Читать книгу Miracle Gold: A Novel (Vol. 1 of 3) - Dowling Richard - Страница 2

Edith Grace gathered her cloak around her and began walking once more. The road, under the heavy trees, was now blindly dark. She had taken nothing out of that house but the clothes she wore, not even her dressing bag. In the first place, she had not cared to encumber herself; and, in the second place, if she by chance met Mrs. Brown or Oscar Leigh, she would not appear to be contemplating flight. She could write for her trunk and bag when she found herself safely at home once more.

She was new to the world and affairs. She did not know or care whether her action in leaving Eltham House was legal or not. The question did not arise in her mind. If she had been told she had incurred a penalty, she would have said: "All I own on earth is in that house; but I would forego it all, I would die rather than stay there." If she were asked why, she would have said: "Because that odious, insolent man lied when he said I should see little of him. He was the first person I met. Because he dared-had the intolerable impudence to try and kiss me. Because, having failed in his attempt, he pursued me through the house with his hateful attentions. I am very poor. I am obliged to do something for a living. I am not a cook or a dairymaid. My father was a gentleman, and my mother was a lady. We come of an old Derbyshire family. I am a lady, and you can kill me, but you cannot make me bow my head or shame my blood. If, when he tried to kiss me in the hall, I had had a weapon, I should have stabbed him or shot him. If I had a father or a brother he should be chastised. I know nothing of the law, care nothing for it."

If she had been asked: "Do you think his offence would have been less if you happened to be a cook or a dairymaid?"

She would have answered: "I am not concerned to answer in a purely imaginary case. I am not a cook or a dairymaid. I am a lady. All I know is that attempting to kiss me was an unpardonable outrage, and if he ventured upon such an attempt again I should kill him if I had a weapon by me. Yes, kill him!"

And now, for want of a few shillings, she was returning to the house from which she had fled in indignation and dread a little while ago. She could not walk about all night in this unknown country. She had not the means to secure accommodation at an hotel. She could not spare money enough even for a cab from the railway station. She had in her pocket no more than her fare to London, and a few odd, useless pennies.

Dark and unfamiliar as the road was to Edith Grace, there was no chance of her losing the way. It was an unbroken line from the little town of Millway to Eltham House. A few by roads right and left made no confusion, for they were at right angles. The road itself was not much frequented by day, and by night was deserted. The heavy rain of the evening kept all folk who had the choice under cover. From the time the girl cleared the straggling outskirts of the town until she gained the high hedge and gateway of her destination she did not meet or overtake a soul.

With serious trepidation, she pushed the gate open and entered the grounds. The gate groaned in opening and shutting, and she was thankful that no dog found a roof in that house.

The tiny gate lodge was dark and silent. From this she judged Mrs. Brown had not retired for the night. Mrs. Brown had told her that when Mr. Leigh was not at home, and Mrs. Leigh had no companion, she slept at the house. But that when there was either Mr. Leigh or a companion, she always spent the night in her own little home, the gate lodge. This night Mr. Leigh, his mother, and Mrs. Brown believed a companion and Mr. Leigh would be in the house. Well, there would be, but not exactly as it was designed and believed by them. She had given no word-made no sign that she was leaving. She had found her bed-room window open, and she had not shut it. Owing to the warmth of the night, that fact was of itself not likely to claim attention.

The unshaded carriage-drive from the gate to the house was winding, and about a hundred yards long. A straight line across the ill-kept lawn would not measure more than fifty paces. Edith chose this way because of the silence secured to her footsteps by the grass, and the additional obscurity afforded by its darker colour. In front of the house ran a thick row of trees and evergreen shrubs. So that in daylight, when the trees were in leaf, the ground-floor of the house was hidden from the road, and the road from the ground-floor of the house.

