Читать книгу The Serpent In The Garden - Ethel M. Dell - Страница 8

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It was a week later that Peter, carrying a small suitcase, with a camera slung on his shoulder, and his coat collar turned up to his ears, stood desolately on the quay to watch the Channel steamer come in through swirling drifts of fog. It was the seventh time that he had performed the same act, and he was getting distinctly bored with it. No one took any notice of him. A British journalist lying in wait for some celebrity held no interest for the public at large. He was obviously there for a definite object, and when it was accomplished he would be seen no more. The world was too busy to care how long it took him to fulfil his mission.

It was the end of September, and there were fewer travellers than of late. Most people were thinking of going home. But the homeward-bound throng were of no use to Peter, and he was beginning to wonder if any of the new arrivals ever could be either. At the outset the adventure had appealed to him, but his enthusiasm had faded after many disappointments. He hated the chilly northern port, and only his reluctance to lower himself in the eyes of Pierre kept him there.

He wondered sometimes if it had all been a wily scheme on his half brother’s part to keep him out of possible danger, but the memory of the conversation he had overheard made him doubtful. He could not bring himself to desert his post so long as there remained any chance of achieving his end. For very pride’s sake he would not so far put himself in the wrong. But he was not enjoying his vigil, and it seemed less and less probable that it could lead to anything profitable as time went on.

There came the blast of a siren from the incoming steamer which resounded under the iron roof of the shelter and echoed through the customs office and along the quay. Officials began to run about like the inhabitants of a disturbed ant heap, and a general excitement which seemed to him exaggerated to an extent which the occasion was far from warranting prevailed.

From where he stood he could see through fog wreaths and drizzling rain the hull of the Channel boat as she drew slowly alongside, and in the midst of the noisy stampede around him he leaned against a post and watched for the second time that day.

The muffled figures on deck were but vaguely discernible, but he was convinced beforehand that the object of his quest was not among them and he told himself sternly that, this being the case, he would not hang about like a fool any longer. He would catch the next train to Paris and tell Pierre exactly what he thought of his methods. To wait here any longer for a girl who might never come was sheer idiotic waste of time, and rather than do so he would throw up the whole business and go home to his shooting and his horses. Pierre had never wanted his assistance and he could jolly well do without it.

In this mood he hitched up the camera which hung from his shoulder and prepared to take a wholly uninterested survey of the travellers filing off the boat.

“What a herd!” he muttered to himself discontentedly. “Like a lot of drowned rats! Well, it’s the last time of asking. I’m damned if I’ll come again.”

Nevertheless when the gangway was fixed he drew a little nearer in order to scan the landing passengers more attentively.

The drizzle was turning to a downpour, and the salt wind blowing in from the sea had a chill that seemed to pierce to the bones. People descended the gangway in a rapid stream, and a flood of mingled French and English reached his ears. He pushed further forward through the throng. He would do the thing properly if for the last time.

No one even glanced in his direction. All were intent upon getting into shelter as soon as possible. And Peter watched face after face with a growing wonder at his own idiocy. Just a typical cosmopolitan crowd, utterly unremarkable, almost ludicrously devoid of any feature of interest. Businessmen and women for the most part, a few genuine travellers, some worried, some merely excited, some too commonplace to be either.

“I’ll never do this again,” said Peter, and even as he made himself that promise he saw a slight figure in a black mackintosh pass from the deck to the gangway and come stepping down to him.

She did not scamper or stumble down as did most of her fellow travellers. The state of the weather did not seem to be the one thing uppermost in her mind. There was something fairylike and very young about her. She moved with a light, springy tread. And before she reached the bottom her look which had a searching, uncertain quality had found him and dwelt upon him. She wore a dark, close-fitting cap, and her hair was pale gold. She might have been a child of fourteen.

Peter glanced beyond her, for it did not seem possible that she could be travelling alone. But in the same instant she reached him and spoke.

“Are you looking for someone? Is it me by any chance?”

He started and raised his hat. She was tiny, almost babyish of aspect; but yet there was about her a quaint sort of dignity that seemed to belong to maturer years.

“I don’t know,” he said in momentary confusion. “I’m looking for a Miss Dermot.”

“That’s me,” she said, and held out a confiding hand. “Thank you for coming.”

