Читать книгу The Passionate Quest - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8

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Rosina, alone in the sitting room at Maltby Street, bending over her typewriter, in the manipulation of which, after seven months' continual practice, she was now entirely proficient, paused suddenly to listen, with her fingers in the air. There was a step outside. The door was opened without ceremony. With a quick effort, she kept the expression of disappointment from her face. It was Matthew who entered.

"Working late, aren't you?" he remarked, glancing at the pile of manuscript by her side.

"A little later than usual," she assented.

"Where's dinner?" he demanded, looking at the unlaid table.

"I wonder if you would mind very much, Matthew," she suggested uneasily, "if we went out to get something to eat to-night? If we go to a very cheap place, there isn't much difference, is there, and—"

"And what?" Matthew insisted.

"Well, I haven't been out to the shops to buy anything," she explained. "Somehow or other, the time slipped away."

"Have you got any money to buy anything with, Rosina?" he asked bluntly.

"Not much," she admitted.

Matthew slowly removed his overcoat and hung it over the back of a chair. It was quite a well-cut garment, and came from the same tailor as the conventional but well-cut city clothes which he was wearing. He dragged a chair across to the table.

"Let's have a look at the book," he invited.

A little flush of colour stole into Rosina's pale cheeks.

"I'm afraid it isn't quite made up," she confessed.

"You may as well show it to me," he persisted. "I can pretty well guess how things are."

Rosina opened a drawer and handed it reluctantly across to him—a small black account book which she had purchased with great pride seven months ago. Matthew drew a pencil from his pocket and glanced rapidly through the pages. He was silent for several moments, then he laid it down.

"Has all Philip's money gone?" he enquired.

"Every penny of it," Rosina answered.

"And yours?"

"When I have paid my share up to last Saturday," she admitted, "all mine will have gone, too."

He glanced back at the book.

"Philip has paid nothing for four weeks," he observed.

"Nothing at all."

"That means," he continued ruthlessly, "that you and I have been supporting him."

"Don't!" she begged. "Philip will pay us back. He is sure to have a story accepted presently."

"I am beginning to doubt it," Matthew replied. "In the meantime, it will be Saturday again directly. Philip will have nothing to contribute to the book. What about you?"

Her head disappeared for a moment between her hands.

"I shall only have fifteen shillings," she sighed. "I have to pay for the hire of the typewriter, and they charge me for the paper and the carbons and everything. I worked till two o'clock this morning, Matthew. It seems hopeless to try and make enough to live on by copying alone."

Matthew sat with knitted brows, drumming on the table with his fingers.

"Where is Philip now?" he asked.

"Out somewhere," she answered, a little drearily. "He took two of his stories round to show to the editor of a new magazine some one had told him about."

Matthew's silence was ominous. She looked anxiously across the table towards him, trying to read his thoughts. His face was inscrutable.

"Matthew," she went on, "you won't mind, will you, if Philip and I are a little behind for a week or two? Philip must sell some stories soon. They really are good, Matthew. The one he wrote last week is wonderful. And I'll try and get something else to do instead of this typing—something they pay more money for."

Matthew rose slowly to his feet.

"Have you had anything to eat to-day, Rosina?" he demanded.

"Some tea and bread and butter for lunch," she answered. "But I'm not hungry," she added eagerly. "I am really not hungry. I don't seem to need much food."

"Was Philip here for lunch?"

"Yes, he was here," she admitted. "Mrs. Heath sent up what she called one portion of some sort of beef. Philip said it wasn't bad. I couldn't touch it."

"Put on your hat," Matthew directed. "You and I will go out and get some dinner."

"What about Philip?" she asked hesitatingly.

"Leave a note for him, if you want to," was the indifferent reply.

"But Philip has no money," she reminded him, "and Mrs. Heath won't let us have anything unless it is paid for. You can see by the book that I haven't quite settled last week's account."

Matthew, with obvious reluctance, produced a shilling.

"You can leave this with the note," he said. "Get ready at once, please. I didn't have beef for lunch, and I like my dinner punctually."

"I won't be a moment," she promised. "Don't be cross, there's a dear, Matthew. I'm so glad we're going out."

She crossed the room as lightly and gracefully as ever, and he heard the door of her own little chamber close behind her. He walked up and down the room with his hands in his pockets, picked up the account book again, looked through it with renewed care, and threw it back on the table with a gesture of irritation. Then he glanced at the scrap of paper which Rosina had left for Philip, and read her message:

Philip, dear, I am going out to have some dinner with Matthew. He is very hungry and doesn't want to wait. You won't mind, will you? I'm afraid I have been extravagant this week and there's only a shilling to spare.

We'll be back soon and I'll try and get some coffee.

Love, dear,

from

Rosina.

He replaced the note with a frown. Rosina returned, a moment or two later, humming a gay tune and buttoning some very much darned gloves. She was wearing the grey costume in which she had travelled up to London in the early summer months. Matthew looked at her critically.

