Читать книгу Put Out the Light - Ethel Lina White - Страница 5

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AT eleven o'clock, that night, the light glowed, like a beacon, from the dark pile of Jamaica Court. The bored porter at the high-level station, shouted to his mate.

"Eleven, Jim."

Jim glanced at his watch.

"Gosh, I'm five slow. Not Wednesday, is it?"

On Wednesday night they had learned to expect irregularity in the appearance of the light, although it never failed to go out at the stroke of twelve.

As he moved the hands of his watch on to eleven, he heard the faint chimes of the Town Hall clock, which were only audible when the wind was in the rainy quarter.

For the past twenty minutes, Eames—Miss Vine's maid—had been busy behind the drawn curtains of the spectacular blue-and-silver bedroom. Although she was never allowed to assist at the rites of the evening toilet, she had to make the preparations and foresee every possible need.

Face cream here. Skin food by the side. Astringent behind, but where it could be seen at a glance. Ice on the plate-glass slab. Strips of plaster, cut into assorted sizes. Powder. Perfume.

The maid took the temperature of the bath, making allowance for slight cooling, and added the correct proportion of aromatic salts. Then she glanced at her watch—for there was no clock in the bedroom—and crossed to the window.

The gesture with which she drew aside the curtains was almost dramatic, as though she were in league with the darkness and were giving a signal to the shadows lurking in the black bowl of the valley.

Although, viewed from the station, the Court rose up as a bleak rock, behind the blinds, it was a stronghold of youth, blazing with lights and vibrant with noise. A group of young people were gathered round the roulette table in the drawing room, shouting against the blare of the loud-speaker. With the exception of a girl, they were greedy youths, drawn to the Court by the bait of unlimited free drinks and tobacco.

A few had an eye to bigger profits—a Stock Exchange tip, or even a furtive fiver, given and accepted, as a boon. Not even the boldest attempted to pluck his hostess at cards, for she played poker too well. Her monetary favours were bestowed on those endowed with the silver tongues of diplomatists, or else the jargon of the gutter. She was only responsive to contrasts. She could assimilate large doses of flattery, and also of abuse; the first was a tribute to her charm, the second a challenge to her power.

According to her custom, at this hour, Anthea was alone in the dimness of the Moorish library. Almost lost in its carven magnificence, she sat at her desk, under one green-shaded light.

In front of her was a sheaf of papers, containing the figures for the board meetings which had taken precedence of Mrs. Learoyd's adenoids. From time to time she jotted a note on the margin; but for several minutes she had ceased to write.

Her golden head was sunken on her breast, when Charles put his head round the corner of the door.

"Eleven, Anthea," he said, consulting his watch.

A feature of the Court was its absence of clocks, except in the servants' quarters. Anthea disliked any reminder of the passage of time, so that it was her secretary's duty to see that she was punctual for her appointments.

As she made no reply, Charles clapped his hands together, in a pretense to slaughter a moth.

Miss Vine started upright and stared at him blankly. Her blurred eyes made her appear defenseless, and almost pitiful.

"Bedtime, Anthea," announced Charles.

"So soon? How quickly the time passes when one is working."

"Quicker still when one's asleep." Charles perched on the arm of her chair and threw one hand carelessly on her bare shoulder. From this point of vantage his eyes roved over the papers on the table.

"Been dreaming of your lovers, past and present?" he asked.

She slapped his hand playfully, but her eyes grew shrewd.

"No," she replied, "it's for them to dream of me. I've been deep in finance. Ah, Charles, this little head. All I have to help me. And so much to do."

"You need a man," suggested Charles. "Why not let me in on the ground floor of your next scheme?"

"No, Charles. I trust no man."

"Not even me?"

"You, least of all." She tilted his chin with her finger. "You see, I'm rather fond of you. That's fatal. A woman should always be on guard against her heart."

"What do you trust? Your corns?"

"Don't be vulgar. I trust my head."

She scooped together her papers.

"I'm making more money for you, Charles. Look at all these figures. No, that's enough. I did not say 'read them.'"

