Читать книгу Midnight House - Ethel Lina White - Страница 13

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While the men discussed her, Elizabeth hurried her charges towards the water-meadows which gave its name to the town. Although the pale molten gold of the November sunshine flooded the fields, she knew that she had begun her usual race with the darkness.

She was not fond of exercise, but she used to enjoy the afternoon walk, as she had fallen under the spell of Rivermead. To her it was a dim enchanted place of echoes and memories—murmurous with the cooing of doves, the chiming of antique clocks, and the sound of imprisoned waters. In addition to the river which flowed through it, there was a partially built-over tributary which refused to be suppressed. It seemed to Elizabeth that it was continually breaking out in fresh places, as it stole from its underground channel and gushed through arches and gratings—back to the light.

In spite of its age, the town was not a museum of extinct industry, for under the dead layers of the past there pulsed a live core. Although it appeared to have dreamed through the centuries, there were flourishing factories, in proof that it kicked vigorously in its sleep.

Elizabeth always took the children home by way of High Street and the Promenade, to avoid going through the slums. The end of summer, however, had brought the complication of seasonal fog. It arose from the river punctually after sunset and covered it with a thick white layer of vapour which looked like cotton-wool. Miss Pewter had warned the new governess that Phil was chesty and must not be out after dark; but the modern part of the town was in a vulnerable position on the river bank and a wide bridge had to be crossed to reach the Promenade, which also lay low.

That afternoon Elizabeth had a special reason for returning home in good time. There was something she dreaded more than fear of losing her job—something which quivered under the surface of her mind, like the dread shadow beneath the foul green water of a tropical port...

Soon the walk became an incessant pull between her authority and the opposition of the children. Knowing what she might expect, she tried to turn them back almost before they had started. But they were engrossed in a pastime of which they never seemed to tire—that of throwing twigs into the river and rushing across the bridge to see them emerge on the other side.

Barney, aged eight, was the active mutineer, but Phil was his passive partner. She egged him on, not through malice, but because she had a keen sense of humour and enjoyed the Human Comedy. Although her long golden curls and big solemn blue eyes gave her the appearance of an expensive doll, she had a good brain and a remorseless memory. Popular with every one, her tastes were domestic and she preferred the society in the kitchen.

Elizabeth used to imagine she saw—hovering over her—the shadow of a future prosperous matron—either wearing a fur coat and pricing joints in Brixton, or adorned with a tiara, queening it in a box at the Opera. And she was certain that, whatever Phil's hip-measurement, men would always call her "a little woman."

She always felt vaguely guilty because she had given her heart to Barney. He was a clever, highly-strung shrimp, with the sad eyes of a stranded angel, and a private code which exacted one evil deed per day. Although he was definitely hostile to her, he had only to smile—in serving his ends—to make her his slave.

All the afternoon he had been mulish in resistance to her efforts to goad him on, and it was growing late when she succeeded in prodding him up the lane from the river towards the fringe of the modern town. They had only to go through the dark tunnel of an old archway and down several flights of uneven steps to reach the main shopping street beside the river.

The sun was beginning to set and every pane in the windows of the chocolate factory reflected a red ball. But there was still time to reach the Crescent, by way of the Promenade, before it was dark.