"You can't go out like that," he protested. "There's an east wind, and it's cold enough for snow. Where's your coat?"

"Gone to be altered," she replied, examining her glove closely. "I'm not a bit cold, really."

He put on his own warm overcoat, drew on his gloves and stroked the nap of his hat thoughtfully.

"Where is your coat, Rosina?" he asked.

She made a grimace at him.

"Don't be melodramatic, Matthew," she begged, "and don't look at me as though I were some sort of starving heroine. My coat's pawned, if you must know."

"Tell me about it," he insisted.

"There's nothing to tell. You were out to dinner last night. Philip and I were starving and we had exactly two-pence between us. It was an awful joke, really, and I don't want a coat with the spring coming on."

"What about Philip's own coat?"

A spot of colour flamed in her cheeks, her eyes flashed.

"Don't be absurd, Matthew!" she exclaimed. "You know how bad Philip's cough is, and his clothes are much thinner than mine."

"Get the ticket," he ordered.

"Matthew," she begged, "don't be angry with me."

"I am not angry—with you," he answered. "Please get the ticket."

She obeyed, and they descended the stairs in silence. During their progress to the corner of the street which she indicated, she shivered more than once. They entered the shop. Matthew put down a Treasury note and the coat was produced. Rosina wrapped herself up in it and her eyes shone with gratitude as she looked up at her companion.

"After all," she confessed, "I think that I was a little cold."

The evening was full of surprises for Rosina. For the first time since their arrival in London, she rode in a taxicab, sitting close to her companion, her arm through his, and thoroughly enjoying their progress through the lighted streets. It was not until they had reached the Strand and had turned into the Savoy courtyard, however, that she had the faintest idea as to their destination. She drew back at once.

"Matthew," she exclaimed, horrified, "I couldn't possibly go in there! Look at my clothes!"

"Leave it to me," he answered. "There is a grillroom, where one does not wear evening dress. I was there for luncheon, and I told them that I should probably be dining. Just leave it to me."

Before she knew where she was, they had entered the wonderful building by a side door, and she found herself at once in an atmosphere of warmth and luxury. She waited whilst her companion handed his coat and hat to a bowing vestiaire, and in a sort of dream she followed him into the restaurant, preceded by a smiling and beckoning maître d'hôtel. They were ushered to a table which Matthew indicated, in a retired corner of the room.

"No one will look at you here," he assured her, as they took their places. "All sorts of people come in at this time of the day—actresses from rehearsals, secretaries with their employers, travelling Americans who are in a hurry to get round the world and have no time to change. If you get hot, take off your coat and hang it across the back of a chair. For the rest, leave everything to me and enjoy your dinner."

Rosina was a most appreciative guest. She gloried in the warmth and luxury of the room, the general atmosphere of well-being, the delicate food, the champagne which she tasted for the first time. She looked in almost awed wonder at her companion.

"Matthew," she asked, "how can you possibly afford this?"

"I have never done anything in my life which I could not afford," he answered, truthfully enough. "To-day I lunched here with my employer. I came in, a salaried servant at two hundred and fifty a year—even that represents three increases in six months—and I went out with a thousand a year for certain, and the prospect of a partnership."

She could only murmur something incomprehensible. The figures dazzled her. The whole thing was too astonishing.

"I have brought you here, Rosina," he went on, "to talk to you seriously. I am sorry for Philip, but it is perfectly clear that his idea of making money by writing stories is absurd. He cannot hold his own up here; neither can you by yourself. You can see exactly what the position is. Your earnings have been insufficient to keep you, and you have spent all your capital. I am the only one keeping up his payments. If I were to go on, I should soon be supporting the pair of you."

"You are going to leave us?" she faltered, in genuine distress.

"I certainly am," he agreed. "In a very short time, I shall have a definite position in the city, and I shall have to commence to make my way in other directions. Maltby Street is of no use to me at all. I have looked at some rooms to-day in the neighbourhood of St. James's Street. I shall move in there next week. You can come there with me, if you like—but not Philip."

"But not Philip?" she repeated, a little dazed. "Why, what is he to do, then?"

"That is not my business," Matthew replied. "I must tell you frankly, Rosina, that I am not proposing to cumber myself with a kindergarten. I will take care of you—you need not do any work at all unless you like—but I am certainly not prepared to support Philip."

She looked across the table at him with horrified eyes.

"You are going to leave us—you would have me leave him—just now, when he needs help most?" she protested. "Matthew, tell me that you don't mean it? You are spoiling everything."

"I was never more serious in my life," he assured her stolidly. "Our triangular housekeeping is at an end. I start life under new auspices within the next few days. You can come with me, if you like, and a great deal that you prayed for when we left Norchester may in time come your way. Or you can stay with Philip, and either starve or find your way to the workhouse within the next few weeks."

The light seemed to have died out of her face, the warmth of the wine from her veins. She shivered as though she were again feeling the cold.

"I cannot leave Philip," she said gently. "I would not if I could. He needs me now more than he will at any time in life."

