Читать книгу The Valley of Ghosts - Edgar Wallace - Страница 8

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Stella nelson was at breakfast when her father came down. He was no longer a haughty dismisser of servants, but an ashamed and humble man. His whole attitude was an apology.

Once Stella used to be deceived by his penitence. She had argued that if a man realised and was truly sorry for his faults—and he had not grown so callous that he passed over these acts in silence—there must be something in him and a chance of reformation. But that illusion had passed, with many others.

"Good morning, my dear. I hardly like to look you in the face," he said as he sat down and unfolded his serviette with uncertain hands. "I am a beast, a beast!"

She poured out his tea unimpressed.

"This is the last time, Stella, the very last time. I resolved as I was dressing this morning that never again would a wineglass touch my lips. Was I unusually stupid? I didn't dismiss the servants, did I?"

"They've gone," she said.

He groaned.

"Perhaps I could see them," he said eagerly. "I think I could put things right with Nellie. She was not a bad girl, though she did lose my gold studs. I'll go down and explain, and we'll have them all up by lunch-time, my love. I can't allow you to do the housework."

"Nellie came for her box this morning," said the girl in a matter-of-fact tone, "and I made the same suggestion to her. She says she wouldn't come back if I paid her a million a year. I didn't offer it to her."

"Did I—did I call her names?" he asked guiltily.

She nodded and pushed the marmalade towards him.

"Have you any money? I want to go shopping," she said.

He shifted uneasily in his chair.

"I'm afraid I haven't," he said. "I went into Beverley yesterday morning after you had gone and made one or two purchases—"

"I know," Stella interrupted calmly. "You left exactly half a bottle, which I poured down the sink."

"You shouldn't have done that, my dear," he murmured. "It is poisonous stuff, but it is good to have in the house in case of sudden sickness."

Kenneth Nelson, on such occasions as these, invariably presupposed the outbreak of some malady which could only be cured by the liberal application of whisky.

"If we're sick we'll send for Dr. Granitt," said the girl briskly. "Are you sure you have no money, Father?"

"I have a few shillings." He put his hand in his pocket and produced a handful of loose silver. "I shall want that," he said hastily. "I get my cheque from the dealers today. Why it hasn't come this morning I don't know. These dealers are most unbusiness-like."

"The cheque came last week," she said, without heat. "You took the letter from the maid and asked her not to tell me anything about it. She told me that yesterday, amongst other things."

He groaned again.

"I'm a spendthrift, I'm a wastrel," he wailed. "I drove your poor mother into her grave by my beastliness. You know I did, Stella."

In such moments of self-abnegation he found pleasure in the exposure of his weakness. That it might hurt his daughter did not occur to him. He himself derived such complete satisfaction in his role of flagellant that he could not imagine she did not share his painful pleasure.

"Don't," she said almost sharply, and returned instantly to the money question. "I must have some money, Father. The maids are coming up for their wages today. Or, to be more exact, I promised to send it down to them."

He was hunched up in his chair, an injured, brooding man.

"I'll make a start on that Pygmalion today," he said. "It will take some while to do, and it will be a long time before I get the money. These infernal dealers—"

He had started on the Pygmalion three years before, but had not been quite in the mood ever since. Stella had given up engaging models for him and accepted the announcement that a start was to be made upon the great picture with the same indifference as she received his penitence.

He brightened up as a thought occurred to him and leant across the table, dropping his voice to a confidential tone.

"I suppose, Stella, you couldn't get—You remember the money you got when that wretched jam manufacturer sued me for the money he had deposited—as if I could paint a picture to order! I was never a tradesman, dear. I don't sing a song about art, but art is the essence of existence to me."

He looked at her expectantly, pleadingly. She shook her head.

"I cannot get any more money that way," she said. "I'd sooner die." She shivered at the recollection. "Don't let us talk about it. Father," she said.

Presently he got up and strolled disconsolately about the room, posing before the half-finished portrait of her which had been begun when she was three years younger.

"There's the makings of a picture," he said. "I've a jolly good mind to concentrate on that."

Later, however, she found him in the studio examining another incomplete canvas.

"A couple of weeks' work on that, Stella, and, by gad! I've got an Academy picture!"

"Why don't you make a start. Father?" she asked. "I'll help you fix the palette. Get into your smock and start."

"There's tons of time," he said airily. "I'm going to see if I can find a professional. One round would make a man of me."

She saw him afterwards disappearing into the valley, with his caddie behind him and the professional walking by his side, a man without a care in the world, without a thought of tomorrow or a real regret for yesterday.

