Читать книгу Silence in Court - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 4
II
ОглавлениеEmerging from Maitland Road into Maitland Square, Carey Silence looked first to her left and then to her right to see how the numbers ran. Over the top of her head the voice of Mr. Jefferson Stewart said,
“It’s on the left, if you’re not too independent to have me say so.”
Carey tilted her chin and looked up at him. The look was a challenging one. If Jeff Stewart thought he was going to come it over her just because he had managed to find out when she was coming and turn up to meet the train looking about seven feet high and trying to be dictatorial about a taxi, he had got to be shown. Right there in the station yard she had got down to showing him. If she couldn’t afford a taxi or didn’t choose to afford one, that was her own private affair; it had nothing to do with Jeff Stewart. She was perfectly able to carry her suit-case. And wasn’t there a tube station not more than a quarter of a mile from Maitland Square? If she couldn’t walk a quarter of a mile it wasn’t much good her coming out of hospital, was it? At which point Jeff had laughed, a very interfering sort of laugh, picked up the suit-case with his left hand, taken her by the elbow with his right, and remarked peaceably, “O.K.—you win.” As this was the first sign he had ever shown of a tractable disposition, she concluded that it was the right way to handle him. Firmness—that’s what he needed, and that’s what he was going to get. She looked up and said,
“How do you know which side the house is?”
He appeared pained.
“Well now, what do you take me for? Your being Mrs. Maquisten’s cousin and my being your cousin, that practically makes me a cousin of all the Maquisten lot. Looked at like that——”
“Who’s looking at it like that?”
“I was. And I was getting all ready to fix it so you were too.”
Standing at the left-hand corner of Maitland Square, Carey tapped the pavement with her foot.
“Now, Jeff Stewart——”
“All right, all right.” There was a lazy smile in his eyes and his voice was lazy too. “If your Aunt Flora marrying my Uncle Jonathan Stewart down in Richmond doesn’t make me your cousin, what does?”
Carey tapped again.
“Nothing.”
Mr. Stewart took no notice.
“So of course I went right away and got acquainted with Mrs. Maquisten.”
“You didn’t!”
His smile broadened.
“Very unbelieving sort of disposition you’ve got. Why, I was calling her Cousin Honoria inside of the first ten minutes. She’s got a much more logical sort of mind than you have. The minute I got down to explaining about Aunt Flora writing you to say I was coming over on lease-lend business and you were to be a nice affectionate cousin to me, she got interested right away and said you were coming to stay with her—which I knew, but thought perhaps better not say so. There she was, saying I must look upon them all as cousins and come and see you whenever I liked.”
Carey’s colour had risen.
“I don’t believe a word of it!”
“All right honey, you just wait and see.”
“And you’re not to call me honey.”
He looked disappointed.
“Not?”
“Certainly not.”
“Why not?”
An awful feeling that inside of five minutes this large American might be calling her honey in front of old Cousin Honoria whom she had never seen in her life prompted her to blandishment, a good deal against the grain. She lifted the long dark lashes which made the blue of her eyes seem even darker than it really was and said,
“Jeff——”
“All right, honey.”
Inside herself Carey was angry, but she also wanted to laugh. The laughter and the anger shook together in her voice. She repeated his name.
“Jeff!”
He responded with gratifying meekness.
“What do I call you?”
“Carey.”
“Sounds sort of cold. But it’s just like you say, so long as I don’t forget.”
She began to walk briskly along the left-hand side of the Square. The first house was 35, the next one 33. She said in what she hoped was a repressive tone,
“You mustn’t forget.”
Over her head Jeff Stewart’s agreeable voice remarked,
“I’m liable to—I’ve a very poor memory.”
He got no answer to this. Carey was counting the houses. If she let him make her laugh, it would be all up—she’d never be able to manage him again. But why she should want to laugh when she was furious with him was more aggravating than words could say. It was particularly enraging to notice that he was carrying her suit-case as if it weighed about four ounces, whereas when she tried to lift it herself it appeared to be filled with lead. That was the worst of men, they were so odiously, infuriatingly strong.
Jeff said, “You needn’t count the houses—I’ll tell you when we come to it. Wouldn’t you like the lowdown on the family before we get there? You don’t know any of them, do you?”
She looked up, a little startled.
“Is there anyone besides Cousin Honoria? She didn’t say.”
“Well then, see how useful I’m going to be. Anyone else? I’ll say so!”
“Who?”—a little anxiously.
“Well, Cousin Honoria—now don’t interrupt and say you know, because if you haven’t seen her you don’t. Is she the Queen of Sheba! I wouldn’t like you to think I was exaggerating, so I’ll just say she’d have had Solomon guessing and leave it at that. Then there’s her nephew, Dennis Harland—a couple of years younger than me, I should say—R.A.F.—got smashed up flying, and they’re trying to put him together again—not so bad now—gets about with a crutch. He’s there between treatments, getting home comforts. Amusing chap. But you’d better not find him too amusing. A bit of a lad, as you say over here.”
Carey lifted her lashes again.
“Thank you, grandpapa!”
Jeff Stewart continued without taking any notice of this.
“Robert Maquisten is another nephew. He doesn’t exactly live in the house, but he’s there a lot. He’s in business. Then there’s a niece called Nora Hull with a husband in the Middle East. She drives for some general or other. Pretty little thing—lots to say for herself—knows all about everything. And another niece, on the Maquisten side, Honor King—sort of girl you wonder if she’s anywhere at all when she isn’t there, but they say she packs parcels for prisoners of war. And then a rather controlled kind of a nurse—Magda Brayle.”
“How do you mean, controlled?”
Jeff Stewart considered.
“Kind of starchy,” he said. “Kind of ‘I’m a nurse, and don’t you forget it!’ Kind of ‘Here’s your nice medicine—drink it up!’ But Cousin Honoria keeps her end up.”
Carey laughed.
“You seem to have found out quite a lot in one visit, Jeff,” she said.
“Who said it was one visit. I went and called there at tea-time on Sunday. I lunched there on Tuesday, and dined on Thursday to meet Robert and Nora. You didn’t believe me, but you just wait and see—they’re practically my folks. Here we are.”
The house rose up before them, grey and large. Maitland Square had been lucky. There were gaps amongst the houses in Maitland Street, but the Square had escaped without damage. No. 13 had all its windows. Four shallow steps led up to the front door. A stone canopy overhead was chipped, but only slightly. The door had been painted black. The ornate brass knocker which had once adorned it had passed into salvage. Vaguely its outline could be traced upon the dimmed surface of the paint. The number 13 displayed above in white paint replaced the brass figures, which had also gone.
Jeff Stewart said, “Well, here we are.”
Carey walked up the four steps under the shadow of the porch and rang the bell.