Peter held the hand as he might have held a captive bird. It felt so small and crushable. Her greeting nearly took his breath away. It was with an almost obvious effort that he recovered himself.

“Not at all! I’m delighted to see you. Have you got your passport?”

“Oh yes, everything,” she said. “But I don’t know exactly what one has to do. There’s some luggage too, not much, only two suitcases.”

“We’ll see to it,” said Peter. “You come into shelter! What a foul evening!”

“Is it?” she said. “I don’t mind it myself. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

He did not tell her how long. He was still a little dazed by her reception. “The boat’s a bit late,” he said. “I expect it’s the fog.”

“Yes, it’s quite thick outside the harbour,” she said. “Can you tell me how my mother is?”

Peter hesitated; then decided to take a risk. “I’m afraid she isn’t very strong,” he said, “but I don’t know any details.”

She gave a slight sigh. “No, I suppose they wouldn’t bother to have told you. I must wait till I see her. It was very nice of you to come. D’you mind telling me your name? Mine is Gabrielle Dermot.”

“Mine is Peter Dunrobert,” said Peter, and again he plunged a little. “And please let it be Peter! I’m a sort of relation, I believe.”

“Are you really?” she said. “I wonder how they managed to find you.”

“Oh, I just happened along,” he said cheerfully. “Very glad to be useful too! Now what about your baggage? Is someone bringing it ashore?”

“It’s in that crane, I think,” she said. “There’s nothing in it to pay on, but I’ll give you my keys.”

She took two keys from her handbag and gave them to him. Her complete confidence in him seemed to him rather pathetic, and if it relieved him in one sense it made him feel decidedly uncomfortable in another.

“I think the best thing to do would be to get you some refreshment,” he said. “There’s plenty of time. You were all right during the crossing?”

“Oh, quite,” she said. “It was very calm. I stayed on deck.”

He piloted her to the refreshment room and found a corner for her. “You sit here!” he said. “I’ll get you tea and then I’ll go and see to your luggage.”

He brought her a cup and some cakes and then left her, threading his way back through the excited crowd of officials and travellers to extricate the two suitcases of which she had spoken.

He was glad of the respite to collect his wits, for the situation presented difficulties with which he was somewhat at a loss to cope. His only course was to deal with it with as much ingenuity as he could muster, but he was grateful for the breathing space thus afforded. Her complete trustfulness made him feel a cad, and he almost wished that his mission had again proved fruitless.

Nevertheless, when he had successfully passed her modest belongings through the customs he had recovered a certain amount of assurance and he went back to her with a smile. After all, he had not done anything very despicable, and even if she found him out—which was unlikely—it would not be a very serious matter. No one could take him to task for placing his services at her disposal. In fact, under the circumstances, he had no choice.

He found her patiently waiting in her corner, but she caught sight of him the moment he entered, and her small, delicate face brightened at his coming. There was something starry about her eyes, and he realized that the brown lashes that fringed them were tipped with gold.

“It is nice of you to take all this trouble,” she said, rising to meet him. “I was dreading coming ashore in case you shouldn’t be here. I’ve never been abroad before.”

“It’s quite easy when you know the ropes,” said Peter. “Or even if you don’t for that matter. Everything is all right. Come along and we’ll find the Paris train!”

“Don’t you want any tea?” she said.

“No, thanks. I’m all right. There’s not too much time, I fancy,” said Peter. “Here are your keys! It’ll be nice to get out of this hole.”

“I’m afraid you’ve had a long wait,” she said.

He made no reply to that. The train was close at hand, and he busied himself with finding a comfortable compartment.

The usual confusion prior to departure was in full swing, but he managed to secure a corner seat for her and then got in after her, pushing his own suitcase out of sight and stowing away his camera with a sigh of relief.

“Have you been taking photographs?” she asked, watching him.

He laughed. “Not today. The light’s been too bad. Sure you’re quite warm? You didn’t bring a rug?”

“Oh no,” she said. “I don’t need one, thank you. I hate a lot of things to look after, don’t you?”

“You’re certainly travelling light,” said Peter with a smile. “I agree. It’s much easier.”

She made a small grimace. “I haven’t got a great many possessions and I don’t expect to be out here very long. The count isn’t very likely to want two secretaries, is he?”

