

The blue eyes were lifted. They had a wincing look.

‘It’s Aunt Sybil—why does she want to make me?’

He said very gently indeed,

‘What is she making you do?’

‘Why does she want me to marry Herbert?’

‘Don’t you want to?’

Her eyes were bright with tears. She shook her head.

‘I don’t want to marry anyone. I’m frightened.’

He sat down beside her on the parapet.

‘Look here, my dear, don’t you think you’ve just got the wind up? You know my sister Marian—the one with the jolly husband and four boys. Well, two days before her wedding she came to me and said she couldn’t go through with it, and I must tell Jack. She said she knew she was a wretch and her name would be mud, but she couldn’t marry him, and that was that. So at last I went and told him. He burst out laughing and said, “We’ll soon see about that!” Well, as soon as she saw him she flung her arms round his neck and began to cry, and said she thought she wasn’t ever going to see him again. I went away and left them to it. Afterwards, when I asked her what she meant by making a fool of herself and me, she just laughed and said it was stage fright and I oughtn’t to have taken any notice. Now don’t you think——’

‘No’—she shook her head mournfully—‘I’m not like that.’

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded.

‘You don’t understand.’

‘Suppose you try and tell me—that is, if you want to.’

She nodded again. It was always easy to tell Adrian. He didn’t push, and he didn’t fuss, and he didn’t try to make you say what you didn’t mean. A momentary colour came into her face. Her eyes fell.

‘I don’t like being touched——’

‘My dear child!’

He was too deeply disturbed and concerned to keep the sound of it out of his voice.

She took his hand in both of hers and held it with a kind of quivering intensity.

‘I can’t bear it—with almost anyone. Even with Bill I didn’t like it when he really kissed me—and I’m fond of Bill—I really am.’

‘Bill Waring?’

She nodded. Her eyes were brimming over.

‘Aunt Sybil said we weren’t engaged. It wasn’t given out—because he was going to America. And she said, “Wait till he comes back.” Only he didn’t write. Ray says he was in hospital—he’d had an accident. And she wanted me to meet his train—but I couldn’t, could I? Only afterwards I thought if I had, perhaps I wouldn’t have had to marry Herbert.’

‘Don’t you want to marry him?’

Her clasp became agonized. Her ‘Oh, no——’ came on a long sighing breath.

‘But, my poor child, why did you ever say you would?’

‘She made me—Aunt Sybil.’

‘But, Lila——’

‘She can make you do anything. It’s not only me. She pushes and pushes until you just can’t go on saying no.’ She looked up at him very piteously. ‘Why does she want me to marry him?’

‘I don’t know, Lila. But no one can make you do it if you don’t want to.’

She let go of his hand as suddenly as she had caught at it.

‘You don’t understand.’

The tired, hopeless tone wrung his heart. He had to wait a moment before he said,

‘Lila—listen! Tell Lady Dryden, and tell Whitall, that you want a little more time. It isn’t usual for an engagement and a wedding to be run together in a few weeks. I don’t think they would like any talk about it, and if you said you felt you were being rushed, I don’t see how they could refuse to give you more time.’

She made a slight helpless movement.

‘It’s no good. I’ve tried—last night. She wouldn’t listen. The invitations are out.’

‘She could say you had measles or something. My cousin Elizabeth Baillie did that.’

‘Aunt Sybil wouldn’t.’

It was possible to make himself believe that she would. Feeling like that about it, there really wasn’t much chance of convincing Lila. His thoughts recurred to Bill Waring. There had been something about meeting a train. If it was a case of meeting trains, Bill must be back. He gazed at her in an unhappy way and put the question.

‘Is Bill Waring back?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘Oh, no.’

An unaccustomed frown drew his brows together.

‘You said something about meeting a train. When did he get back?’

She caught her breath.

‘It was yesterday. Ray wanted me to go and meet him. Adrian, I couldn’t—could I?’

Instead of saying, ‘Not if you didn’t want to,’ which was what she expected, he took her by surprise.

‘Why couldn’t you?’

A faint flush tinged her cheeks. Her eyes widened.

