Читать книгу Simple Peter Cradd - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 9

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PETER CRADD lingered long over his undressing that night. Below was their supper table, with its many souvenirs of his visitor's disturbing presence — the champagne she had left in her glass, the cigarette half burned away, the handkerchief fallen upon the flagstones, of which he had possessed himself. And memories—the whole place seemed filled with them. He had walked around the library, touched the same books, loitered in the same places, and now here he was up in his bedroom, his coat off, but his fingers reluctant to proclaim the finish of the day by dealing with the remainder of his clothes. He sat in a small easy-chair drawn up to the bed, and the room was filled with the perfume of the flowers which wafted through the open window, the heliotrope which had delighted them all through supper time, the jasmine, and now, in the freshening breeze, a faint tang of salt. Every few seconds the light flashed across the room—the great signal light from Blakeney Point. Presently, as he could see from where he sat, the moon would climb over that little plantation of scrubby pines, and would lay across his bed. He tried to think, and instead he dozed. . . . He woke with a start. Memories were indeed haunting him. Her voice came floating upward—her voice from near the chair where she had sat.

"Mr. Cradd! Please—Mr. Cradd!"

He sprang to his feet, pushed a little farther open the latticed window, and looked out, collarless and with unkempt hair—otherwise fully dressed.

"Come down, please, Mr. Cradd. It is Eileen."

He saw her standing there distinctly. She had evidently been hammering at the front door.

"Directly," he cried. "Directly!"

He tore on his collar, forgot his tie but scrambled into his coat. He half slid, half ran down the smooth oak stairs, across the little hall, and out into the night. Eileen caught him by the hands.

"That brute!" she exclaimed. "That horrible woman!"

"Tell me what has happened," he insisted. "Sit down, dear."

He placed a chair for her. She was quivering with anger, a spot of colour in her cheeks, a beautiful light in her eyes.

"Listen," she recounted, "that young man, that lout— Mrs. Nicholls's nephew—has made an idiot of himself about me ever since I arrived. What could I have to do with him, or he with me? To keep the peace I have tried to temporise. You see, the rooms are clean and cheap, and I like it there. To-night—you know it was before ten when you left me a t the corner of the street—I got to the door, and everything was dark. I tried the handle—I had been out as late before, walking about to see the moon come over the Point. The door was locked. I knocked and I knocked. I knocked at the windows. I called, but here was no reply. Everything was black and dark. At last Mrs. Chanders— she's the widow who lives next door—put her head out of her window. I could see she was chuckling. 'What's the matter with 'e?' she asked. 'Can't 'e get in?' 'They've locked me out,' I told her. 'I don't know why. It's only just past ten.' 'It be powerful late for a lassie,' the woman sniggered. Then I kicked the door and shook the handle. I tried everything I could. No one stirred in the house, so at last I gave it up. I sat on your wall there for a long time. I thought I'd sleep under the pine trees, and then I thought I wouldn't. I thought I'd come to you. Please take me in, Mr. Cradd."

"The damned blackguard!" Peter Cradd exclaimed. "That sulky lout! That cur of a lad!"

"Hush!" she begged. "They know no better, these people. But what was I to do?"

"Just what you did, dear," he answered kindly.

There was champagne left in the bottle, and he gave her some. She became more normal.

"People like that," she declared passionately, "ought not to be allowed to live. That young man, he is crazy, and he can do what he likes with his aunt. Very well, they wanted to drive me here. I've come. I'm not sorry, are you?"

Peter Cradd was back again in that strange turmoil of the senses, all ache and desire and strange unanalysable conflict. He felt like a man stranded upon a floating cloud. He had no background. He scarcely knew even against what he was struggling, but the pain and joy of it were wonderful.

"I shouldn't worry any more about them," he advised. "They're impossible people—both aunt and nephew."

She linked her arm in his.

"I'm so sleepy," she whispered.

They went up stairs arm in arm. His feet seemed to grow like lead. He took her into his room, and she looked around curiously.

"So this is where you lie and watch the lightnings, and the moon," she said. "But it is beautiful! Is that where you were sitting, in that chair, when you heard me call?"

"That is where I was sitting," he acknowledged.

"Tell me what you were thinking of?" she begged.

"Of you," he answered simply. "I looked down. You can just see the corner of the table there, and I thought what a wonderful evening we had had, and how sweet you had been to me."

Her arm had wandered around his shoulder again. It was a curiously protective little gesture of hers, faint memories of which were destined to haunt him for the rest of his life. She sat down upon the edge of the bed.

