Читать книгу Simple Peter Cradd - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8

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SHORT-SKIRTED, with silk stockings, neat shoes, a semi- transparent jumper, a touch of salve upon her lips, Eileen Bates was entirely true to type, as she strolled along the rough lane which led from the village to the Old Vicarage. She was bareheaded, and the setting sunlight in which she walked seemed to find threads of fire in her burnished yellow hair. Peter Cradd, as he watched her, was suddenly shy—much more shy than he had been when they had lain half naked behind the hillock.

"You have had a nice day, I hope?" he asked, as he opened the gate for her.

"Nothing to speak of," she answered. "When I am here, I like the sea. You went out, of course?"

"Yes, I have been out all day," he acknowledged. "It wasn't the same thing though," he added, a little awkwardly.

"Of course it was!" she laughed. "Don't try to be polite with me. You're too nice. What a lovely old house! Are we really going to have our supper there?"

She pointed to a table set out on the flagstones in front of the French windows of the library. It was a low house of grey stone, plain enough, but made beautiful by age, and embellished now by many sorts of creepers. Roses drooped over the porch, and there was honeysuckle and purple clematis on the west wing.

"You don't mind?" he asked. "There are only the flies to bother one a little, and they aren't much. After we have lighted the lamps, the moths come. I always have my supper out here, though."

"I think it's perfectly lovely," she declared.

"I don't know much about cocktails," he admitted, as they paused before a small table upon which were several bottles. "I went round to the barman at the hotel to-day, and he told me I'd better be content with a mixed vermouth. We've got plenty of ice, anyhow. Will that do?"

"I should say so!" she acquiesced cheerfully. "I only have cocktails in London when I get taken out. I certainly haven't had one down here, and I shall love a mixed vermouth. Here, let me make it. I know I'm more used to it than you are."

She poured the vermouths into an ice-frozen tumbler, stirred vigorously for a moment with a long spoon, cut off little strips of lemon and poured out the amber liquid. "Our first real drink together, Mr. Peter Cradd," she reminded him demurely. "Your very good health."

"And yours, Miss Eileen," he responded, raising his glass to his lips.

The constraint had gone. He began to feel quite young, almost as though he had been used to giving supper parties to young lady secretaries all his life —a thing which, as a matter of fact, he had never previously done. There was a lobster upon the table, two cold chickens, and some ham and lettuce upon an improvised sideboard.

"I do hope you won't mind," he asked anxiously. "You'll have to be content with my waiting upon you. The old lady whom I engaged to look after me has had to go to Norwich—a sister's ill or something."

She shot a quick glance at him. For a moment there was an uneasy light in her eyes. The simplicity of his expression, however, reassured her. He did not even guess at her thoughts as he pushed a telegram across the table. She read it mechanically:

SISTER BETTER BUT PLEASE EXCUSE UNTIL TO-MORROW. RETURN TO GET YOUR LUNCH. SKIDMORE.

"Lunch should not want much getting," she observed, as she took her place at the table. "Two chickens, indeed! Ostentatious, I call it! You'll have enough cold things for our picnic to-morrow."

"Are we going picnicking to-morrow!" he asked eagerly.

"Why not? There's only one sailing boat worth going in, and as we both of us want it, isn't it much better to be friendly? I'll come around and pack for you after breakfast if you like. You're certain to forget the salt or something. Oh, where on earth did you get that from?"

Peter Cradd had produced a bottle of champagne from under the table. He looked at it a little shamefacedly.

"From the barman. I don't know much about champagne myself. I hope it's good."

He tore off the gold foil and attempted to twist the wire. All the time she watched him through slightly narrowed eyes. In a way she knew perfectly well that it made very little difference, and yet she wanted so much to believe in him. Housekeeper away—cocktails—champagne! The wiles of Piccadilly repeated in Arcadia! Then she found herself laughing at him. His efforts with the champagne bottle were pitiable.

