Читать книгу The First Time He Died - Ethel Lina White - Страница 9

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PUGGIE stared at Miss Baxter, at a loss to account for her presence. He was positive that he had written to Charlie's old address. Eton Lodge had stuck in his memory, because of its association with his youth.

"Quick work," he said. "When did you get my letter?"

"This morning," replied Miss Baxter. "I only got it by chance. It was sent to an old address."

"Then—how—?"

"An old maid of mine had just gone into service with the new people there. She noticed the postmark and, as she knew where my brother lived, she rang me up. I came over at once for the letter."

In spite of the cultivated refinement of her accent, her voice was lumpy with emotion. Again she gave the impression of some rough substance, hammered flat, or wrung between rollers.

"This morning," repeated Puggie, his brow still furrowed. "But how did you get here so soon?"

"I flew—most of the way."

"By gum." He looked at her with real admiration, for he recognised her as the type which hails an omnibus. "That was sporting. But the funeral's not until to-morrow."

"I haven't come for the funeral. I do not wish to meet any one. I only want to see my dead brother."

Involuntarily, Puggie made a horrible grimace, as he thought of the bloated calico dummy sprawling on the landing. There was only a short flight of stairs. He looked at Miss Baxter's long legs, and decided that she could take it in two strides if she were really bent upon action.

The situation was beyond him, so he basely left it to Vera.

"I'll tell Mrs. Baxter you're here," he mumbled.

"Please do nothing of the kind." Miss Baxter's tone was astringent. "I do not wish to speak of family matters to a stranger. But I must be frank. Nothing on earth would induce me to meet that woman."

Every word that she said was audible in the kitchen, where Charlie and Vera stared at each other with scared eyes. As she listened, Vera's face grew scarlet and she sprang to the door.

"She will see me," she said.

Charlie, whose knees were knocking together, dragged her back.

"Don't go, Vera. It's Emmy. You don't know her. She'll make mincemeat of you. We can't keep her out."

Vera bit her lip fiercely.

"Will she come in with us?" she asked.

"No. She's funny that way. She even gives back wrong change. She'll make me give the money back."

"You haven't got it yet...Hush."

Vera strained to catch what Puggie was saying, but could only hear a protesting murmur. Then Miss Baxter's voice rang out like a trumpet-blast.

"Let me pass, please. I'm going upstairs to see my brother."

"Please don't." Puggie spoke in his most charming and persuasive manner. "I really do understand, and you have my deepest sympathy. I only wish to save you a painful scene. If you go up now, you'll meet Mrs. Baxter in the bedroom. She won't leave poor Charlie. Please come into the drawing-room."

As they waited, Charlie and Vera held their breath. If Miss Baxter crashed the stairs, exposure was but a matter of seconds.

But their luck held and the immediate danger was staved off.

"In that case, I must wait until she has gone down," said Miss Baxter.

In spite of her grief, the snob within her recognised the submerged gentleman in Puggie, and she responded to his personality as much as to his argument. He was positively tender, as he armed her deferentially into the sitting-room, and switched on the light.

He noticed Miss Baxter's shudder, for the cold room was the picture of discomfort and neglect. Vera had been too busy to touch it, after she had sent the maid away, and the grate was still choked with ashes.

At its best it was an uneven apartment, for the major was not only a hoarder, but had travelled. Every step of his wanderings could be traced—as well as the stages of his decline to comparative poverty—in valuable family heirlooms, gadgets from Woolworth, and a cosmopolitan collection of curios.

"You must be frightfully cold after your flight, and the shock and all that," said Puggie. "Can I get you a spot—Will you have tea?"

"Nothing, thank you."

"Then if you'll sit here—this is the easiest chair—I'll go upstairs. Soon be back."

Puggie rushed up the stairs like a battering-ram going into action, but they did not hear him creep down again, in his socks. They started when he suddenly appeared in the kitchen, his shoes in his hand.

"I've dragged the dummy inside the bedroom and locked the door," he told them. "That'll keep her out for a bit. But it'll look darned fishy if we don't let her in."

"Leave her to me," said Vera.

It was obvious that her blood was up and she was spoiling for a fight. Before the men could stop her, she had gone into the drawing-room.

It was an economic blunder that the theatrical management—which took off her clothes and so reduced her to another standardised show-girl—had no chance to test her real quality. She made a well-timed and effective entrance, while the quiet dignity of her manner—vibrating with emotion—was excellent acting.

She bowed to the gaunt woman, who sprang to her feet—the fierce sorrow in her eyes fighting the composure of her prim bitten lips.

"If you've come to pay us a visit, Miss Baxter," she said, "you are exactly five years too late."

Miss Baxter returned her bow, although she nearly choked at the sight of the peroxide blonde. She would not have divided the noun from its qualifying adjective, even had she known the truth that Vera's fair hair was natural, and only received an occasional camomile rinse.

"I have already explained to your friend," she said, "that my visit is not to you, but to my brother. I will not take up any of your time."

She walked to the door, but Vera guarded it.

"I'm sorry," she told her. "I'm going to hurt you. You cannot see Charlie. It was his wish."

"I'm sorry—but I cannot believe that."

"Why not? Wasn't it natural? You know how sensitive he was. He felt the treatment he got from his family most deeply. It cut him to the heart to be always treated like an outcast."

