Читать книгу The Lady of Ascot - Edgar Wallace - Страница 9

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CHELTENHAM lay behind Marie and there was a little pang in her heart, and a natural inclination towards tears, as that vital phase of her life receded with every revolution of the carriage wheels.

It was a different home-coming from the riotous end-of-term journey to Town, and she felt depressed, not because of the life she had left behind, but of that which lay ahead.

She sat alone in a corner of a first-class carriage, a bundle of newspapers by her side, and with no inclination to read the events of the previous day, or to ponder upon the beautiful ladies whose portraits and poses filled the illustrated pages of the weeklies.

As the train was running into Gloucester she took a letter from her bag and read it, half smiling, half frowning, at its unusual contents. John Morlay she remembered well enough. He was a type of man not likely to fade from the mind of susceptible girlhood. She had remembered him after that brief introduction in a crowded teashop. She remembered him more distinctly by reason of his fugitive appearance in Hall. She had wondered what had brought him there, and the letter partly explained.

Dear Countess Marie [it ran],

I have to break to you a piece of news (if Mrs. Carawood has not already broken it more gently than I can) which will either annoy or amuse you. I have received, with great satisfaction and no little trepidation, the appointment of guardian angel, escort, and official friend of the family, to your ladyship. I don't think it is right to say "your ladyship", because in England we very boorishly deny that courtesy to the foreign aristocracy, and I only employ the term to advertise my humility and sense of unworthiness.

I am to meet you at Paddington on your arrival, and I shall be hovering about you like an unquiet spirit during your stay at Ascot. Whither thou goest I shall go—within reasonable limits. The prospect may seem a little distressing to you, but I am the type of guardian angel who knows his place. I hope I am not going to be an awful nuisance, and I am depending upon you to tell me if I am ever in the way. I will chaperon you to parties—being a staid and middle-aged man; I will, if necessary, and partners being deficient, which is extremely unlikely, dance with you, and to this end I am practising myself a new and perfectly ridiculous step in the secrecy of my office. You may imagine me, behind locked doors, pirouetting with a chair, to the scandal of such of my faithful servants as observe my gyrations through the keyhole.

Let me also break it to you that I am a detective; and lest you be thrilled as well as startled, I will add with haste that I do not arrest people, am not interested in murders, robberies (except of a peculiar type), or deeds of violence. I am a commercial detective with a passion for mathematical formula, and my chief assistants, alas! no Baker Street doctor, but the multiplication-table and the rules of simple addition.

Mrs. Carawood thinks you ought to have a man to look after you, and has engaged me for the pleasant task. I am in a sense a hired servant. You may therefore call me John, as you would call your footman, but you need not call me Mr. Morlay, as though I were your butler. Of one thing you may be certain—that I shall not pry into your guilty past, nor examine your fingerprints, nor connect you in any way with the unsolved mysteries of years gone by.

Sincerely yours,

John Morlay.

She had read the letter many times. It amused her, as he intended it should, but it had not alarmed her. She knew something of Mrs. Carawood's peculiar nervousness where she was concerned. And John Morlay was rather nice. He was more than rather nice, he was very nice. He was rather good-looking too. Marie wondered whether, in the manner of other girls whose romances had been confided to her, she would fall in love with her guardian.

When the train drew into Paddington Marie's carriage stopped immediately opposite the place where John was standing. It had been raining, and he wore a short trench-coat that reached to his knees, and looked immensely tall.

"Here I am, on duty, and feeling very foolish," he greeted her as he took her hand with a little chuckle. "I've never felt quite so important in my life and never quite so self-conscious. In fact"—he looked down at her laughing face with great solemnity—"the only way I could bring myself to my duty was to pretend that you were a box of gold consigned to the Bank of England and on which the thieves in London had designs. The carriage waits, my lady," he added gravely, and her joyous laughter rubbed the last touch of nervousness from him.

"You have begun rather well, Mr. Morlay—or are you John?"

"John for the nonce," he said. "Butlers do not wait at railway stations. Shall I drive you straight to Pimlico, or would you like some tea?"

"I was going to suggest tea. I am a great eleven-o'clocker," she said. "We collegians had privileges."

She did not tell him that it was the privilege of drinking milk at eleven, but he knew that.