“You never know,” said Peter.

She glanced at him. “You’re not one of them, I suppose?”

He bent to push his suitcase further under. “Well, not exactly. I’m only by way of being a journalist.”

“A journalist!” Her voice held a note of interest. “What sort of life is that?”

He came up again slightly flushed, but before he could answer, a voluble French family of four crowded into the compartment and they were overwhelmed with a clatter of tongues which for the next few minutes made any further conversation impossible. They smiled at one another and gave up the attempt.

Even after the train had finally started some time elapsed before their fellow travellers began to subside, and the English girl contented herself in the interval with gazing out of the window at the grey landscape of misty sodden flatness through which the Paris express raced like a shooting meteor.

Peter sat and reviewed the situation, wondering what his next problem would be. The fairylike person by his side was more of a responsibility than he had anticipated, and there might be complications at the end of the journey with which he was hardly qualified to deal. He made up his mind to keep as near to the truth as possible, for there was that about her simple directness of manner that made him feel ashamed of the role he was playing. Child as she seemed to be, he shrank from the thought of being found out and labelled an impostor.

She turned her head suddenly and spoke to him, and the mist-blue eyes behind their sparkling lashes seemed to hold a certain compulsion.

“What did you mean by saying you were a sort of relation?” she said.

“Oh, that!” said Peter, relieved to have a comparatively easy question to answer. “Well, I am, you know. My father was a distant cousin of your father whom I once had the pleasure of meeting. Quentin Dermot, the celebrated astronomer, wasn’t he?”

She nodded. “I can only just remember him. He used to go off on big expeditions. He died on one. Rather sad, don’t you think? And what was your father?”

“My father,” said Peter, “was just an old-fashioned Englishman bred true to stock. I hope I’m the same.”

“You look as if you were,” she said with her fleeting smile. “And he is dead too?”

“Yes. I haven’t many people left belonging to me—just a few odds and ends of relations and a half brother”—Peter paused momentarily, not quite certain if Pierre were a safe subject for discussion, and finally ended ambiguously—“who is quite a good sort.”

“Isn’t that funny?” said Gabrielle. “I haven’t got any people either except my mother. At least, if I have, I don’t know where they are. She has been Count Gaspare’s secretary for so long that she seems to have lost touch with everybody in England—except the Lingardes, who brought me up. They’re a heavenly pair,” she added, “absolutely unworldly—real saints. But they’re getting old. I couldn’t go on living with them forever. I’ve got to make my own way in the world, be independent. P’raps you can teach me how to be a journalist! I believe I might enjoy that.”

“Oh, heaven forbid!” said Peter. “You must find something easier than that. I’m sure you’re not cut out for a quill driver.”

She drew her delicate brows together. “It’s rather difficult to know what I was cut out for. Is anyone ever cut out for anything, do you think? Or do they just have to cut out themselves?”

Peter laughed. “Well, I should think circumstances might have something to do with it, but it’s a pretty big problem and it ought to have a good deal of consideration. No one wants to make a false start.”

“Oh no!” she agreed. “Fearful waste of time! Of course, what I should like to do would be to travel, go round the world, see everything. But that costs money and I haven’t got any. I shall have to make some first.” She paused. “Have you ever been to the gaming tables? Is it true that fortunes are made there?”

“More often lost,” said Peter. “Much more often! I can’t see you doing it.”

“Neither can I,” she said somewhat unexpectedly, though she still frowned a little. “I’ve been brought up to regard that sort of thing as sinful. Do you think it is?”

“No,” said Peter promptly. “Not if you can afford it.”

“Oh, but that’s just it!” She looked at him with a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. “I’m afraid you rather miss the point when you say that. If I could afford to gamble I shouldn’t want to.”

“In that case it would be definitely immoral,” asserted Peter. “You’d stake all you’d got and lose it.”

“One might win,” she pointed out. “Would that be immoral too?”

He laughed. “Yes, highly. You’d then become an adventuress.”

“I am one now,” she remarked with a certain sedateness. “I’m like one of the little pigs of our early days who set out to seek their fortunes. I wonder if I shall find one. Large interrogation mark!”

“I’m inclined to agree there,” said Peter.

