Читать книгу The Belle of Toorak - E. W. Hornung - Страница 5

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Rigden remained a minute at least (Moya knew it was five) gazing through the black trees into the red light beyond. That was so characteristic of him and his behaviour! Moya caught up the Australasian (at hand but untouched all this time) and pretended she could see to read. The rustle brought Rigden to the right about at last. Moya was deep in illegible advertisements. But the red light reached to her face.

Rigden came slowly to her side. She took no notice of him. His chair was as he had pushed it back an age ago; he drew it nearer than before, and sat down. Nor was this the end of his effrontery.

“Don’t touch my hand, please!”

She would not even look at him. In a flash his face was slashed with lines, so deep you might have looked for them to fill with blood. There was plenty of blood beneath the skin. But he obeyed her promptly.

“I am sorry you were present just now,” he remarked, as though nothing very tragical had happened. There was none the less an underlying note of tragedy which Moya entirely misconstrued.

“So am I,” said she; and her voice nipped like a black frost.

“I wanted you to go, you know!” he reminded her.

“Do you really think it necessary to tell me that?”

All this time she was back in her now invisible advertisements. And her tone was becoming more and more worthy of a Bethune.

“I naturally didn’t want you to hear me tell a lie,” explained Rigden, with inconsistent honesty.

“On the contrary, I’m very glad to have heard it,” rejoined Moya. “It’s instructive, to say the least.”

“It was necessary,” said Rigden quietly.

“No doubt!”

“A lie sometimes is,” he continued calmly. “You will probably agree with me there.”

“Thank you,” said Moya promptly; but no insinuation had been intended, no apology was offered, and Rigden proceeded as though no interruption had occurred.

“I am not good at them as a general rule,” he confessed. “But just now I was determined to do my best. I suppose you would call it my worst!”

Moya elected not to call it anything.

“That poor fellow in the store—”

“I really don’t care to know anything about him.”

“—I simply couldn’t do it,” concluded Rigden expressively.

“Is he the man they want or not?”

The question came in one breath with the interruption, but with a change of tone so unguardedly complete that Rigden smiled openly. There was no answering smile from Moya. Her sense of humour, that saving grace of the Bethunes as a family, had deserted her as utterly as other graces of which she had more or less of a monopoly.

“Of course he’s the man,” said Rigden at once; but again there was the deeper trouble in his tone, the intrinsic trouble which mere results could not aggravate.

And this time Moya’s perceptions were more acute. But by now pride had the upper hand of her. There was some extraordinary and mysterious reason for Rigden’s conduct from beginning to end of this incident, or rather from the beginning to this present point, which was obviously not the end at all. Moya would have given almost anything to know what that reason was; the one thing that she would not give was the inch involved in asking the question in so many words. And Rigden in his innocence appreciated her delicacy in not asking.

“I can’t explain,” he began in rueful apology, and would have gone on to entreat her to trust him for once. But for some reason the words jammed. And meanwhile there was an opening which no Bethune could resist.

“Have I asked you for an explanation?”

“No. You’ve been awfully good about that. You’re pretty rough on a fellow, all the same!”

“I don’t think I am at all.”

“Oh, yes, you are, Moya!”

For her tongue was beginning to hit him hard.

“You needn’t raise your voice, Pelham, just because there’s some one coming.”

It was only the Eureka jackeroo (or “Colonial experiencer”), who had the hardest work on the station, and did it “for his tucker,” but so badly as to justify Rigden in his bargain. It may here be mentioned that the manager’s full name was Pelham Stanislaus Rigden; it was, however, a subconscious peculiarity of this couple never to address each other by a mere Christian name. Either they confined themselves to the personal pronoun, or they made use of expressions which may well be left upon their lovers’ lips. But though scarcely aware of the habitual breach, they were mutually alive to the rare observance, which was perhaps the first thing to make Rigden realise the breadth and depth of his offence. It was with difficulty he could hold his tongue until the jackeroo had turned his horse adrift and betaken himself to the bachelors’ hut euphemistically yclept “the barracks.”

