Читать книгу Penelope of the Polyantha - Edgar Wallace - Страница 7

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SHE was down early the next morning, and went into the garden to work again round the circle of her problem.

It was six o’clock. The mist which had laid on the sea all night had lifted, and the opalescent stretch of Borcombe Bay was set with a million flashing points.

She sat on a rustic bench taking in the soft and lovely colouring of the scene. The deep red of the Devonshire cliffs, the white of the distant beaches, the rich green of the fields that ran to the cliff’s edge, a glimpse of a primrose road that dipped out of sight toward Teignmouth—these she saw over the uneven edge of a great bank of moss roses that charged the morning air with heavy fragrance.

The colour of it! She held her breath and for a while forgot her difficulties and worries. Beyond the late lilac was a tumbled wilderness of golden gorse; to the left she saw the spire of the Church of St. Mary’s, just the grey tip of it showing above the houses on the cliff head. The house was approached by a steep and crooked drive. From where she sat she could not see the gates, but in the still morning air the “clack” of the catch sounded almost as though the gate were near at hand. She looked up, curious to discover who their early visitor might be. At first she did not recognize him in his grey suit and straw hat. Evidently he did not see her, for he advanced toward the house with a certain caution that suggested a doubt as to his welcome.

Avoiding the gravelled paths, he walked upon the grass that bordered the flower-beds and he came very slowly, his eyes upon the upper windows. Then with a start he saw her, hesitated a second, and came toward her.

“Good-morning, miss.” He spoke in a low voice as if he did not wish to be overheard.

“Good-morning.”

Mr. Whiplow looked round again at the house with a little grimace.

“Mrs. Dorban about? I suppose you told her you met me? Didn’t see me on the ship, eh? I’ll bet you didn’t!”

“Mrs. Dorban has gone to London—do you wish to see Mr. Dorban?” she asked coldly.

“Yeh. I can deal with Arthur. He’s got sense, that boy. But she!” He peered forward at her, his fishlike eyes searching her face keenly. “She hasn’t told you anything?” He jerked his thumb toward the house. “Don’t kid me that she has an’ try to pump me. I know she ’asn’t.” He was a little careless of his aspirates. “Funny thing meeting you in Toronto—coincidence —only shows you how small the world is. Don’t go!”

“I will send one of the servants up to tell Mr. Dorban,” she began, when the appearance of Arthur Dorban in the open doorway of the house made any further action unnecessary.

Mr. Dorban was fully dressed, and under his arm he carried a gun. It was perfectly understandable to Penelope that he should be so armed, for the little estate was overrun with rabbits, and sometimes he would spend the whole morning roaming about on a mission of extermination. But to Mr. Whiplow the appearance of that weapon had an especial significance. His face was distorted in a grimace of fear, and his jaw dropped. Then with remarkable celerity he jumped behind Pen and spoke shrilly over her shoulder.

“None of that, Arthur! You put that gun down, see?”

Mr. Dorban’s white teeth showed in a smile of amusement. With a jerk he threw open the breech of the gun.

“Not loaded, Whip. Come away from that lady; you’re scaring her.”

He put the gun down and advanced toward them, hands in pockets. Whiplow’s eyes never left him.

“You came over in the same boat as my wife?” said Arthur. “Where have you been?”

“In the country,” said Whiplow emphatically. “I wouldn’t have come, Slic—Arthur, I mean—only I was fed with America.”

“You might have written; we would have had the best guest-room prepared, and hired the village band to meet you at the station.” El Slico’s gentle irony veiled something that was not so gentle.

“You know Miss Pitt, of course; you tried to make an impression upon her. What a lady-killer you are, Whip!”

Whiplow licked his lips and said nothing. “You will excuse us?” Dorban’s questioning eyebrows rose, and she inclined her head slowly. She felt rather unnecessary. When they had gone out of sight into the house, she returned to her bench and a new angle of speculation. “Whiplow will tell!” She remembered the words whispered to her over the edge of the sleeping-berth. Tell what? Tell whom? Was Arthur Dorban hiding from the consequence of some crime? That was very unlikely. He was well-known in the village, and patrolling policemen passed the time of day with him. He made no attempt to hide himself.

She was annoyed with her own stupidity, that some perfectly simple solution of this queer situation did not immediately present itself. Men, and women too, did queer things that they did not wish should be exposed. Not necessarily criminal things—unpleasant, unsavoury things not to be talked about and to be tactfully forgotten. Somehow, she knew that the question of El Slico’s shady record had nothing to do with the need for Whiplow’s silence. It was another matter altogether.

She sighed and got up. Out at sea she saw the black outline of a ship that seemed to be traversing the farthermost edge of the ocean. Hearing a sound, she turned her head. It was the Dorban’s gardener, their one English servant.

“Mornin’, miss. Looking at the Polyantha?”

“Poly—you mean that ship? Do you know her?”

“Ay. She were in Tor Bay last night an’ I seed her. Belongs to a French gentleman, so ’tis said. Her’s been takin’ in stores by Dartmouth.”

“Is she a passenger ship?”

The gardener’s mouth slewed sideways in amusement.

“Her’s a yat.”

“A? Oh, a yacht! She’s a very big yacht.”

The gardener, who by birth and training was unwilling to admit superiority of any foreign ship, thought there were larger. He wouldn’t swear to it, but he thought....

She made her escape from the loquacious man and left him snail-hunting. Arthur Dorban and his visitor were in the drawing-room. She heard Arthur’s hard voice distinctly. For want of something better she went into the library. Later she saw the two men pacing the garden path on that side of the house. Arthur’s quick eyes missed nothing visible, observed the figure by the desk, and led his companion out of sight.

“Whiplow,” he said for the third time, “you’re the first man in this world who has ever double-crossed me and got away with it.”

“You’ve said that before,” growled Whiplow. “And how have I double-crossed you, Arthur? I can’t stand America; it’s too serious for a man like me, used to life and jollity. My God! You’ve no idea how serious they are! If you happen to mention butter at breakfast in a boarding-house, there’s three people at the table who’ll give you a lecture on butter that’ll last all morning. There’s another thing. They don’t say ‘all the morning,’ they say ‘all morning’; and they don’t say ‘I haven’t seen him for a month,’ they say ‘in a month.’ It rattles me.”

“That seems a pretty good excuse for breaking your solemn oath, you poor herring!” snarled Dorban, his brown eyes gleaming. “The sensitive ear and the joyous soul of a damned Cockney thief!”

“Easy!” murmured the other.

He himself was not easy.

“You came back because you went gambling in Mexico and lost your money—money that should have lasted you out for two years. And you’ve come back to sponge —but, Whip, I’m dry. You’ll get enough from me to keep you on the lower scale, and it will be paid you weekly. And if you look like squealing—just look like it—I’ll quieten you. Get that!”

Mr. Whiplow wriggled uncomfortably.

“I’ve got to live,” he pleaded. “Now haven’t I got to live, Arthur?”

“I hope so,” said Arthur Dorban significantly, and his guest turned pale.

“We’ll talk it over. I’ll have the girl sent to town. Go up to the village and take a wire to Cynthia.”

At eleven o’clock came a telegram from Mrs. Dorban, saying:

“SEND PENELOPE TO TOWN BY MIDDAY TRAIN. I WILL MEET HER AT PADDINGTON.”

Penelope went gratefully, and with deliberate intention slipped past the waiting Cynthia and made her way out of the station by the subway.