When he came back to lunch he was so bright and confident, so dogmatic and optimistic, that she knew that his good resolution of the morning was already an amusing memory.

"It is knowing where to stop, Stella, that makes all the difference between a man and a fool," he said. "There is nobody who knows better than myself when he's had enough. The trouble with me is that I am an artist. My mind goes wandering into rosy dreamlands, and I drink mechanically, without realising that I am drinking at all." He laughed outrageously and pinched her cheek. "We'll have that Pygmalion finished in a week," he said. "You think that's a stupid promise, don't you? I can tell you, my dear, that as a young man, when I painted the picture which made me famous—Homer drinking the hemlock—I began to work on the Sunday morning and the thing was finished on Tuesday night. Of course I touched it up afterwards."

She had heard the story innumerable times.

"Did you drink anything at the club, Father?"

The club was a tiny bungalow at the end of the village, and had perhaps the smallest membership of any golfing club in the world.

"Just a whisky and soda," he said airily, and added something about a man knowing when he had had enough.

Kenneth Nelson had the habit of repression, a habit to which neurotics are susceptible. He could put out of his mind any aspect of life and every memory of word or deed that was unpleasant to think about, or shocked his artistic soul. He referred to this facility as a gift; it was, in fact, a weakness, symptomatic of his neurosis. His speech abounded in wise sayings, old saws that had crystallised into a habit of thought. His favourite, and, indeed, the only poetical quotation, was that stanza from Omar which deals with the inevitability of the moving finger.

"Oh, by the way, Stella, we have a visitor at the guesthouse. Upon my word, it is poetical justice," he chuckled. "That rascal Bellingham was a thief, a burglar. By gad! I shouldn't have slept soundly if I had known that."

The girl wondered what there was in the house, other than unfinished paintings, that might have tempted the errant Scottie.

Before her father could continue she had an intuitive knowledge of what he was going to say.

"The detective?" she asked quickly.

He nodded.

"He is staying here for a day or two—quite an interesting fellow, a most charming fellow. He's a guest of Merrivan's in a sense. You know how Merrivan picks up odd people, impossible people as a rule; but this time he's picked a winner. This detective fellow—Andrew, Andrew, what the devil is it? A Scottish name. I never can remember all the Macs."

"Macleod."

"Andrew Macleod, that's it! Well, he is the fellow who was sent down to arrest the burglar, and very smart he was about it. He is quite a lion. Of course, it is unusual to find a detective who is a gentleman, except in books. You'd like to meet him, wouldn't you, my dear? He would interest you."

"No," she said, so quickly that he looked at her. "I'm really not interested," she went on hurriedly, "and besides, I saw him in the post office yesterday morning and didn't like the look of him."

Mr Nelson yawned and looked at his watch.

"Well, I'll get along. I promised Pearson I'd partner him in a foursome this afternoon. You're sure you won't come up to tea?"

She did not ask him inconvenient questions about the unfinished Pygmalion. Two years ago, when she first came back from school, she would have been surprised that he had so quickly forgotten his noble intentions, and would have suggested that he spent the afternoon in his studio, and he would have replied that he would get up early the next morning and make a good start. If she had repeated the suggestion now, she would have had the same answer. She was resigned now, resigned to everything. Things must work out as they might. She had made her effort and had failed. Recalling the journey to town and the high hopes she had set upon the interview which had proved impossible, she knew that her wild flutter to escape had been futile from the conception of the idea. The worst must happen. It was Kismet.

When she had come down that morning she had found a letter from Arthur Wilmot, and, after making sure that he was the writer, she had torn it up unread and thrown it into the wastepaper basket. He was the least disturbing element of all.

As to the detective, he also was fate. He must do whatever he wished, whatever it was his duty to do. She was resigned to the worst, and he was included in her category of misfortunes. Today he headed the list.

She spent the afternoon interviewing the raw materials of service. They were crude country girls, who gaped at her, and giggled at the labour-saving devices to which she introduced them. It was a waste of time to look for trained servants, for they knew the house, and they had heard of Kenneth Nelson in his cups.

A secret and dwindling reserve of money which she kept in her desk enabled her to discharge her liabilities to the servants whom Nelson, in his lordly way, had dismissed. She had just finished the heart-breaking task of teaching the new cook the delicate art of tea-making ("I likes it hot and strong myself, miss," said that lady) when Mr Merrivan arrived. She saw him through the window, and opened the door to him herself.

He was an unwelcome visitor, though she did not dislike him. She stilled the flutter of apprehension which she felt by committing him to the category of her inevitabilities, and gained a certain peace of mind thereby.