"I've never opened a bottle of champagne before," he apologised. "I suppose one ought to have some sort of an implement."

Again she came to the rescue. She twisted the wires with the end of a fork and cut the strings. He watched her strong, capable fingers bending this way and that, with a queer sort of fascinated interest. Presently the wine came bubbling out, and she resumed her place.

"Give me some of that lobster, please," she begged. "I've been wanting one all the week, but they're hard to get here."

At carving he was more at home, and presently the feast was in progress. The chickens were delicious, and the salad fresh from the walled kitchen garden.

"Rather different to my poor little feast," she laughed.

"I enjoyed your two sandwiches quite as much as anything I have ever eaten in my life," he assured her.

Her eyes twinkled as she looked across at him.

"We both seem more formal, somehow," she observed. "I suppose it's sitting up at a table and wearing so many clothes."

"Let's forget," he suggested daringly.

"If one could!" she sighed. "I don't think," she went on, a moment later, "that I have much imagination. I can never get away from the real things, can you, Mr. Cradd?"

"I have never had time to try," he answered simply. "The only rest I have had for many years has been in bed, and then I have just wanted to go to sleep as quickly as possible."

"This holiday must be doing you lots of good," she said. "Is it a holiday?" he murmured dreamily. "To me it's like the beginning of a new life."

"Unhappy at home, eh?"

"Home?" he repeated the word as though it were an unfamiliar one to him. "I suppose that means the roof under which one lives, or I should say that I had never had one."

"You're quaint, aren't you?" she remarked curiously. "What set you thinking like this all of a sudden?"

"My new freedom," he acknowledged. "The joy of it comes to me in great gulps every day. Every morning when I rise, through the hours when I lie in the sunshine, at night when I get into bed. My bed is drawn up to that window," he went on, pointing to one above the flower-wreathed porch. "I can lie there and watch the stars. Lately there has been a moon too, coming up around the Point there. There are two lighthouses—one a flash light, I can see by bending over a little. I lie and watch these until I go to sleep."

"What do you do all the time? Think?"

"I don't believe I think at all, I just rest."

"I expect you've had a hard life," she decided, holding out her glass whilst he filled it.

"Something very much like hell," he confided. "Don't let's talk about it. It's too near. Sometimes I dream, and the horror of it all comes back. Tell me about yourself."

"I wouldn't for the world," she answered quickly.

"Why not?" he asked. "Not that I want to be inquisitive at all. I know how humdrum and commonplace office life seems, but heavens, mine's been much worse than yours could have been! A few months ago you might have met me any day in the suburbs of London, or in Bristol or Norwich or Leicester, trotting behind a little truck filled with bundles of leather, standing with my hat off to beg for an interview with a manufacturer whose only idea as a rule was to get rid of me as soon and as unpleasantly as he could. I wonder I've anything left in my veins that one could call blood," he continued. "I wonder all the courage hasn't been crushed out of me. And home—I never told you how I hated my own people, did I?"

"Hush!" she protested. "You mustn't talk like that."

"But it's true," he insisted, with almost feverish emphasis, as a reminiscent wave of the old agony surged up from his wounded consciousness. "I know it's wicked, but it's true. I hate my wife. She's terrible — terrible to look at, terrible in her thoughts, terrible in every little thing she does. As to my two sons—George may turn out to be something, but Henry —well, I ought to have put a stone around his neck and drowned him when he was a boy—and Lena—no one can do anything with Lena. She's just self, self, self, going her own way, smothering her face with cosmetics, jumping at the chance of going to a cinema or play with any young man who'll take her, despising her home, mocking at me because my clothes were shabby and my job was poor. There was nothing to be done with her or with any of them. They were just inevitable— just as it would have been inevitable, but for this amazing thing that happened to me, that in a year or two's time I should have forgotten to get up one morning, and turned my face to the wall, and felt queer things inside me, and the doctor would have said 'heart failure, just fatigue, that's all—weariness.' If you don't want to live, the time comes when you don't live any longer."