As she spoke, she locked the documents in a drawer. Charles watched her, while the smile faded from his lips. In that gesture she had put him definitely in his place.

A minute before she had been his puppet, posturing and smiling as he pulled the strings of flattery. His arm was around her shoulders, in careless possession. But her manner of turning a key reminded him, not only that the wealth which surrounded them had been created by her own vision and enterprise, but, also, of his own position.

Tonight she might be the conquest of his curly hair and insolent smiles; but tomorrow he must go to her, cap in hand, to beg for a new pair of flannel bags.

At that moment he hated her with all the force of his young manhood. As he withdrew his arm roughly she smiled up at him.

"What's the matter, sonny-boy?"

He blurted out his request, like a sulky schoolboy.

"I'm short on my allowance, Anthea. And decency demands trousers."

Miss Vine pulled his hair.

"Slip them in on my own bill, Charles," she advised. "Tell Phibbs the old woman will never notice."

"You, an old woman, Anthea? I like that. Now—how old are you? I mean—how young?"

She probed the mockery of his eyes.

"Young enough to retain my faculties," she told him. "I'm neither deaf nor blind."

Then she passed her hand over her brow.

"But—I'm tired."

The scorn faded from the young man's smile.

"You slog too hard," he said. "Why the hell don't you retire? You've all the money you want. What's the good of it if you croak, and leave it to others, who've never made a penny of it?"

Miss Vine's smile was inscrutable, as she stared at her cousin.

"Are those your true views, my noble boy?" she asked.

"They are."

"Then you want me to leave you out of my will?"

Charles laughed.

"Now, you're being funny," he said. "You bet, little Charles wants his share of pie, with the rest...Only, that's a long way off. And, honestly, Anthea, it's a bit raw to be slacking while you are slaving, day and night."

"And where would you be without my money, Charles?"

He reddened to his eyes.

"In the gutter—where I belong—judging by the company I keep," he muttered.

His insolence seemed but to amuse her. She loved a clash of wills, because she could always force her opponent to his knees.

"It's sweet of you to offer me your grandfatherly advice," she said, "but my health is Dr. Lawrence's affair. I don't keep a dog and do my own barking. Ring the bell for Morgan."

Charles hesitated with his finger on the electric button inserted in the desk.

"You're not going to keep that girl up late again, are you?" he protested.

"That is my own business." There was a rasp in Miss Vine's voice. "I don't pay a secretary and do my own typing."

Miss Sally Morgan entered the library with such promptitude that she might have been waiting for the summons, outside the door. She was a pretty girl, dressed in black satin, but her youth and attraction were sunken in her own imitation of the perfect secretary.

Her Spanish heels were too high, her lips too red, the line of her permanent wave too correct. In her endeavour to be efficient, tactful, and resourceful, she spoke only to answer, and always gave the impression of thinking in shorthand.

As Miss Vine took no notice of her, she stood silent, in her employer's line of vision. Charles knew that this demonstration of indifference was punishment for his interference, and he came to the rescue.

"My aunt—I mean, my cousin—isn't really asleep, Miss Morgan," he said. "She's deep in finance."

Instantly, Miss Vine picked up a sheaf of papers, which she handed to the girl.

"I want these typed tonight," she said curtly.

"Certainly, Miss Vine," Sally assured her.

"You can use this room. Tell Bates not to sit up. You can put out the light."

"The ideal employer. Always thinking of her servants," remarked Charles. "Looks like an all-night sitting for you, Miss Morgan. But there—you're young."

Miss Vine rose and put her arm through his, in a possessive manner. She rubbed her finger over his sleeve and spoke in a gentle voice.

"You're positively shiny, darling. You'd better slip in a new evening suit on my bill, as well as the bags...And now to bed."

Charles escorted his lady, with his eyes fixed on the carpet; but, at the door, he looked back at Sally. She was already seated before her machine, but she was not typing.

There was a sudden landslip of her pretensions, as youth cried to youth. At the girl's sympathetic expression Charles lost his crestfallen air, and spoke with his usual impudence.

