Читать книгу The Missing Angel (Sci-Fi Novel) - Erle Cox - Страница 7

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However, Tydvil's study of Amy led him to the discovery that though he had been married to her for six years, he knew very little of his wife. It was a little disconcerting at first to realise that she was no saint, and that in pursuit of her objectives her methods were, to put it mildly, peculiar. Recollections of passages between Amy and his mother, unnoticed at the time, strengthened this conviction.

Then the discovery of a letter from his mother to his father opened his eyes still wider. It narrated the episode of Amy's telephone tactics before referred to, and wound up with a summary of Amy's character as it appeared to the writer: "A more selfish, deceitful and hard-hearted woman never existed. I feel that her piety is the grossest hypocrisy, and that faith and charity are as far beyond her as my poor son is beyond hope in her hands."

Allowing for his mother's habit of emphasis, Jones was forced to conclude that there was something in the unflattering sketch of Amy. Then he remembered his father's self-effacement, and he saw a light. As he ripped the letter viciously to pieces, for the first time in his life, at the age of thirty-two years, Tydvil Jones swore. "No more! No more!" he said aloud, bringing his clenched fist down on the table before him, "I'm damned if I'll stand it any longer!" The trouble was, that Tydvil learned he had been robbed of his youth and the joy of living it. That the robbery was committed with pious intent, was no salve to his feelings. Affection may have misled his mother, but Amy had been an accessory, not for love, but ambition. It was not sweet to realise that he was subject for amused pity among the men he met in business. The worst of it was he felt his case was beyond remedy.

Two incidents occurred about this time that made him resolve on emancipation. In both of these he was an unwilling eavesdropper.

One night, while returning home from a meeting, he entered an empty railway compartment. At the next station, two men, well known to him, took the adjoining compartment. When he recognised their voices, he was prevented from making his presence known by their first words, evidently the continuation of a discussion. "Tydvil Jones—heavens, what a name!—is a hopeless wowser. And I can't stand a wowser."

The rest of the conversation came in illuminating patches. "I don't believe he ever..." What it was, the angry listener could not catch, but the shout of mirth that accompanied the expression of unbelief, made Tydvil's blood boil. "McRae or Daglish should take him in hand and complete his education..."

"He would be an awfully decent fellow if someone would de-moralise him."

Fortunately, in the midst of ribald suggestions for the improvement of Tydvil Jones, the train drew up at a platform, and the subject of their speculations, stooping low, fled.

The second incident was far more pleasant, and gave Tydvil even more food for reflection.

One evening he was working back in his office some time after the staff had left. Through a mind concentrated on his work, he became conscious of voices near him, but for some time their purport did not sink in. Then suddenly, without volition, he found himself alert and listening to the words, "Well, anyhow, Tyddie is a dear in spite of his innocence."

The voice was that of his senior typist. In a moment he realised that to make his presence known at that juncture would be exceedingly embarrassing both to himself and the speaker. With a grim smile, he felt that, of the two, he would suffer the more acutely. He hoped the conversation would lose its very personal note.

But the next words convinced him that the hope was vain. "I'll bet," came a second voice, and he recognised the accents of that impertinent little Miss Marsden, "that no one has ever told Tyddie how good looking he is. I just love the way his hair waves, and those brown eyes of his. Did you ever notice what a kissable mouth he has?"

The listening man felt perspiration on his forehead. Then came the voice of the senior typist. "Why don't you tell him that, Jess?"

There was a ripple of happy laughter, and Jess replied: "Poor Tyddie! If I told him that I would be tried for manslaughter. Tyddie would perish from spontaneous combustion brought on by his own blushes."

Little Miss Jessica Marsden never knew how near she was to bringing about that catastrophe. "It's a jolly shame to think he's tied up to Amy," from the senior typist. "My sister, Jean, was at school with her, and she says that Amy wasn't fit for human consumption." Jones started, and drew a deep breath. This was getting home with a vengeance.

"She is a beast," commented Jess simply and sincerely.

The senior typist took up the tale. "It gives me the pip to see her come sailing along with her condescending—'Is Mr. Jones in his office, my dear?'"

The words were such a perfect imitation of his wife's voice, that it took Jones all his time to keep still. "Pity she can't get someone to tell her how to dress herself."

Jessica echoed the wish, and went on, "I always call them the beauty and the beast. It's a reversal of roles, but it's accurate."

The voices died away down the empty warehouse. When he was sure they had departed, the sole partner of Craddock, Burns and Despard drew a long breath of relief. The next thing he did was rather unusual for him. He rose and walked across the room to the mirror that hung over the fixed basin behind the screen in the corner. Jones surveyed his reflection long and earnestly. Whether Miss Marsden's judgements were right, he was too modest to decide. But he did think that thirty-three years of sober and upright living had left him looking curiously youthful. The discovery was not unpleasing.

On the following Friday evening when the senior typist and that impudent little Miss Marsden received their pay envelopes, they were amazed to find a wholly unexpected and totally unaccountable increase of ten shillings a week in their salaries.

Had they known that the portent announced the awakening of Tydvil Jones, they would have been still more bewildered.