Читать книгу Who Pays the Piper? - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 8

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Cathleen O’Hara looked up from the letter she was writing. She had caught the sound of a footstep on the flagged path outside. Her writing-table faced the windows of a deep recess which gave her what amounted to a room of her own to work in, though it was open to the study. Lucas Dale’s table, large, masculine, and in perfect order, stood on the far side of the large room. When he sat there he had only to lift his eyes to see across the terrace, and across the valley to the line of distant hills.

Cathy’s windows were at the side of the house. The flagged walk ran below them. She looked over it to a small sunk garden which would be bright with spring bulbs later on. She wondered if it was Lucas Dale who was coming along the path, or his American friend who had dropped from the blue yesterday afternoon. She liked him very much. Or did she? She wasn’t really sure. She liked the way he spoke. It was different—amusing. She liked his being so new, so different, but she wasn’t sure whether she really liked him. When you have lived in a place all your life, you know everyone so very well. You know just what they will think and what they will say, and what they will do, and that may be dull, but it gives you a very safe feeling. When you don’t really know people you don’t feel quite so safe. Cathy liked to feel safe.

But it was neither Lucas Dale nor Vincent Bell who was coming along the path. It was a woman. She came up to the casement window and leaned on the sill, looking in. Cathy had never seen her before. As she met the bold, challenging stare she began to wish that she hadn’t opened that window. The sun on the glass had tempted her.

The woman leaned right in with her head and shoulders in the room and said,

“Lucas at home?”

Cathy was startled and showed it. She was a little bit of a thing, and the woman leaning in at the window was a haggard, strapping creature with big black eyes and bare sinewy hands. A lot of black hair in untidy loops and braids, and a bright handkerchief at her throat like a gipsy woman. If she hadn’t used Dale’s Christian name in the way she had, that is just what Cathy would have taken her for—one of those women who come swinging round to the back door, basket on hip, trying to sell rubbish to the maids and tell their fortunes. Maids don’t like to send them away.

Cathy wouldn’t have liked to send this woman away. She had on an old black cloth coat with a collar of draggled fur, and a black hat with a scarlet feather. There was a red dress under the coat, and the silk handkerchief was as bright as a parrot’s wing. Long gold earrings bobbed and swung amongst the untidy braids. She laughed jeeringly at Cathy’s dismay, and said in a deep voice that was sometimes harsh and sometimes musical,

“Come—I won’t eat you. Where’s Lucas? I want to see him.”

Cathy collected herself. The woman had probably come to beg. Or had she? Her clothes were shabby, all except the coloured handkerchief, which was shiny and new. But she had said “Lucas”—

Cathy drew her chair back a little.

“I don’t know if Mr. Dale is in. And—and—he doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. Is he expecting you?”

“I don’t know,” said the woman. “He might be. He ought to have got my letter yesterday, but I don’t suppose he’d tell you about it. He can be pretty close when it suits his book.” She laughed a little. “He’ll see me all right—you don’t need to worry about that. Oh, yes, yes—he’ll see me.” She straightened up and took a look about her, left, right, over her shoulder, and back into the room again. “He’s got a nice place here—I’ll say that for it.”

She had some kind of an accent which Cathy couldn’t place. It would be very strong, and then it would fade right out. It was very strong as she spoke now.

“What’s anyone want with a place like this? It wouldn’t be my choice, I can tell you. What’s he want it for?”

“You could ask him,” said Cathy.

She got a sharp look. Her lips trembled unwillingly into a smile. The woman said quick and hard,

“Are you the girl?”

The smile vanished. Cathy’s head lifted.

“I am one of Mr. Dale’s secretaries. I will find out if he is in.”

But before she could rise from her chair the woman said,

“What are you taking offence about? If you’re the girl, you can say so, can’t you? And if you’re not, well, I suppose you can give a civil answer to a civil question.”

“I think you had better put your questions to Mr. Dale,” said Cathy. She crossed the room and rang the bell.

She was watched as she went and came again. There was a frown for her return.

“What’s that picture over there above the chimney-piece?”