“What have I done,” cried Rigden, in low tones, “besides lying as you heard? That I shall suffer for, to a pretty dead certainty. What else have I done?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Moya impatiently, as though the subject bored her. In reality she was wondering and wondering why he should have run the very smallest risk for the sake of a runaway prisoner whom he had certainly pretended never to have seen before.

“But I can see there’s something else,” persisted Rigden. “What on earth is it, darling? After all I did not lie to you!”

“No,” cried Moya, downright at last; “you only left me for two mortal hours alone on this verandah!”

Rigden sprang to his feet.

“Good heavens!” he cried; and little dreamed that he was doubling his enormity.

“So you were unaware of it, were you?”

“Quite!” he vowed naïvely.

“You had forgotten my existence, in fact? Your candour is too charming!”

His candour had already come home to Rigden, and he bitterly deplored it, but there was no retreat from the transparent truth. He therefore braced himself to stand or fall by what he had said, but meanwhile to defend it to the best of his ability.

“You don’t know what an interview I had in yonder,” he said, jerking a hand towards the store. “And the worst of it is that I can never tell you.”

“Ah!”

“God forgive me for forgetting or neglecting you for a single instant!” Rigden exclaimed. “I can only assure you that when I left you I didn’t mean to be gone five minutes. You will realise that what I eventually undertook to do for this wretched man made all the difference. It did put you out of my head for the moment; but you speak as though it were going to put you out of my life for all time!”

“For the sake of a man you pretended never to have seen before,” murmured Moya, deftly assuming what she burned to know.

“It was no pretence. I didn’t recognise him.”

“But you do now,” pronounced Moya, as one stating a perceptible fact.

“Yes,” said Rigden, “I recognise him—now.”

There was a pause. Moya broke it softly, a suspicion of sympathy in her voice.

“I am afraid he must have some hold over you.”

“He has indeed,” said Rigden bitterly; and next moment his heart was leaping, as a flame leaps before the last.

She who loved him was back at his side, she who had flouted him was no more. Her hot hands held both of his. Her quick breath beat upon his face. It was now nearly dark in the verandah, but there was just light enough for him to see the tears shining in her splendid eyes. Rigden was infinitely touched and troubled, but not by this alone. It was her voice that ran into his soul. She was imploring him to tell her all; there must be no secrets between them; let him but tell her the worst and she would stand by him, against all the world if need be, and no matter how bad the worst might be. She was no child. There was nothing he could not tell her, nothing she could not understand and forgive, except his silence. Silence and secrecy were the one unpardonable sin in her eyes. She would even help him to conceal that dreadful man, no matter what the underlying reason might be, or how much she might disagree with it, if only the reason were explained to her once and for all.

It was the one thing that Rigden would not explain.

He entreated her to trust him. His voice broke and the words failed him. But on the crucial point he was firm. And so was she.

“You said you were unreasonable and exacting,” he groaned. “I didn’t believe it. Now I see that it is true.”

“But this is neither one nor the other,” cried Moya. “Goodness! If I were never to exact more than your confidence! It’s my right. If you refuse—”

“I do refuse it, in this instance, Moya.”

“Then here’s your ring!”

There was a wrench, a glitter, and something fell hot into his palm.

“I only hope you will think better of this,” he said.

“Never!”

“I own that in many ways I have been quite in the wrong—”

“In every way!”

“There you are unreasonable again. I can’t help it. I am doing what I honestly believe—”

His voice died away, for a whip was cracking in the darkness, with the muffled beat of unshod hoofs in the heavy sand. They sat together without a word, each waiting for the other to rise first; and thus Theodore found them, though Moya’s dress was all he could descry at first.

“That you, Moya? Well, what price the bush? I’ve been shooting turkeys; they call it sport; but give me crows to-morrow! What, you there too, Rigden? Rum coincidence! Sorry I didn’t see you sooner, old chap; but I’m not going to retract about the turkeys.”

He disappeared in the direction of the barracks, and Moya held out her hand.

“Lend me that ring,” she said. “There’s no reason why we should give ourselves away to-night.”

“I think the sooner the better,” said Rigden.

But he returned the ring.