“Yes. One never knows, does one?” She yawned suddenly. “But it’ll be fun looking for it, all the same.”

“ ‘This little pig was rash,’ ” quoted Peter. “ ‘That little pig was rasher.’ ”

“I don’t chance to be that little pig,” she rejoined, “so you can keep your sympathy—if any.”

“On the contrary, I congratulate you,” said Peter. “I haven’t much use for the rashers. They ought to know better.”

“They ought,” she responded firmly, and, glancing at her, it came to him again that, despite her childish appearance, she was by no means lacking in character and strength of purpose.

A brief silence fell between them, and then, rather disconcertingly, she returned to her earlier investigations.

“How was it that you turned up just at the right moment? I was really hardly counting on anyone meeting me at Calais.”

“Oh, I just chanced to be handy,” said Peter lightly, “and being, as I say, a sort of connection, I offered myself for the job. Didn’t they tell you whom to expect?”

He had had time to consider the best method of dealing with enquiries and had decided that questions must be met by questions, and he would thus gather information as he went along.

Her answer reassured him as to the success of these tactics. “No. My mother only wrote that as she wasn’t quite up to the journey herself, the count would either meet me or make arrangements to have me met. But I thought it might not be—possibly—before I got to Paris.”

“I see,” said Peter, and hastily stifled a twinge of anxiety. “Well, I’m here, so it’s all right.”

She gave him a slightly puzzled look. “You know the count then?”

Peter skated swiftly over the thin ice. “You see, I’ve been staying down at Ste Marguérite—close to the villa. That was how it happened.”

“Oh, you know the Villa des Sirènes!” she said. “It’s a wonderful place, isn’t it? I’ve only seen pictures of it. I’ve always longed to go there.”

“It’s got a wonderful garden,” said Peter.

“I shall love that,” she said. “And the sea—and everything. I do hope my mother will soon be all right again. I haven’t seen her for such a long time. Being secretary to a man like that must be pretty hard work. She never seems to have any time off for a holiday, and I expect she needs one.”

“You ought to get her away,” Peter said, and there was more of pity than he realized in his voice.

She gave him a sudden keen look. “Do you think she’s happy?” she said.

He hesitated. “You mustn’t take my opinion for anything. I don’t know enough. But are you going all the way to Ste Marguérite now? Won’t you wait in Paris for her to join you?”

“Wait in Paris! But what’s the good?” Gabrielle looked frankly astonished. “She isn’t well enough to meet me there, so of course I must go to her. Wasn’t that what the count meant?”

Peter considered. This was a development with which he was somewhat at a loss to deal, but he had a very strong feeling of distaste at the thought of this young girl joining her mother under the count’s roof. He realized that he was powerless to prevent her doing so unless any valid reason should offer itself, but he determined on the spot that he would not allow her to be escorted thither by the count himself.

“I don’t know what he meant,” he said finally. “My instructions were to meet you and conduct you to Paris. Perhaps we might ring your mother up from there and find out what she would like you to do.”

“It’s very odd,” said Gabrielle. “But I’m sure she meant me to go to her. I think I had better go straight on.”

She looked harassed, and Peter abandoned the discussion. Obviously, someone would be waiting for her when they reached Paris, and he himself would probably be exposed as a fraud within two minutes of their arrival. But he was resolved to weather the storm from whatever quarter it might blow. If he gained her confidence he might be able to help her. If he lost it, she would be no worse off than before.

“You must do as you think best,” he said. “I’m standing by, remember, and I’ll do anything I can to help.”

“But you were going back to Ste Marguérite in any case?” she questioned.

He smiled upon her reassuringly. “Yes, of course I’m going back. And I’ll look after you all the way.”

“I expect I could manage quite well alone,” she said.

“Naturally,” said Peter. “But relations were created to be made use of, so why should you?”

He was glad to see the fleeting smile light up her face again. “Well, there is that certainly,” she agreed. “It’s very kind of you. I’m not a very experienced traveller, and it’s nice to have someone to stand by.”

“You put every thing on to me!” said Peter cheerily. “And I’ll see you through.”

She thanked him gravely with a shade of restraint. He was not sure that she was entirely satisfied with the situation but he made no further attempt to improve it. He was beginning to feel some slight uneasiness himself as to what the outcome might be.