"It is possible," Matthew declared, in measured tones, "that I am in the same position. It is for you to choose."

She leaned back in her chair. In a sense, the world—her small world—seemed to be tumbling to pieces around her. Her thoughts flashed back to Norchester, to the sunny afternoon when the wind had made music in the rustling cornfields and the pine trees under which they had lain and planned their revolt. It was little more than six months ago, but an unsuspected shadow had crept into the world. She felt the change without being fully able to understand it.

"I will tell you a little more about what happened to-day," Matthew went on, misjudging Rosina's hesitation. "I dare say you remember what I was always telling Uncle Benjamin about his factory and his method of running it."

"You thought him behind the times," she murmured.

"Ridiculously! What I could foresee then is coming to pass more rapidly even than I had imagined. The business of Benjamin Stone and Company is going to the wall. They have lost their trade. Soon they will lose their credit. I begin to understand now why he kept his private ledger under such strict lock and key. He must have been losing money for years. It is my belief that he will be a bankrupt before the year is out."

Rosina was amazed.

"But I thought he was so wealthy," she gasped.

"He had plenty of money at one time," Matthew admitted, "but there are few capitalists who can stand the drain of a losing business. Benjamin Stone is racing downhill. What there is good that remains in his business, I offered to Mr. Faringdon to-day."

"But how could you do that?" she demanded.

"Very easily," was the complacent reply. "When I left Norchester, I brought with me a complete list of the firm's customers, the goods they bought, the price they paid, and the costings of every boot and shoe manufactured. I also had a list of the raw material purchased, with special notes against all that was satisfactory. The only traveller the firm ever possessed who was of the slightest use to them I engaged a month ago on behalf of my present firm. When Benjamin Stone and Company go broke, as they must do before very long, we shall purchase the business, install the necessary machinery, and I have promised to take over the management of it for at least twelve months."

"Poor Uncle Benjamin!" she sighed.

"I never knew a man less deserving of pity," her companion rejoined curtly. "Now, Rosina," he went on, "I want you to make up your mind. It comes to this. You have to choose between Philip and me. I can give you a great deal of what you want in life. Philip can give you nothing."

The shadow of that unformed trouble which had never wholly passed came back into her face.

"But, Matthew," she expostulated, "how can I leave Philip?"

"He has no more claim upon you than I have," was the brusque reply.

Rosina shook her head.

"I am not so sure about that, Matthew," she told him. "We have not talked about it very much, because it seems rather a mockery just now, but I think that it is understood between us that some day, when his books are published and these evil times are over, we are going to be married."

"His novels will never be published," Matthew declared. "Philip is of no account. I have watched him in the factory and in the office, making a daily muddle of the simplest jobs. If you want the silks and laces of Bond Street, Rosina, you will never get them from him."

"Then I will do without them," she replied valiantly.

Matthew called for the bill, tipped the waiter liberally, and also the maître d'hôtel. His liberality, like his meanness, was of the measured order. Even during these first few months in London, he was building all the time for bigger things. To spend a purposeless sixpence which at no time could bring him any return, was an agony to him. A Treasury note given to a maître d'hôtel with influence, he thought nothing of—it was an investment which was to return him value later on.

"It is possible," he remarked, as they left the room together, "that in my conversation with you I have been a little premature. You still have faith in Philip. I have none. I shall remove my things from Maltby Street to-morrow morning, but I shall leave you my address. I think that you will probably change your mind. There will always be room for you in Bury Street."

"I shall never change my mind," she assured him. "I think that I am one of those women who have inherited the fatal gift of fidelity. I am very fond indeed of Philip."

"Affection needs some solid foundation," Matthew rejoined stubbornly. "Philip has no stamina, nothing whatever to build upon. He will disappoint you and make you miserable. Some day you will come to Bury Street."

They drove back to their lodgings in another taxicab, almost in silence. As they neared their journey's end, Matthew took off his hat, placed it carefully upon the opposite seat and leaned towards her.

"Rosina," he said, "I should like a kiss."

"Why, my dear Matthew," she exclaimed, "you kiss me every night when you want to! But why choose a taxicab when we shall be in the sitting room in a moment?"

"Philip will be there," he answered grimly.

"But Philip is always there," she protested. "However, have it your own way."

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He suddenly caught her by the shoulders, turned her towards him and kissed her lips. She drew away, trembling. The shadow had deepened. She was suddenly in the dark forest of ugly places. She felt his eyes following her—cold, burning eyes. She began to rub her lips unconsciously.

"Matthew," she faltered breathlessly, "you are very rough and a little cruel. No one has ever kissed me like that before. I dislike it. Will you please remember that?"

"I shall remember," he promised, "so long as I think well."

Rosina ran on ahead up the steep stairs. When she reached their tawdry little sitting room, which not even her eager hands had been able to make attractive, she found Philip asleep on the horsehair sofa. By his side was the note she had written. The shilling remained on the corner of the table, untouched. There was a faint smell of spirits in the atmosphere, a smell which Rosina had already learned to loathe.