"Chuck it!" she admonished. "You're the dreariest supper companion I ever had. Help yourself to some more of that wine."

He obeyed her apologetically.

"Remember," he said, "it was you yourself who took me back to the past. Now there are times when I am dazed with happiness. It's the new life—it's just the contrast, that's all, made me bitter for a moment."

"Are you never going back to your people?" she asked.

"Never in this life," was the fervid reply. "They shall share in the money, all right—I am seeing to that already— and they can go their own damned way."

She laughed indulgently across the table.

"Naughty!" she murmured. "You shouldn't use swear words about your people."

"You go and call on them when you get back—no, for God's sake, don't do that," he broke off suddenly. "That's one of my troubles,—to keep them from knowing where I am. They think I'm in New Zealand. Now can't you tell me a little more about yourself."

She shook her head.

"I'm not like you," she pointed out. "Whatever my life may be, I'm still living it, and whilst I'm here I want to forget."

The meal was over. He fetched the cigarettes and moved their chairs a little on one side. Twilight had fallen without their noticing it. The dim lamps of the old-fashioned harbour were already burning. In the far distance they saw the first flash from the lighthouse at the mouth of the estuary. Such breeze as there had been had died, and the trees in the garden were stark and motionless against the deep blue sky. One or two stars appeared, but eastward there was a bank of clouds.

"How beautiful it smells here," the girl remarked leaning back with her eyes half closed. "Some day I'd like to see the garden."

"You shall see all over the place at any time you like." She stretched out her hand for a match and glanced at him under her eyelids. Once more she breathed a little sigh of relief.

Peter Cradd was very happy, and there was a touch almost of spirituality in his face as his eyes drank in the placid beauty of the still night. She lit her cigarette and patted his hand before she sank back again into her chair.

"Do you know, I think you're very nice," she said. "I wish there were more men in the world like you." He looked at her gratefully. It was many years since any one had patted his hand of their own accord and paid him a compliment.

"My dear," he sighed, "I'm afraid I don't count for much—a pretty negative sort of person."

"I don't agree," she murmured, her eyes following the arc of light that flashed across the estuary. "I sometimes think that men are more lovable for the bad qualities they don't possess than for the good ones they do. All the good people I've met have been such prigs,—and so unsympathetic."

"I've never thought about myself much," Peter Cradd confessed. "Perhaps because I'm just ordinary. I haven't many virtues or many vices, that I know of. I shouldn't think there could be a more ordinary person than I am."

She threw away her cigarette.

"Show me the house, please," she begged abruptly.

He rose to his feet at once.

"It's simple," he said, "but I love it."

They passed into the little hall, littered with fishing rods and fishing nets, a few good prints upon the dark red walls. The largest room was the library. They walked its entire length, looking at the books which filled the cases and some old engravings. Her hand rested lightly upon his shoulder. Once her head almost touched his as they paused to admire a beautiful copy of Andrea del Sarto's "Madonna," It was all very typical of an English country vicarage—good furniture, almost worn out, a few well-chosen trifles, and books—too many of them ecclesiastical, but with a fair sprinkling of the modern classics. In the little drawing-room, sweet with the odour of the heliotrope which drooped in through the windows, were some fragments of Georgian furniture, covered with faded amber damask.

"I think it's sweet," she declared, as they lingered for a moment in the hall. "I love all that old, smelly furniture."

They stood there for a moment, motionless. It was almost as though each were searching for what might be in the other's thoughts. Suddenly she felt an immense and wondering sympathy for this, the strangest person she had ever known in her life. His hand was trembling. She felt that with all his strength he was struggling against some emotion. His fingers, which touched hers, as though by accident, were burning. She drew a little closer to him, conscious of a queer, protective instinct, such as one might feel towards a lonely child. He was a queer wanderer amongst the by-ways, some one who had been denied the heritage of life. For the first time there was genuine affection in her smile.

"Don't you want to show me where you lie and watch the lighthouses?" she asked quietly.

