Читать книгу The Iron Stair - Eliza Margaret Humphreys - Страница 7

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AUBREY DERRINGHAM took occasional "twenty-mile" spurts out of his car, when a clear road, and no disturbing traffic, tempted him. He had a brief rest at Salisbury, and started fresh and keen over rolling plain and Roman roads by way of Blandford and Dorchester.

The sea spread like a glittering web below the cliffs, as he at last dropped from the heights, and followed the steep road to the curve of the bay. He then drove along the esplanade. The clean old-fashioned town was basking in the glow of sunset. The sands and promenade were thronged with holiday folk. At the end of the long sea frontage he could see the heights of the Nothe, and the outlying "Bill" of Portland. He slowed down, and then drew up at the Gloucester. Having engaged a room, and delivered his car to the mercies of the garage, there remained only to bathe, and dress, and dine.

The long hours in the open air had braced his energies and sharpened his appetite. He secured a table in the window, and glanced round at the various occupants of the dining-room. There were not many. The usual British family party who cling to hotel comforts on an annual holiday, and a few scattered individuals who might be of naval or military importance. That was all. The stout mother and over-dressed daughters threw glances of curiosity at the solitary young man in his correct evening dress, and with that air of detachment from his surroundings that marked him from the tourist proper. Possibly they were indulging hopes of acquaintanceship with someone who had scribbled "Hon. A. FitzJohn Derringham" in the visitor's book, and had driven himself in his own car from London.

Dinner over, Aubrey sauntered out on the esplanade, and strolled along to the harbour. A beguiling boatman induced him to take a row round the Nothe headland which forms the southern point of the harbour. From there he could see Portland lying like a crouched lion in its impregnable lair. The Government dockyards, and the curious stretch of the Chesil Beach showed dimly under the clear sky, and by the illumination of the vessels and warships in the Roads. Aubrey found his boatman communicative. He had lived in the place for thirty years. He knew all the points of interest, and discussed submarines and destroyers and training ships with his passenger.

Aubrey questioned him as to the great prison frowning in gloomy isolation on the heights above. It surprised him to learn that a complete town lay at the base of that rocky tableland. A place of many inhabitants, shops, gardens, dwelling places. Commerce and life rejoicing in immunity from the rigours and horrors above. From the edge of the town stretched that mysterious and most dangerous ridge called the Chesil Beach.

"Pebbles and stones for seventeen miles," said Aubrey's informant. "And forty feet high, sir. No one can say how it came there, and the pebble varies in size from a potato to a horse bean. You can walk on the top of the ridge right along to Bridgport. Not that I'd be advisin' it, sir. If any one does try they find they've had enough walking for the rest o' their nat'ral life."

"Do the convicts ever try to escape?" enquired Aubrey.

"They has tried, now and then. But it never comes off, sir. No one could get away from there. You'll see for yourself if you're thinkin' o' visitin' the prison."

"Do many people visit it?" asked Aubrey.

"Oh, yes, sir. Heaps on 'em. I don't know what interests 'em. It's a fearful high hill to climb to begin with, and you can't see much o' the convicts as they do all of the stone quarrying within the walls. And there's warders everywhere. And if so be as any one walks two or three times past the gates he's watched with suspicion. I've 'eard there was an escape attempted about five or six years ago. The man got off in a fog, and somehow made his way down through the town, and to the Chesil Beach. Some says he was caught, and some that he fell into Deadman's bay, as 'tis called. I couldn't rightly say what happened. They keeps such things dark of course, sir. Myself I don't see how any one could escape what with them cliffs on one side and armed warders at signal boxes all the way to the road, and no way of getting off save through the town, where, of course, the dress 'ud give 'em away. A cousin of mine is one of the warders up there. Terrible monot'nus the life. He says as 'ow he nearly goes off his chump sometimes. You'll see the Church if you goes up there, sir. Saint Peter's. All built by the prisoners. Stone work, carving, everything. Surprisin' what they can do when they've a mind for honest work. They 'ave a choice o' eight or nine trades, I've been told, and the workshops is something wonderful."

Aubrey listened with increasing interest. It was new to hear that prison life had its ambitions and compensations. He had pictured chained gangs at hard and toilsome labour. It seemed strange to learn of individual choice, and lighter forms of workmanship than stone breaking.

He remained on the water till ten o'clock, encouraging his loquacious friend to tell him all he knew of the place so beloved by George III. and turned by a royal whim into a fashionable seaside resort. That its glories had departed was evident. The South coast had sprung into favour without drawing Weymouth into any remarkable prominence. But it had a charm of its own that May night as the moon silvered the old stone houses, and the quiet waters reflected the lights of yachts and steamboats.

Aubrey paced slowly to and fro before the hotel front, enjoying the change from London turmoil. The crowd of pleasure seekers had left the sands; the band had ceased playing. The air was deliciously cool and soft.