"A delicate errand. Miss—er—Nelson," he said, shaking his head, and thereby implying his unfitness for the mission. "A very delicate errand. I hardly know where to begin."

She waited, fearing that he would begin by reminding her of a certain obligation she had once undertaken and happily discharged. To her relief, the subject which he had come to expound was the brutality of his nephew.

"I don't know what he said to you. I can only guess. May I sit down?"

"I'm so sorry."

She pushed forward a chair, and Mr Merrivan seated himself slowly and gave her elaborate thanks.

"He has insulted you beyond forgiveness," he was starting, but she stopped him.

"I do hope you're not going to talk about that, Mr Merrivan. Arthur is very young, and he doesn't know a very great deal about women."

"Doesn't he?" said Mr Merrivan significantly. "I am sorry to say I disagree with you. He knows enough about ladies to understand what is his duty."

"Did he tell you?" she asked, wondering how this big man came to know.

It occurred to her that Arthur must have inherited his talkativeness from Mr Merrivan's branch of the family.

"He certainly told me," nodded the other, "and he asked me to use my influence with you—ahem!" he coughed. "I told him," he spoke very distinctly and slowly, "that I certainly could not hope to press the suit of another."

There was a pause whilst she was taking this in.

"Of another?" she repeated. "Do you mean—oh, no, you cannot mean—"

"I mean," said Mr Merrivan, very quietly, and, as before, very distinctly, "myself. The disparity in our ages, Miss Nelson, is apparently an insuperable obstacle to my happiness."

"Age has nothing to do with it, Mr Merrivan," she said hastily, "only I—I don't want to get married. You do mean that? You want to marry me? I hope you don't—it would make me look a little foolish if you didn't, but—I'd rather feel foolish."

"That is what I mean," said Darius Merrivan in his stateliest manner. "I have for a long time contemplated such a step. Miss Nelson, and every day I have seen you I have become more and more convinced that you are the only woman in the world with whom life would be in any way agreeable."

Stella laughed.

"I'm a little hysterical, I think," she excused herself. "I never dreamt that you—Of course, I am very honoured, Mr Merrivan, I cannot tell you how honoured, and you have been so good to me."

He raised his hand in protest.

"Do not let us speak of that matter," he said. "I can offer you—"

"Wait," she interrupted urgently. "I don't want to be married; that is the truth. I am very young, and I have no fixed ideas about matrimony, and I don't want to be married. It isn't because it is you, Mr Merrivan, any more than it was because it was Arthur. I just don't want to be married!"

She might have thought that he had expected some such reply, he took her refusal so calmly and with such a little show of chagrin.

"The matter can wait," he said. "I cannot expect a young lady to make up her mind on the spot, but I shall not give up hoping."

She shook her head.

"I think it would be kinder to tell you not to hope," said she. "I like you awfully, and you have been very kind to me."

Again his hands protested.

"But I don't want to marry you, Mr Merrivan, any more than I want to marry your nephew, and I don't think any time you may allow me to reconsider the matter will cause me to change my views. They are fixed and immutable."

Still he did not make any attempt to rise, but sat there feeling his smooth check and staring past her, until she began to wonder what there was to attract his gaze.

"Are things well with you, Miss Nelson?"

"Very well indeed," she answered brightly.

"You are not troubled at all?"

She shook her head.

"Another delicate matter," he said. "I am a very rich man and have no relatives and few calls upon my purse. If a matter of two thousand would be of any use to you, to tide over these hard times, you may command me."

"No, Mr Merrivan," she answered quietly, "it is big and generous of you. I have once trespassed upon your kindness, but—it wasn't a nice experience. Oh, yes, you were very sweet about it, but I can't accept anything more."

He got up to his feet, flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve, and picked up his hat.

"Arthur knows," he said. "I told him."

"Told him what?" she demanded, startled.

"That I was going to ask you to marry me."

He laughed softly.

"He was very violent. Miss Nelson, and threatened—I think he threatened to kill me." He turned at the door. "By the way, did he say anything to you about knowing your secret?"

"Did he tell you that, too?"

He shook his head.

"No, I guessed that. The secret he knew was that you had borrowed money from me, and how he came to know is beyond my understanding. Perhaps I can induce you to change your mind?"

She shook her head.

He was standing in the doorway, his hand on the handle, looking out into the garden.

"When is the twenty-fourth of the month?" he asked, not turning his head,

A very considerable space of time elapsed before she replied.

"Next Monday," she breathed, and stood motionless as he dosed the door behind him.

So he knew. He really did know. And the detective was here, for what other purpose than to serve Mr Merrivan in his discretion?