Cathy looked round, because although she knew it so well, she could always look at it again with a secret pleasure and emotion. The picture hung upon the jutting chimney-breast. It had hung there for as long as Cathy could remember. Two young girls in white dresses looked out from it at the room—at the unknown. One of them was dark and pale, with her hair in a mist about her face. The other was fair and golden, with deep dreaming eyes. Both had beauty. She said,

“It is Lazlo’s portrait of my mother and her twin sister.”

“Not much alike for twins.”

“No—they were not at all alike.”

“The dark one’s your mother, I suppose. You don’t favour her much.” She gave a short laugh.

Cathy blushed and was glad to see the door open. The butler came in. She said with relief,

“Oh, Raby, is Mr. Dale in the house, do you know? This lady——” She turned to the woman. “What name shall he say?”

A card was produced, rather to Cathy’s surprise. She would not have expected that such a gipsy-looking woman would have a card, but if she had one, it would be like this, very large and square, with a wild flourish of ornamental lettering. She glanced at the name as she handed it to Raby—Miss Cora de Lisle. And under that in pencil, Theatre Royal, Ledlington.

Before Raby had crossed to the door Miss de Lisle was back at the portrait.

“If that’s your mother, why has Lucas got the picture?”

“It’s valuable,” said Cathy simply. “Mr. Dale bought all the pictures with the house.”

“He can buy anything he’s got a fancy for these days, or he thinks he can,” said Cora de Lisle. “What about the other girl—the fair one?”

“She died a long time ago—in the war.”

“Married?”

“Oh, yes. Her husband was killed.”

“Any family?”

Cathy felt that she ought to be able to stop this inquisition. The woman gave her a helpless feeling. She said,

“My cousin Susan Lenox is her daughter.”

And then she wished she hadn’t answered. The haggard, sallow face waked up suddenly. It had a moment of fierce beauty as Cora de Lisle repeated the name Cathy had just spoken.

“Susan Lenox—that’s the girl—that’s the one I’ve been hearing about! What’s she like?”

Cathy hoped earnestly that Raby would not be long. There was no harm in Miss de Lisle’s questions, she supposed, but they made her feel dreadfully nervous. She said in a stumbling voice,

“Oh, Susan is fair.”

“Like that girl in the picture?” Cora de Lisle laughed angrily. “Lucas would fancy that all right! And he’d fancy having her picture stuck up there where he could look at it. Come on—give us an answer, can’t you! Is that what she’s like?”

Cathy said “Yes” in a small, displeased voice. She felt offended, but too nervous and inadequate to check the woman’s impertinence. Susan would have been able to do it—Susan——

Cora de Lisle said harshly, “If Lucas wants anything he gets it. If he wants that girl he’ll get her, and she’ll be as sorry for it as I was.”

Cathy plucked up a little trembling courage.

“Please——”

“Well?”

“You mustn’t say things like that.”

“And who’s going to stop me? I’ve got the free use of my tongue, and I’ll say what I like with it to Lucas, and to you, and to Miss Susan Lenox!” She repeated the name with a sort of mocking music. “Miss Susan Lenox—and as pretty as a picture. He likes them pretty. I wasn’t so bad myself. And now it’s Miss Susan Lenox!” She laughed derisively. “I wonder how she’ll like my cast-off shoes. I wouldn’t fancy another woman’s leavings myself.”

Cathy was as white as a sheet. She thought Miss de Lisle had been drinking though it was so early in the day. She had always been terrified of anyone who drank. She got up and did her best to be brave.

“Please stop talking about Susan. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it’s not true. She is engaged to someone else.”

Cora de Lisle stared at her.

“Oh lord—so was I!” she said. “What difference does that make?”

“I don’t know who you are,” said Cathy, “but—oh, please go away!”

“I was Mrs. Lucas Dale for five years—and damned miserable ones too,” said Cora de Lisle.

Cathy said, “Oh!”

And then she heard the sound she had been waiting for, the door opening and Raby coming in. He came right up to them and said in a low, respectful voice,

“Mr. Dale has gone out in the Daimler. He left word that he would not be back till late.”