The house itself was of modest appearance and dimensions. In the front stood the porch and door, on each side of which was a window. On the floor above were three windows, and in the roof three dormers. On the right hand of the hall lay the drawing-room, on the left-hand side the dining-room, behind the drawing-room the library, which had been converted into a sleeping chamber for Mrs. Leigh, who, owing to her malady, was unable to ascend the stairs. Behind the dining-room stood the breakfast parlour, which had been converted into a sleeping chamber for Mrs. Leigh's companion, so that the companion might be near Mrs. Leigh in the night time. At the rear of the companion's sleeping chamber was a large conservatory in which the invalid took great delight, seated in her wheeled chair. Behind the library was the kitchen, no higher than the conservatory. The back walls of the breakfast-room and library formed the main wall of the house. The conservatory and kitchen were off-builds, and separated from one another by a narrow flagged yard, in which were a large uninhabited dog kennel, water butts, a pump, and ashbin. Beyond the flagged yard lay a large, neglected vegetable garden. The flower garden spread beneath the conservatory, and on the other side of the house to the right of the kitchen, as one looked from the lawn, languished an uncared-for orchard.

The floor above consisted wholly of bed and dressing-rooms, except the large billiard-room, in which there was no table. Above the first floor nestled a number of attics, for servants and bachelors in emergency. Only two of the bedrooms on the first floor were furnished, and the attic story had been locked up all the time Mrs. Brown acted as lodge-keeper, about five years.

The few people who had ever asked Oscar Leigh why he kept so large a house for so small a household, were informed by him, that it was his white elephant. He had had to take it in lieu of a debt, and he could neither sell nor let it at a figure which would pay him back his money, or fair interest on it. Besides, he said his mother liked it, and it suited him to go there occasionally, and forget the arduous, scientific studies in which most of his days were spent in London.

But very little or nothing of Mr. Oscar Leigh or his affairs was known in Millway. He had no friends or even acquaintances there, and spoke to no one in the town, save the few tradespeople who supplied the household with its modest necessities. Indeed, he came but seldom to his mother's home; not more than once a month, and then his arrival brought no additional custom to the shops of the town, for he generally brought a box or hamper with him full, he told the driver of the fly he hired, of good things from the Great Town. The tradespeople of Millway would gladly have taken more of his money, but they had quite as much of his speech and company as they desired-more than they desired.

Edith Grace walked straight to the left hand corner of Eltham House, and looked carefully through the trees and shrubs before venturing out on the drive. Not a soul was stirring. She could hear no sound but the rain which still fell in heavy sheets. No light was visible in any room, but whether this was due to the absence of light inside, or to heavy curtains and blinds she could not say. Against the glass of the fan-sash in the porch a faint light, like that of a weak candle or dimmed lamp, gleamed, making a sickly solitary yellow patch upon the black, blank front of the house.

The rain and the soddenness of the gravel were in Edith's favour. The sound of the rain would blunt the sound of her footsteps, and the water among the gravel would lessen the grating of the stones.

She emerged from the cover of the trees, and hastened across the open drive. She gained left-hand corner of the house, and passed rapidly under the dining-room windows in the left side.

Should she find the sash of her room down? That would be a distracting discovery. It would mean she should have to pass the night in the open air. That would be bad enough. It would mean that her flight had been discovered already. It might mean that Oscar Leigh was now lying in wait for her somewhere in this impenetrable darkness behind her back. That would be appalling-unendurable. Hurry and see.

Thank heaven, the window was open!

It was much easier to get out through that window than back through it. But at last, after a severe struggle, she found herself in the room. Strange it seemed that she should feel more secure here, under the roof which covered this man, than outside. Yet it was so. He might, in the dark, outside, spring upon her unawares. He looked like a wild beast, like some savage creature that would crouch, and spring, and seize, and rend. Here she felt comparatively safe. The door was locked on the inside. She had locked it on coming into the room hours ago. If she sat down in the old arm-chair she could not be approached from behind. However, ere sitting down she must get some dry clothes to put on her, and she must find them and effect the change without noise or light. It was now past ten o'clock, and no one in the house must fancy she had not gone to bed, or there might be knocking at her door to know if she required anything. She required nothing of that house but a few hours' shelter.

With great caution she searched where she knew her trunk lay open, found the garments she needed, and replaced her wet clothing with dry. This took time; she could not guess how long, but as it was at length accomplished, and she was taking her first few moments of rest in the easy-chair, she heard the front door shut. Mrs. Brown had gone back to her lodge, and under the roof of Eltham House were only Oscar Leigh, his paralysed mother, and herself.