"How much we sacrifice for pleasure," he reflected. "If it is pleasure, to eat unwholesome food, and too much of it, and stand for hours in crowded rooms listening to a babel of voices, or attempting to steer through a giddy romp called 'dancing.' And then the Club, and the last scandal, and the last unnecessary drink, and home to sleep away the morning hours, and get up and dress, and go through it all again! No one the better for it all, many very much the worse!"

Yet despite the philosophical reflections he suddenly asked himself why he was idling here; what reason he could give for such a freakish enterprise? It seemed as if the Aubrey Derringham he knew had become a stranger desiring fresh introduction. He paced to and fro and looked over the sea and across to that crouching headland. To what trouble he had gone for a mere whim. For the sake of following up a phase of life hitherto unknown and unknowable.

It was unaccountable, if he tried conventional explanations, but when he looked at it from the standpoint of the importance of human life it took on another aspect. He turned from the view of curving bay and walked slowly towards the end of the promenade. It was almost deserted. He passed the stiff row of lodging houses, and came to an asphalted walk and some modern pleasure grounds with seats and tennis courts.

Before him lay the old coastguard station, and above under the young moon rolled the great sloping downs; chalky patches like the white crests of waves breaking the green monotony of their bare expanse. He could trace the great equestrian figure on the slope, supposed to be that of royal George on horseback, paying the town the doubtful compliment of turning his back on it. Farther on came gardens of modern houses sloping down to the cliff walk. Low iron railings separated them from publicity. Some of the windows opened on a verandah or a terrace, and the rooms within could be seen distinctly.

As Aubrey passed along he noted one room. It was lit by a gas pendant over its centre table, and sitting at the table, her head bent on her hands, was a girl. Before her lay a heap of newspapers. She seemed the only occupant of the room. Something in her attitude and the drooping lines of her figure spoke of dejection or trouble. Involuntarily Aubrey stopped and gazed without thought of intrusion. He saw her lift her head, and dry her eyes with her handkerchief. Then she rose and seemed to call out an answer to some enquiry. He heard the clear tones of her voice: "I'm coming directly."

She raised her arm, extinguished the light, and came to the open window. A moment she stood there, her white gown showing against the darkness, then she ran out and over the green stretch of lawn and so to the edge of the railings.

Aubrey started, suddenly conscious of a breach of good manners in thus intruding upon another person's privacy. He was moving on, but the girl called softly through the dusk: "George, is it you?"

"No," he answered impulsively.

She leant over the railings. "I—oh, I'm sorry! I was expecting a friend. I thought——"

"I was lingering here, tempted by the beauty of the evening," said the young man. "Is it a private road? I'm a stranger to the place."

"No," she said, "it's not private. This is a new part of Weymouth; the road goes on to the coastguard station."

"I've strolled further than I intended," said Aubrey. "But this bay is a good excuse."

"It is very beautiful," she answered, but the tone of dejection was evident in the words, and rendered them meaningless. He felt he had no excuse for lingering there, or continuing conversation, and yet he wanted to see the face of the speaker. It was in shadow; its outline was youthful; but the hair and colouring were vague. The simple white dress clung about a slender shape, and that slenderness and youth made him curious as to the special trouble her previous attitude had signified.

Was it connected with a love affair? Was "George," the expected, its hero, and was a broken appointment the cause of those tears he had unwittingly beheld?

Her voice broke over his silence in frank and simple curiosity.

"You said you were a stranger. Have you come to stay, or are you merely waiting for the Channel boat?"

"The Channel boat," he echoed vaguely.

"Jersey and Guernsey. Many people stay a night before crossing."

"Oh, yes, of course! But I'm not crossing. I've only motored down from town to have a look at Portland. I'm staying at the Gloucester."

She repeated the word—"Portland?" Then asked: "Are you interested in that?"

"Not specially. But I happen to have an order, and I've never seen a convict prison, that's all!"

"A convict prison!" He saw the white fingers close over the dark rail against which she stood. "It's very horrid! One can't get away from it if one lives here. I—I hate it! . . . From my window I see it, always lying out there, a hateful; hideous thing! Always reminding one of horrors! The men come in gangs. I've seen them at the station—brought here. I've seen them taken away to other places as cruel. Ever since I was a little child this place has been associated with those chained gangs; those sullen figures; the hopelessness of it all!"

He was silent.

"It's bad enough," she went on, "when one only looks at it, as a stranger, unconcerned with one of those fettered souls, but——"

She broke off suddenly. Aubrey Derringham's thoughts pictured the weeping figure, the scattered papers, the sad young voice.

"I hope," he said gently, "that the meaning of Portland is not a personal one for you?"

"Personal? You mean that any one I know . . . Oh, no! Thank God! There's no one there—not yet . . ."