"And you, haven't you been a little kind, a little nice, a little gentle to me?" she whispered. "You know when I first saw you, I was fed up. You talked to me—I was terrified. Every moment I thought it would come, the one thing I tried to escape from for just a little time, something in the eyes, some little question, sometimes clumsy and brutal, sometimes subtle and wicked, but all the time I thought—'he's a man, it'll come, from his eyes or his lips, or the touch of him'—and it didn't, and I loved you for it. Each day—Peter—I've liked you better, and I don't care—I'm glad they locked me out."

Then for one long, wonderful moment, Peter Cradd tasted something new in life—an honest kiss, a kiss of gratitude, of affection, a sweet kiss, a kiss that may have been a promise. He held her tenderly in his arms and smoothed her hair. When he stood away, he felt a young man—with all a young man's strength of purpose and energy.

"Child," he said "you are wonderful. I am so happy, because you have trusted me. We aren't all beasts, you know."

"It was just at first," she faltered. "You understand, the eternal one demand—no count of personality, no count of anything else—just that one demand, and, my God, doesn't a woman grow to loathe it!"

He stooped down and kissed her fingers, punched her pillow, showed her the candle and matches, opened the window a little wider. All the time her eyes followed him questioningly.

"You'll be all right?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered faintly.

He poured out a glass of water and placed it on the table by the side of the bed. Then he turned down the lamp. The moon was shining in.

"You don't want all the flying creatures in the world around," he said, as he moved towards the door.

She was still seated upon the edge of the bed, the faintest smile of interrogation upon her lips, the question lingering in her eyes. He saw it as he opened the door, and, with a farewell wave of the hand, closed it behind him gently. Then he tiptoed downstairs, took his hat from the rack in the hall, passed out into the cool night air, and ran faster than he ever ran in his life.

The porter at the hotel was distinctly annoyed. He had been in a sound sleep, and to have this quiet-looking little man, all dishevelled and disturbed, burst in upon him at something after midnight was scarcely the pleasantest of experiences.

"Jim," Peter Cradd exclaimed, "you know me. I was up at the bar twice to-day."

The man rubbed his eyes.

"Why, it's Mr. Cradd! What's wrong, sir?"

"I want a room for the night, but a drink first—a drink for you and for me, eh?"

Jim roused himself.

"What do you want a room for?" he demanded sleepily. "You've got a house of your own here."

"I know," Peter Cradd explained, "but I've had a visitor unexpectedly, and I've only got one bed. Let's have a drink together, Jim, and you must find me a room. You see, I've had to turn out."

Jim, mindful of previous generosity on the part of his unexpected visitor, bestirred himself willingly enough.

"Step on tiptoe," he enjoined. "Missus ain't keen on me going to the bar, though I've got the right to serve a late arrival who's going to take a room. Sit down here, Mr. -Cradd," he invited, as they passed the sacred portals of the bar. "Now just you wait a moment whilst I go and get the keys and open up your room."

Peter Cradd sat down, but very soon rose to his feet. Action of some sort, continual action, seemed a furious necessity of the moment. He tiptoed around the room, listened out of the door, looked into the shadows of the empty dining room and lounge. Presently Jim returned.

"I've opened up a room on the first floor," he announced, handing the late arrival a key. "Number Seventeen. What will it be, sir?"

"Whiskey for me, I think. What for you, Jim?"

"The same, thanking 'e kindly, sir."

Peter Cradd began to drink from his tumbler before the soda water arrived. His companion stopped him in surprise.

"Steady, Guv'nor," he admonished. "You ain't going to drink that neat."

"Sorry," Peter Cradd apologised. "I forgot. Not too much soda water, Jim. I want a real drink."

He drained his tumbler and held it out. The barman refilled it, refilling his own at the same time.

"You're a bit of a sport, you are, Guv'nor," he observed, with a chuckle. "When you came in this afternoon, and wanted to know all about them cocktails, and bought the bottles of champagne, I didn't know you were much at the liquor."

"Very good thing, drink," Peter Cradd mumbled. The aching was less now, the torment of his blood was less, the fever was cooling. His brain was a little confused. The memory of that still, lavender-scented bed, the sheets turned down, the moonlight across the room, and that treacherous, insidious perfume of fresh flowers floating about like some heavenly narcotic, had passed. She would be asleep by now, the moon lying at her feet, her head upon his pillow. She would have given up listening for the footsteps that were never to come—or should he rush hack? What a fool he had been. The front door was unlocked. He had only to steal up those stairs. . . .

"Some more whiskey, quick, Jim," Peter Cradd demanded. Peter Cradd had it, and presently Jim carried him upstairs.