The banging of the front door made her shudder. The knowledge that Mrs. Brown had gone away for the night increased the isolation of the house. There were now only three people within its walls instead of four, and this circumstance seemed to bring the loathsome Oscar Leigh closer to her. She resolved to sit still. It was eleven o'clock. It would be bright daylight in a few hours. As soon as the sun rose she should, if the rain had ceased, leave the house and wander about in the bright open daylight until the time to take the first train for London. It would be dawn at three o'clock. From eleven to three was only four hours. Four hours did not seem long to wait.

The chair she sat in was comfortable, spacious, soft. There was little danger of her falling asleep. In her present state of excitement and anxiety sleep would keep off. But even if she should happen to doze, there was small risk. Nothing could be more unlikely than that she should slip out of that capacious chair and attract attention by the noise of her fall to the floor.

She sat herself further back in the chair to avoid the possibility of such an accident. She had remarked during the day, that sound passed easily and fully through the building, owing, no doubt, to the absence of furniture from many of the rooms and the intense stillness surrounding the house.

Until now, she had not noticed the utter silence of the place. All day long she had been too much agitated to perceive it. She was accustomed to the bustle and hum of Great London, which, even in its quietest streets, day and night, never suffers solution of the continuity of sound, artificial sound, sound the product of man. In that deepest hush, that awful calm that falls upon London between one and three in the morning, there may be moments when distinct, individualized sound is wanting, but there is always a faint dull hum, the murmur of the breathing of mute millions of men.

Here, in this room, was not complete silence, for abroad the rain still fell upon the grass and trees with a murmur like the secret speeding of a smooth fast river through the night.

She sat with her back to the partition between her and the dining-room. She had not dared to move the heavy chair for fear of making noise. The chair stood with its back to the partition. It was midway between the outer wall of the house and the partition of the inner hall. On her left, four yards from where she sat, rose a pale blue luminous space, the open window through which she had entered. On her right, at an equal distance, was the invisible door which she had locked upon retiring hours ago. The large, old-fashioned mahogany four-posted bedstead stood in the middle of the room, between the door and the window. The outline of the bedstead facing the window was dimly discernible in mass. No detail of it could be made out. Something stood there, it was impossible to say what. All the rest of the furniture was lost, swallowed up in gloom, annihilated by the dark.

The room was large and lofty. It was wainscotted as high as a man could reach. Above the wainscot the wall was painted dark green. A heavy cornice ran round the angles of the walls. From door to window was twenty feet. From the partition against which she sat to the wall opposite her was twenty-four feet. The curtains of the bedstead were gathered back at the head and foot posts.

Of all this, beyond the parts of the bedstead fronting the window, Edith could see nothing now. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her arms close to her side, her head resting on the back of the chair. She closed her eyes, not from drowsiness, but to shut out as much as possible the memory of the place, the thoughts of her situation. She told herself she was once more back in her unpretending little room in Grimsby Street. She tried to make herself believe the beating of the rain on the trees and glass of the conservatory and gravelled carriage sweep in front of the house was the dull murmur of London heard through some new medium. She should hear her grandmother's voice soon.

"Have you done, Oscar?"

"Yes, mother. I have finished for the night."

Edith Grace sat up in her chair and gasped with terror. The words seemed spoken at her ear. The voices were those of Oscar Leigh, the hunchback dwarf, and his mother, Mrs. Leigh, the paralysed old woman! Whence came those voices? What was she about to hear?

For a moment Edith hardly breathed. She had to exercise all her powers of self-control to avoid springing up and screaming. The voices seemed so close to her she expected to hear her own name called out, to feel a hand placed upon her shoulder.

"Yes," the voice of the man said, "I have made the drawings and the calculations. It has taken me time. A great deal of time, mother. But I am right. I have triumphed. I generally am right, mother. I generally do triumph, mother." He spoke in a tone of elation that rose as he progressed in this speech. His accents changed rapidly, and there was a sound of some one moving. "But, mother, you are tired. It has been a long day for you. You would like to go to your room." His voice had fallen, and was low and guttural, but full of eager solicitude and tenderness.