In the kitchen, Charlie gulped as a tribute to her emotion, while Puggie grinned appreciatively.

"Hanged if I know which of the two to back," he whispered, as he opened the door, so as to lose nothing of the fight.

"I'm sorry," said Miss Baxter, "but I don't wish to discuss the matter. Please let me go upstairs."

"No." Vera's voice was fierce. "You've got to do him justice, even if it's too late. You cast him off, because he was loyal to me. Do you blame a man for sticking to his wife? Why, even a rat would be loyal to its mate."

"Keep off natural history," murmured Puggie, "or you'll be sunk."

But by this time Miss Baxter was blind and deaf to any academic blunder, as her smouldering eyes burst into flame. So far, the women had observed the conventions. That polite phrase, "I'm sorry," kept them from tearing each other's eyes. Yet there was savagery underneath the veneer. Vera was at bay, and Miss Baxter was a lioness bereft of her foster-cub.

Now that he was dead Charlie was no longer the black sheep of the family, but the baby she had reared. On her way she had been reviving old memories. She smiled again over the audacity of the small boy who wore her nightdress, when he stood on the balcony and preached to the people in the street. At the time she had been proud of the clever imp for his parody of their clergyman, although she hoped fervently that her nightgown had remained anonymous.

In turn, she took off her gloves.

"Listen you," she commanded. "I brought up Charlie. I was fond of him and he was fond of me. Then you came and took him out of my life."

"I didn't," screamed Vera. "It was your beastly pride. I wasn't good enough for your family. I was an actress."

"Oh, no, we didn't consider you that."

Vera's fingers began to curl.

"You mean, I wore no clothes?" she asked shrilly. "Well, at least he knew what he was getting, which was more than a man would with your kind."

Miss Baxter made an effort to preserve her dignity.

"I—I don't want a scene. If I hurt my brother, I want to tell him—now—I'm sorry, and ask him to—to forgive me."

As she began to wipe her eyes, Vera softened.

"But you wouldn't know him," she said hopefully. "He's grown a beard, and he looks years older."

For a moment Miss Baxter weakened. A strange man lying in Charlie's place. Then she forced a smile to her lips.

"I shall still see my boy," she said. "Let me go to him."

In the kitchen, Charlie dug his nails into his palms, and sweat furred his upper-lip. Puggie ran true to form, for his thoughts turned to blackmail.

"Has she any secret?" he asked.

"No," muttered Charlie.

"Love affair?"

"You saw her."

Puggie agreed, with a hopeless shake of his head.

In the pause they heard Miss Baxter's voice raised several tones. The natural woman had forced her way out and was proceeding to action.

"Get out of my way."

A scuffle, followed by a thud, told them that Miss Baxter's superior weight had won the day. Her rapid footsteps on the stairs were succeeded by the tapping of Vera's Spanish heels as she raced in pursuit.

On the landing there was another tussle.

"Unlock this door," shouted Miss Baxter.

"I won't," screamed Vera.

"Then I shall go and call in the first policeman, and tell him the circumstances. I am convinced you're hiding something."

It was a shot in the dark, but Vera crumpled up and remained speechless. In the kitchen Puggie began to shake Charlie.

"Think," he growled.

But the rough-handling only dislodged one trifling memory.

"Once I met her coming out of the dark china-pantry under the stairs, with the curate."

Almost before the words were out of his mouth, Puggie was scrawling them on a leaf torn from his notebook. As he hurried up the stairs, he pretended not to notice the emotional state of the ladies.

"I'm sorry." He used the current phrase mechanically, as he handed the scrap of paper to Vera. "But this urgent message has just come."

She glanced at it.

"Tell the man 'no answer,'" she commanded him.

She waited until Puggie had gone downstairs before she turned to Miss Baxter—a sparkle of fresh life in her blue eyes.

"I've been trying to save you pain," she said gently. "You say you were fond of Charlie. But he was not fond of you. He despised you because he believed you were a hypocrite. He told me you condemned loose conduct in others, while you carried on yourself on the sly, because you were a lady."

Miss Baxter's lips turned livid.

"Open that door," she said huskily, "and repeat that lie before my dead brother—if you dare."

"It's not a lie," persisted Vera. "He did give you away. I'll tell you exactly what he said. He told me he knew what went on in the dark closet under the stairs, with you and the curate."

She was almost shocked by the results of her thrust. Miss Baxter's face contracted, as though in acute pain, and she gripped the balustrade.

"He—said—that?" she whispered.

"Yes, he did. I couldn't make it up, could I?"

"No. He told you."

Walking like an old woman, Miss Baxter groped her way down the stairs.

"Where are you going?" asked Vera.

"Back," replied Miss Baxter stonily. "After that, I never wish to see him again—dead or alive."

The door slammed and she disappeared into the darkness.

Vera stood motionless, unable to believe in her victory. The surrender had been too sudden and too complete. Miss Baxter had spoken of her brother as though she did not accept his death.

"Dead or alive." The phrase stuck like a burr, although she could not remember everything that had been said. Her head was in a whirl, and she was only certain of one fact.

Miss Baxter was their enemy. She had retreated—only to come back. And when she came, she would not come alone.