Читать книгу The Last Adventure and Other Stories - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

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THAT tiny room of his, by which he maintained his connection with the home of his ancestors, was the sore place in Heverswood. She never passed the door without a curse; the servants were forbidden to describe it as “Mr. John’s”, and she had stripped it of every article of furniture to which he could not lay personal claim.

Outside in the hall he met the private secretary. Alma Keenan had been closely associated with the aristocracy long enough to envy and hate the men and women with whom she was brought into daily contact as an inferior, and to loathe and despise the class whence she was drawn. Johnny had no illusions about the girl’s feelings for him, for she shared Lady Heverswood’s views very completely. She was passing him with a cold nod when he stood squarely in her path.

“Miss Keenan, her ladyship sent me a note the other day telling me that you are leaving her at the end of the month? I hope that it is to better your position, and if I can be of any service to you “

“Thank you, Mr. Calthorpe”—her tone was resentful; “I can look after myself. There is no reason why I should bother you.”

“Not a bother, I assure you,” said John good-humouredly, “but there is a vacancy in my office.“

She tossed her head.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Calthorpe,” she said, “but I’m not at all keen on being a wood merchant. If you will allow me to pass, please ...”He stepped aside, looking after her. He found Alma Keenan one of the minor tribulations of life, overshadowed a little in her importance by the booming hostility of his stepmother, but none the less a speck of grit in the smooth machinery of life. He hated to see a woman in the position that Alma occupied; the boorishness of Lady Heverswood was notorious; her insolence knew no bounds. He had seen the girl flush and pale alternately under her scathing tongue, and had admired the restraint which Alma had shown. Her ladyship’s note had been characteristic.

Keenan is leaving here on the 30th. Find her a job in your wood-yard. She is very honest, so far as I am able to judge.

Just that, no more, signed with an “S”, which stood for “Sophia”. Lady Heverswood had made many attempts to get round the necessity for signing even that intimate initial.

John went slowly up the wide oaken staircase, down which a Queen of England had walked to her death at the headman’s hands, till he came to the broad landing.

The sun shone through a great stained-glass window, dappling the polished floor with arabesques of rich colour. Centred in the window were the Calthorpe arms, the bloody arm and raised sword of the first Baron Hanford and Heverswode.

He stood for a moment gazing thoughtfully at the fantastic scroll on which the motto of the house was inscribed:

Veritas Odium Parit.

Truth arouses hatred! Not inappropriate, he thought, as he went to his cupboard of a room that stood at the head of a further flight of stairs. There was nothing for him to do except to rearrange his books, to take from locked drawers the portraits that were so precious to him—and to think.

He pulled a chair up to the window and looked out over the impoverished acres of wood- and meadow-land. Was he being a little ridiculous about this marriage? After all, these things happened again and again. And such marriages, though they had added to the fringe of that decadent set which suppurated society, had also many happy sequels. He had seen the girl—he could not say that he had met her, though in truth he had.

Selwyn was no match for a woman of refinement and native delicacy—a woman with dreams that circled about the ideal.

He saw a big limousine come into sight through Ridley Copse and disappear behind the angle of the wall which obstructed all view. Selwyn was a problem. He seemed to eat up money as fast as it was made for him, and gave no return, not even the tribute of his gratitude.

He went back to his books. Somebody had been in the room, handling them—and handling them carelessly. And a drawer had been opened by the intruder —the lock had been thrown partially out of gear. He was not hurt, nor yet annoyed. He knew the pettiness of his stepmother—it was not necessary to employ a detective to discover the prying intruder. And then slowly a smile dawned on his face as a fantastical idea came to him. Suppose he employed an agent to detect the malicious visitor—that monkey man from the wilds of Paraguay!

He chuckled as he thought of Lady Heverswood’s face at the appearance of this barbarian who was “a hunter of men”.

Half an hour later, Johnny closed the door of his room behind him and went down the stairs. The door of the library was ajar as he drew opposite, and the sound of a fresh young voice came out. He hesitated. His intention had been to leave the house, but now something more than curiosity impelled him to turn.

Lady Heverswood stood stiffly before the fire, talking to a girl, Selwyn hovering somewhere in the background.

At the sound of John Calthorpe’s voice the slim figure turned, and he looked into a face of such ethereal beauty that for a moment he was without words.

He had seen Mary Predelle before, had met her in the half-dark vestibule of the gloomy County Hall on the night of the charity ball, and had carried away with him the elusive impression of prettiness. He remembered that she wore a dress of silver tissue, and there were pink roses on her corsage; he recalled the shimmering background of a cloak ... she was pulling it on and he had helped her, and a strand of fair hair had caressed his lips....

But now she challenged the light of morning that would have found the least crevice in her defence. A straight-backed girl, rather taller than the average—a being to be drawn in the most delicate of curves. The grey eyes were darker than his own, more ready to laugh —they were laughing now.

“You’re John Calthorpe? I recognize you, though we only met once.”

She glanced quickly across to Selwyn and withdrew her eyes almost immediately.

“You know ... I am to be ... a sister of yours?”

John could have sworn that it required an effort in her to say this; that the red lips for a second hardened. Again that swift glance at the smirking Selwyn, and when her gaze came back he saw something in her face that made his heart sick with pity.

“You haven’t congratulated Selwyn.” Lady Heverswood cut into his thoughts like a knife. “John Calthorpe hasn’t the best of manners, Mary.”

John turned to his brother with outstretched hand.

“You’re a lucky man,” he said mechanically. “I— I do congratulate you.” He faced the girl. “Selwyn is a good sort, Miss Predelle—I hope you will be very happy.”

There was no heartiness in his tone; the words sounded insincere, even to himself. Only in certain circumstances could John Calthorpe hide his feelings, and this was not one of them.

He felt a fool—a gauche, awkward fool, as he took a clumsy farewell of the girl and walked out into the hall. He did not know that his stepmother had followed him until she called him by name, and he turned round guiltily, as though she were reading his inmost thoughts.

“Are you returning to-night?”

He shook his head.

“No, madam. The Pealego is going into dock with the tide, and I must see the master.”

Her stare had the fascinating quality of a snake’s. John Calthorpe hated snakes, but was not afraid of them, and he met her eyes without a tremor.

“Too good for Selwyn?” she asked softly.

He nodded without hesitation.

“Too good for any man short of a saint,” he replied.

“Too good for a Countess of Heverswood? But she’s going to be that, John Calthorpe! She’s going to share him with the rest. Nothing is too good for Selwyn! And if she’s the kind of girl I think she is, my boy will make her—the other kind!”

And now she saw his frosty smile.

“I hope not, madam,” he said gently. “If he did, we should find another Earl of Heverswood.”

The old woman, standing on the worn doorstep of the castle, watched the man she hated until his car had disappeared behind the elms, and the terror of death was in her heart.