Читать книгу The Books of Bart - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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“I am back from Washington, after a terrible struggle to make those infernal American officials understand the immense advantages which my boat offers. They are considering the matter, they say, which means they will hold up my plans for ten years, at the end of which they will inform me that, under the conditions then existing, my invention is valueless. But I find compensation for such disappointment as mine in the thought that three weeks will bring me to you—my dearest dear.

“I must stay another fortnight because Malcolm Suggs, the theatrical person, is going to ‘try out’ that one-act play of mine—you remember, darling, the one in which—no, on second thought I remember you have not seen it. It is one I wrote on my way over. Think of it! I have been three months away! It hardly seems possible that I could have been so long without seeing you—without hearing your dear voice. What a fool you must think me sometimes! You are so calm and so wise, and so well-balanced. Do you ever see Fay? I want you to be good friends with her. She is a real good sort, though a cold-blooded little beggar. And please let me have a cable about yourself—are you fit and well? Have you seen anything of that monstrous and bounding Tirrell? Does the brute still persist in sending you flowers? I shall end up by kicking him.

“All my love, dearest,

“Yours for everlasting,

“Bart.”

Agatha Tamarand, a widow of singular attraction—she had lost her husband before they had lived together long enough to spoil her beauty—read the letter through, and with a thoughtful expression on her face put it away in her dainty little bag.

Three weeks. It brought a sense of respite to her. She had three weeks in which she could make up her mind. She had decided one thing, at any rate, that things could not go on as they had gone for three years.

Their friendship had run on conventional lines. Obviously Bart’s thousand a year made marriage possible, but he had so profound a contempt for that sum, and was so confident in his ability to direct fate to his enrichment, that the question of marriage had never been considered as an immediate possibility. He was content to wait for the return of that ship which never made harbour. In the meantime she was (as she told herself) growing older, and Bart’s monopoly was, to say the least, compromising.

She was fond of Bartholomew, tremendously fond of him; she even told herself that she loved him. Perhaps she did in her way, but her way was neither a fiery nor a reckless way. It was not altogether the way Bart desired, for he was one of those people who scoffed at the opinions of the Browns and Jones of life.

It was sufficient, he said, if two people loved one another dearly, that they should be content with one another, and let the world go hang. Such philosophy, however, did not satisfy Agatha. To her it was amazing that an impetuous person like Bart should want to wait until his fortune came—she did not know his dreams of magnificence, or sense the splendour he planned for her.

Agatha’s little house was a model of what little houses should be. The furnishing was tasteful and quiet, the air of the home one of subdued refinement.

She was not a woman of any great intellectual capacity. She neither wrote nor read, and, beyond a taste for auction bridge, which developed and exercised an unsuspected mathematical talent in her, she had few occupations. She hated sewing. She disliked children, and she was easily bored.

That she had attracted Bart was a peculiar sense of the grotesque in him which amused her. He was entertaining and prodigal. Mrs. Tamarand wanted to be entertained, and she was something of a spendthrift—a weakness that the meagre annuity to which she became entitled on her husband’s death, gave little scope. Their friendship had developed with startling suddenness. Exactly how it happened she did not know. Bart was impetuous and big and plausible, and carried her off her feet. Before she knew where she was she was engaged to him.

Rather, she was “sort of” engaged—there had been no public announcement which would have implied obligations on the part of both—obligation which neither was anxious to incur. So she had waited whilst Bart’s schemes grew and faded, and had waited with growing impatience.

In the meantime new factors had come into her life, and the most potent of these was Harold Tirrell, with his inconsequent speeches and his large and impressive bank balance. He was a Member of Parliament, and when his party returned to power he would be created a baronet, for he was a generous subscriber to the funds. He offered to Mrs. Tamarand opportunities which were at once dazzling and frightening. She was frightened in the main at the thought of Bart. Shallow as she undoubtedly was, she knew her man, for she was shrewd and was possessed of an insight into humanity which is denied to women much cleverer.

The wife of a popular M.P. and a baronet—that was as good as settled, for the Government of the day was wobbling horribly—one of the leaders of society, and rich ...

She would not be dependent upon Bart’s generosity for the little luxuries which came her way; her position would be assured and she might even help Bart in his schemes, because, though Harold hated him just now, this hatred was probably due to jealousy more than to any other cause.

The dislike was mutual, she knew, that was why it was so difficult for her to bring herself to make any definite decision. She sighed wearily, and picked up the other letter which awaited her attention.

It was from Fay Milton, and was short and pleasant. Could dear Agatha come to tea that afternoon? She had something of the greatest importance to discuss with her.