The car carried them to Hyde Park, where a refreshment kiosk had just opened, and they had their noonings under a big green tree.

"You're a great friend of Mrs. Carawood's, aren't you?" she asked.

"We are like brother and sister," said John solemnly.

"But seriously, you must be, or she would never have trusted me with you."

"I think she's a pretty good judge of character," said John, with a complacency that made her smile. "Honestly, Contessa—"

"Will you regard me as a parlourmaid and call me Marie?" she asked soberly. "They called me Moggy at school, but I don't think we've known each other long enough for that."

He shook his head.

"Marie let it be. And John I shall be. There is a Biblical touch about John which must appeal to a young student of divinity. And I'm sure you are a student of divinity—I have never met anybody who looked more like one."

In spite of the badinage it had been a nervous business for John. He was surprised at himself. In all the years of his life he had never been guilty of such flippancy. He remembered a staid and middle-aged City merchant who, when the Armistice had been proclaimed, had stood on his head before the Royal Exchange, and he felt rather as that gentleman must have felt when the enormity of his conduct was brought home to him. He told her about this acrobatic gentleman and she nodded.

"I feel like that now," she said. "The world is so terribly real, and there are so many things to be frightened at, that I can't realize that a week ago today at this very minute I was engaged in writing an essay upon William the Silent! It isn't an exact parallel," she went on quickly, "except that everything, including myself, is so unreal—but you are the most unreal of all!"

"Do you know Julian Lester?"

She looked at him quickly.

"Yes—why? Of course I know Julian Lester," she scoffed. "He introduced you to me. He is a cousin or something of a girl-friend of mine, and he is rather nice. Don't you think so?"

"Very," said John, without enthusiasm. "Does he write to you?"

If he had thought a moment he would never have dared to ask the question. He saw the big violet eyes open in surprise.

"Yes, of course he does." And then, with just a hint of coldness that made him wriggle: "Are you being Friend John or Detective Morlay?"

"I am asking you in my capacity of inquisitive busybody," he said gravely. "You see, Marie, I've got to know who are your friends and who aren't; otherwise, I shall be hitting the wrong man on the head with the large club which I am purchasing for the purpose and which I shall carry about over my shoulder from this day henceforth."

She was really beautiful, he thought. He had had no idea how lovely she was. The sunlight belonged to her; the zephyrs of summer were one with her joyous soul. He had never yet met her type, though he had seen many fair women in northern Italy who approached her colouring. For the next quarter of an hour he was content to sit in silence, listening to the growing volume of college gossip. She was full of her school, of this mistress and that, of dormitory adventures, and those important happenings which make up school life. It was with the greatest reluctance that he paid the bill and escorted her back to the car.

And then, as they came nearer to Penton Street, he noticed that she grew quieter, and a more serious note was in her voice.

"Do you really know Nanny very well?"

"Mrs. Carawood? No, I don't know her very well. I met her first on the day I came to Cheltenham."

The girl sighed.

"She's a dear, and she's been wonderful to me! Do you know, Mr.—John—I sometimes think that I am not so rich as people imagine me to be."

"What makes you say that?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know," she said vaguely. "Only once or twice Julian has told me—not exactly told me, you understand, but hinted—that I'm awfully rich. He gave me some advice about investments, and of course I know nothing about them. And then he suggested I should ask Nanny whether any of my money was in stocks—I forget the name of them."

"But why don't you think you're rich?"

"Because Nanny would have told me," said the girl quietly. "My own belief is that I have not a lira! And that all the good times I've had she has given me because she loves me."

Her voice shook a little, and John was silent.

"Does that worry you very much—being poor, I mean?"

She shook her head.

"Only in one way. I should like to have done something for her. She has worked so hard. This villa at Ascot is the maddest extravagance, but I dare not tell her so. I feel that if it were not for me she could sell her silly old shops and do no more work for the rest of her life."

"Did you suggest that to her?"

"Only once," admitted Marie; "and I think she was a wee bit hurt. I don't know why. I suppose it would make a big difference to me if I weren't rich."

"A very big difference," said John, and his tone was so emphatic that she looked round at him in surprise.

There was reason enough; for the first time in his life John Morlay was blushing.