"Oh, Anthea, shall I give Bates orders to bring Miss Morgan some nourishment, if she's going to be late? Bread and water is what she really likes, but if you've got such a thing as an old bone, she would adore it."

"Thank you, Charles, for anticipating my wishes," replied Anthea. "Give Bates his instructions."

Her smile was acid as she turned to Sally Morgan.

"My cousin is always so generous," she said. "I believe he'd give away my last penny."

Charles pretended not to hear the insult as he opened the door of the library with exaggerated courtesy.

Miss Vine's court awaited her, under the domed roof of the pillared marble hall. The visitors were waiting to bid their hostess "Good night," for it was the rule of the house that her retirement was the signal for their departure.

Tonight it was plain that she was in her most majestic mood, and had receded beyond the reach of flattery or familiarity. Under the thin arch of her brow—like a strand of copper—her eyes looked blankly into distance.

"Good night," she said, staring at the roof. "Charles. Ring."

When the visitors had hurriedly slipped away, she turned to the girl. She was a lovely creature, exotic and overpainted, like a delicate pink azalea.

"Where's Francis?" she asked.

Iris shook back her long mane of leaf-brown hair.

"How should I know?" she murmured.

"Haven't seen him since dinner," volunteered Charles.

"Ah, you never give each other away, do you?" sneered Miss Vine. "Always reminds me of the loyalty of the underworld."

Dr. Lawrence—who never joined in the general exodus, smiled slightly, in recognition of the hit.

"Here's your strayed lamb," he said, as Francis lounged into the hall.

Anthea's peaked face suddenly sparkled with new life.

"You've kept me waiting," she reproached him.

"I'm frightfully sorry to be guilty of discourtesy," Francis assured her. "But, I thought you would probably be late. You see, I saw Charles go to the library, and drew my own conclusions."

The distrustful glance he shot at his cousin was not lost on Miss Vine. She fluttered her lashes, to indicate her consciousness that two young men were jealous of her favours, as she turned to Charles.

"Take off my necklace," she appealed.

Charles obeyed stolidly. He might have been a robot, wound up for a special duty. Coiling up the string of pearls, he thrust it in his trouser pocket.

The doctor's eyes narrowed at the sight of the jewels.

"I wonder you trust them out of your keeping," he said.

"Why?" asked Anthea. "Do you think they might tempt someone to wring my bonny neck?"

"Well—it might be a risk."

"But Charles always puts them in the safe at night. And I can trust Charles. He's my heir."

"But, darling," laughed Iris, slipping her arm around Miss Vine, "I thought I was."

"So you were, angel. Francis's turn tomorrow."

Miss Vine shook herself free of the girl's embrace and turned to Dr. Lawrence.

"You see, doctor. I can sleep in safety, because I know I have the protection of three strong young people. If I were to die tonight my money would go to my brother. I haven't made my will."

"Very naughty of you, dear lady," ventured Dr. Lawrence.

"Oh, but I'm going to. Today—tomorrow—soon. Besides, death is still a long way off."

A long way? Even as she spoke, in the lamp-lit parlor of the Cherry Orchard, Miss Pye laid out the cards.

Charles broke the strained silence.

"So now you're wise to the position, doctor. Anthea, you'll lose your beauty sleep."

With the condescension of a maiden queen, Miss Vine extended her cheek to her three dependents and stretched out her hand for Dr. Lawrence's kiss. They stood, in homage, watching her stately white satin figure slowly ascend the great staircase.

Half way up the first flight she turned and held up her finger at a burst of dance music, from the radio.

"Shall I come down and dance with you?" she called.

"Yes, do," they urged in chorus. "We'll scramble for you."

"Then—I won't."

Shaking her golden curls, she ran up the stairs, like a girl. Her heart was pounding with exertion, but it also beat with triumph.

Young men clustered round her, like moths round a candle flame. She reminded herself that Cleopatra had reached her zenith at the age of forty, which would be an Eastern equivalent of her own years.

The young people stood in silence and watched her slim white figure disappear round the bend of the staircase. Then Francis called after her in his sweetest voice:

"Slip on the top stair, girlie, and break your bonny neck."