He turned resolutely away.

"One can see just as well from the garden," he answered. "I 'd like — it's hot in the house. Let's sit out of doors."

He opened the front door a little wider. His fingers almost bruised her wrist as he drew her after him.

"Forgive me," he continued awkwardly. "You see, I'm not yet quite a sane person. Was I rough? I'm sorry. Isn't this air wonderful? I believe there's going to be a breeze in a few minutes if those clouds mount any higher."

She said nothing. She just followed him out, sank into her chair, and held his hand. They counted the striking of a distant church clock.

"Only nine o'clock," she murmured. "Cigarettes, please, and shall we finish the champagne?"

He helped her unsteadily, struck a match for her cigarette, and lit one himself. He had moved his chair, as though by accident, a little farther away, but she laughed, and made him replace it.

"Don't let's be silly," she begged. "You're like a great child, Peter Cradd, and I love you for it. We will sit here until the moon gets over that tree."

Peace of a sort returned to Peter Cradd, but it was peace mingled with something of that vague, torturing longing which the midday sun on Seagull's Island had burned into passion.

"I wish I could tell you of my life," she continued, smoothing his hand, "but you're such a baby. I know that now. I did doubt it a little, and I hate myself now for doubting. I like you, Mr. Cradd."

"And I like you," he answered, looking into her eyes. "No one has ever been so sweet to me. I can't—I can't tell you just what I feel. I would like to, and yet I wouldn't like to."

"Don't try," she begged. "You see, although you are —how old did you say?"

"Forty-six," he told her.

"Forty-six years old, you're like a child who has never left the nursery! You know why, I suppose? Well, you wouldn't admit it if you did. I'll tell you. You're too unselfish. That's been just you. Other men with your miserable home life would have taken to drink, or any sort of dissipation, just to get some feeling into living, but there was your duty, and you settled down to do it— just did what was right for others. I wish I'd known some one like you before, Mr. Cradd."

"Before what?"

Her eyes were steadily watching the darkening waters. She said nothing, only her fingers tightened a little in their grasp.

"Anyhow," she concluded "your time has come. Jolly well time too! Make the best of it, Mr. Cradd—Peter. You've a right to."

"I don't know what I shall do when you go," he said, a little hoarsely. "You seem to understand so many things."

"To-morrow—"

She broke off. A tall figure had left the footpath and, disdaining the gate, stepped over the low wall, and was crossing the lawn towards them. She watched him, frowning.

"It's John Nicholls, my landlady's nephew," she confided. "I don't know what he wants."

He came to a standstill before them, the same unwelcome person who had called her in from the street—a finely built young man, but a little loutish. His manner was half diffident, half defiant. He held out a telegram.

"Aunt thought I'd better bring you this down," he announced. "Might be important. If you wanted to send a reply, there's only quarter of an hour to telephone it to Norwich."

She took it from him and tore open the envelope. By bending forward, she could just decipher the writing. She was a long time reading. When she had finished, she half crumpled it up.

"There's no reply to-night," she said. "Thank you very much for bringing it."

"As I am here," he asked, "shall I see you home?"

"Thank you," she answered. "I'm not coming yet."

He kicked a pebble upon the path and stood there stolidly.

"It's past nine o'clock," he pointed out, "and aunt don't like the door left unlocked. She always goes to bed at nine."

"I'm afraid that for once your aunt will have to put up with it," she remarked coldly. "I'm not ready to come home yet, and when I am, Mr. Cradd will bring me."

The young man swung boorishly away. Eileen seemed scarcely to notice his departure. She was sitting with the telegram crushed in her hand, still looking out seawards.

"No bad news, I hope?" Peter Cradd ventured to ask.

She flung the little ball of paper into a rosebush and sprang to her feet with a swift, alert movement.

"Take me back, please," she begged, "only let's go the long way. Can't you see the breeze coming down the estuary there? We'll have it in our faces if we take the sea walk."