‘The invitations—Aunt Sybil——’

‘That wouldn’t have stopped you if you had really wanted to go.’ He waited a moment, and then said, ‘Would it?’

She looked at him like a pleading child.

‘He didn’t write. Aunt Sybil said he’d forgotten all about me. I didn’t know he’d had an accident.’

‘Did he have an accident?’

‘Ray said he did. She said he was in hospital and he didn’t even know who he was. So he couldn’t write, could he? But he’s all right now—she met Mr. Rumbold, and he told her.’

‘And you still didn’t want to go and meet him?’

She hung her head.

‘I thought he’d be angry—about my marrying Herbert.’

‘My dear child! You wouldn’t expect him to be pleased—would you?’

Her hand came out and slipped into his.

‘I can’t bear it when people are angry. Bill gets dreadfully angry.’

‘With you?’

She said in a doubtful voice,

‘No—not really. But if he did, I couldn’t bear it. There was a man throwing stones at a dog—it’s leg was broken—I thought Bill was going to kill him. He frightened me dreadfully.’

If Adrian felt an inclination to smile, he subdued it. He could imagine Bill Waring dealing out summary justice. With a genuine desire for knowledge, he inquired,

‘What did he do?’

Lila shuddered.

‘He knocked him down, and when he got up he knocked him down again. The poor man’s nose was bleeding dreadfully. And he looked as if he liked it——’

‘The man?’

This time there was no doubt about the smile. Lila gazed reproachfully.

‘No—Bill. And he did the dog’s leg up in a splint and took it to the vet. So you see I do know what he’s like when he’s angry. And it’s no use Ray saying go and meet the train, because I couldn’t. And anyhow it was yesterday.’

There was relief in the conclusion, but in a moment it gave way to fear.

‘Adrian, it’s dreadful—Ray says he’s coming down. That’s why I had to find you.’

‘Bill is coming down here?’

‘Oh, yes. And he mustn’t. She says he wants to see me. And it isn’t any good, Adrian, is it? She rang me up and told me—just now, while Aunt Sybil and Herbert were talking. She said he had to stay in town today and see Mr. Rumbold, and then he was coming down. And I said it wasn’t any good, and please not to let him come, and she said, “You can’t put a cyclone in your pocket.” Ray says things like that. And I didn’t know what she meant, but I thought it sounded as if he might be quite dreadfully angry. Don’t you think so?’

He said very moderately,

‘If he loves you, you couldn’t expect him not to be angry when he heard you were going to marry someone else—especially if he thought you and he were still engaged.’

She said, ‘Oh——’ Then, in a wavering voice, ‘It wasn’t given out.’

‘I don’t think he would feel that made any difference.’

She pulled her hand away.

‘But he mustn’t come. You won’t let him, will you? Aunt Sybil would be quite dreadfully angry—and—and Herbert. You’ll stop him, won’t you?’

Adrian Grey had been blessed, or cursed, with a good deal of imagination. It provided him with a vivid picture of Bill Waring determined on an interview with Lila and quite unlikely to stick at trifles in order to get what he wanted. With Lady Dryden and Herbert Whitall participating, there were all the ingredients of a really first-class row. What he could not see was what he could possibly do to prevent it. He had never felt any urge to ride the whirlwind and control the storm. At the best he could only hope to hold a humble umbrella over Lila’s cherished head.

She said, ‘You won’t let him come!’ And all he could say was, ‘I’ll do what I can.’

They seemed to have reached an impasse. What he wanted to do was to pick her up and take her away. He had a car in the garage, and enough petrol to take her to Marian. She was of age, and nobody could stop them. It was a perfectly possible thing to do, and he could no more have done it than he could have done any of the other things which were against his code. Afterwards he was to reproach himself very bitterly. At the time he could only look at her.

Just what he would have said, he didn’t know, because Miss Whitaker came out on to the terrace in her neat clerical grey with its high-necked shirt and severe black tie. She was the real secretary, and it was stamped all over her. Not bad looking in a rigid way—dark hair impeccably waved, hands carefully tended, eyes quite good if a little closely set, eyebrows shaped to an arch. She came briskly up to them and addressed Lila.

‘Lady Dryden is asking for you.’