"Not tired; no, Oscar. I am feeling quite well and lively and strong to-night. For an old woman, who has lost the use of her limbs, I keep very well. When you are with me, Oscar dear, I do not seem so old as when you are away from me, my son." The voice was very low, and tremulous with maternal love.

"Old! Old!" he cried with harsh emphatic gaiety. "You are not old, mother! You are a young woman. You are a girl, compared with the old women I know in London, who would fly into a rage if you hinted that they were past middle life-if you did not, in fact, say they were young. Why, mother, what is seventy? Nothing! I know dozens of women over eighty, and they keep up their spirits and are blithe and gay, and ready to dance at a wedding, if any man should only ask them. Up to sixty-five, a woman ages faster than a man, but once over sixty-five, women grow young again." Towards the end his voice had lost its tone of unpleasant excitement, it became merely jocular and buoyant.

"My spirits are always good when you are here, my son. But when you are away I am very dull. Very dull, dear. It is only natural for me to feel dull, when half of my body is dead already. I cannot be long for the world, Oscar."

"Nonsense," said the other voice gaily. "Your affliction has nothing to do with death. The doctors say it is only a local disturbance. Besides, you know, cracked vessels are last broken. You are compelled to take more care of yourself than other women, and you do take care of yourself, I hope. If you do not, I shall be very angry, and keep away altogether from Eltham."

"I take every care of myself, Oscar dear. Every care. I do not want to go away from you. I want to stay with you as long as I can. Oscar dear, I hope it may be granted to me to see your children before I die, dear." The voice was low and tremulous and prayerful. The mournfulness of a mother's heart was in the tone.

"And so you shall, mother," he said briskly, cheerfully. "I mean to astonish you soon. I mean to marry a very handsome wife. I have one in my eye already, mother." He added more gravely, "I have a very handsome wife in my eye. I mean to marry; and I mean to marry her. You know I never make up my mind to do anything that in the end does not come off. But before I marry I must finish my great work. When I have put the last touches to it I shall sell it for a large sum, and retire from business, and live here with you, mother, at my ease."

"And when, my dear son, do you think the great clock will be finished? Tell me all about it. It is the only thing in the world I am jealous of. Tell me how it gets on. Have you added any new wonders to it? When will you be done with it?"

The fright had by this time died out of Edith's heart. She now understood who the owners of the voices were, why the speakers seemed so near. Oscar Leigh was talking to his mother in the dining-room. They both believed she was in deep sleep and could not hear, or they forgot the thinness of the substance separating them. Between the dining-room and where she sat was only the slight panel of a folding door. This room, now a sleeping apartment, had once been the breakfast-parlour. She had not in the daytime noticed that the two rooms were divided only by folding doors. If she had the alternative, she would have got up and left the room. But she had no alternative. She would much rather not hear the words, the voices of these two people. If she coughed, or made a noise, she would but attract attention to herself, bring some one, perhaps, knocking at her door. Nothing could be more undesirable than a visitor, or inquiries at her door. If she coughed, to show the speakers that she was awake, Mrs. Leigh, or he, might knock and speak to her. Mrs. Leigh might, on some plea, ask to see her, ask to be allowed to roll her invalid chair into the room, and then she would find the tenant of it dressed for out of doors, the bed untossed, the floor littered with the scattered contents of her trunk, the wet bedraggled clothes and boots she had taken off. There was nothing for her to do but to remain perfectly still. She was not listening, in the mean or hateful sense of the word. She did not want to overhear, but she could not help hearing. She could not cover her ears, for that would shut out all sound, and the use of hearing was essential to her own safety, her own protection, situated as she found herself. Leigh had given her to understand he was a mechanician. He was telling his mother of his work. He was about to give her particulars of a clock upon which he was engaged. Let them talk on about this clock. It was nothing to her. She was interested intensely in the passage of time, but in no clock. She did not want to hear of an hour-measurer, but of the hour-maker. She cared nothing for man's divisions of time: she prayed with all her heart for a sight of God's time-marker, the sun.