The disjointed fragments of speech were sharply detached; the tone of her voice had grown harsher. Aubrey felt he ought to take his leave; that he had no right to be here carrying on a conversation with an unknown girl, in a strange place, at an unconventional hour. And yet he lingered. That queer "not yet," seemed pregnant with foreboding. And the girl herself was labouring under stress of excitement that made her self-revealing.

"Not yet? I hope such a fate may never befall you."

"Oh!" she cried suddenly. "It has! It has!"

Like a bow overstrung her strength gave way; she was clinging to the railings and weeping in the heart-broken desperate fashion of a child who has never learnt to control an emotion.

Aubrey Derringham was perplexed. This was a situation for which experience had no precedent. He stood there helpless before a storm he had unconsciously raised. He was terribly distressed.

"Pray, pray, don't cry so!" he said, in that foolish man-consoling fashion, which seems to look upon feminine emotion as a supply fitted with special taps to be turned off at will. "I'm sorry if I said anything——"

"Oh, no, it wasn't you!" She spoke between sobbing breaths. "I don't know who you are! I don't care! Aren't there times when one seems to get straight out of conventional swaddling bands? When all the ordinary petty things look just petty? When one wants to speak out just as one feels and thinks?"

"Yes," he said.

"And that's how I felt, and feel! I'm in great trouble and—it's partly my own fault. That doesn't help though, does it? But I was expecting, hoping for, someone who had promised to help, and—he hasn't come!"

"That d——d George!" thought Aubrey.

Aloud he said: "I know we're strangers. I know I haven't exactly the right to be keeping you here talking to me, but, as you say, circumstances are sometimes too strong for civilized artifices. Perhaps this is such an occasion? I wonder if I could be of any help to you? I wonder if I might say that I'd willingly be of such help if only—only you could trust me?"

"You've a nice voice," said the girl frankly. "I can't see your face distinctly, but your voice rings true. Would you mind—shaking hands?"

Somewhat surprised at the request Aubrey Derringham took the slender white hand frankly extended and clasped it as frankly.

She released his. "Thank you, that's all right. I always judge new acquaintances by the way they shake hands. There's character in it, you know. Your grasp is just right. Firm and assuring. I could trust you."

"Perhaps it's as well 'George' isn't here," thought Aubrey.

Aloud he said: "If you feel that, couldn't you tell me what's troubling you?"

"No," she said, "not to-night. I must go in. But to-morrow—I'll see you to-morrow—if you like?"

Aubrey remembered that he was returning to London, after going over the prison. But he only said: "What time?"

The girl debated a moment. Then she said: "Five o'clock. I'm staying here with an old governess. I used to come to her school. She's given it up, and lives there"—(nodding back to the house). "I'll meet you just beyond the road. Perhaps you will tell me about—the life inside those walls? I'd like to know."

Aubrey thought it a surprising announcement. But the whole adventure, if it deserved the name, was surprising. Even while her last words echoed in his ears she was gone. A white slender shape flitting over the sward and melting into the shadows of the shadowy house. He heard the closing of the long French window, the turn of a key. Then, as he waited, a light flashed in a room above. He remembered what she had said about her window looking over to that menacing monster crouched low on its narrow neck of land. Was that her room? For a few moments he walked up and down the strip of asphalt, wondering if the echo of his steps was audible, half hoping she might raise the blind and look out. But nothing happened, and he at last retraced his steps to the hotel. Only when he reached it did he remember that they had had no clear vision of each other. That they were ignorant of names, or any identifying sign.

"But I think I'd know her," he said. "Even if a dozen other girls were strolling on that road. I suppose I'll not get back to town, unless I make a night journey of it."

He entered the hotel, took a whiskey and soda in the smoking-room, and then retired.

As he was unfastening a collar stud, one of those temperamental storms to which he was subject swept over his mind. "What the devil does it all mean? Why am I here? What am I letting myself in for? I, who hate girls!"

The more he thought of that meeting the less he could explain it. To his fastidious mind it seemed in the worst possible taste.

Talking to a girl over a wall like any seaside cad who dispenses with introduction; accepting the suggestion of a second meeting? Never in his life had he been guilty of actions so irregular, where a girl was concerned. With women of the fast and loose type it was different. They knew what they were about, they could take care of themselves. But—this girl was of a type hitherto unmet, and untabulated.

Why did she wish to meet a total stranger again? And who was the man she had expected to meet, and who had failed to keep his appointment? These questions buzzed in his brain as he took off his evening clothes and tossed them here and there. He forgot that the invaluable Chaffey was not at hand to brush, press, and fold. He almost forgot why he had come here at all. He was hearing a girl's voice; soothing a girl's grief, of whose source and nature he was ignorant; wondering about a face dimly seen, and which he was pledged to recognize by light of day.

And he was going to recognize it. He was going to find out what special grief, or perplexity, was racking that young heart, and had driven it to confide in a stranger.