Читать книгу A Man Under Authority - Ethel M. Dell - Страница 8

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It was drawing towards evening when Bill Quentin rode back from his rounds of visits to dress for the dinner at Hatchstead Place. A golden light filled the lane where the primroses grew, making the pale flowers even more exquisite than before. The scent of them mingled with that of the fragrant earth, and he was aware of a feeling of spring in his blood. Somehow that party at the Rectory had depressed him, but he was conscious now of a sense of renewal, a lightening of the spirit as though a cloud had lifted. It was true he did not greatly look forward to his evening with old General Farjeon, but it would at least be free from gloom and there would be no malice in the air. Bill Quentin had a wholesome distaste for ‘envy, hatred, malice and all uncharitableness’, and it seemed to him that there were a good many of these to be found at Hatchstead Rectory, though why on earth they should be directed against himself—! He smiled somewhat wryly as he rode. Fanny the vivacious, Lottie the precise, Molly the vindictive, had he ever pretended for a single instant that they held any sort of appeal for him? They were not his type. He had never cared for the Morton family, and if any of them were foolish enough to care for him, well,—he shrugged his shoulders with not unpardonable callousness—more fools they! It was certainly not his fault.

At this point the sight of a female figure in a shabby mackintosh gathering primroses a little ahead of him attracted his attention, and in a moment his smile became one of genuine pleasure.

“Why, it’s dear old Barnet!” he said half-aloud, and caused Paddy to quicken his pace.

She turned as he reached her, and her plain face showed a warmth of greeting that did him good. There was a distinct bond of sympathy between Ellen Barnet and the Vicar.

“Well, this is jolly!” said the latter, as he jumped to the ground. “Primrosing, are you? Let me help!”

“Oh, I have just finished,” she said, showing him the basket nearly full. “Mrs. Winch kindly excused me for an hour, so I came straight here. It has been so delightful.”

“There was a nightingale singing when I passed before,” said the Vicar.

“Oh, yes, I have heard it too—such divine music.” She spoke in hushed tones. “It only ceased as you came up the lane. I have enjoyed it so.”

“It was probably created for people like you,” said the Vicar, taking her basket from her.

She flushed. “Oh, Mr. Quentin, I don’t think that. I mean—I mean—I am such a very unimportant member of the community. I could never think of that.”

“You have the understanding heart,” he said. “It isn’t given to everybody. By Jove! You have been busy! What are you going to do with all these?”

She smiled rather nervously. “Some are for Mrs. Winch’s table, and—and I thought I would run in with some to Mrs. Henderson to brighten up the Vicarage. She has no time herself to get them.”

“I say, how awfully good of you!” he said. “And I should never have known where they came from! You are too good, you know. You really are.”

“Oh, please—please!” besought Miss Barnet in a flutter of protest. “The gathering of them gave me so much pleasure. Don’t—pray don’t think that it was in any sense a labour! I had to get them. They are so lovely.”

“You think of everyone,” said the Vicar.

She shook her head. “No, no! I am very foolish and forgetful, I am afraid. I am sure Mrs. Winch often finds me so, and it must try her very much.”

“If that’s so,” said Bill Quentin, “she doesn’t know when she’s well off.”

“Oh, indeed—indeed—” said Miss Barnet, distressed.

But he refused to listen. “You don’t know your own worth, that’s the fact of the matter. We don’t many of us suffer from that complaint. It would be a different world if we did.” Then, seeing her obvious embarrassment, he turned from the subject. “I’ve just been over to congratulate little Bird and Lottie Morton. I suppose you have heard that they have decided to throw in their lots together?”

“Yes, indeed. I was so pleased to hear it.” She spoke with genuine pleasure. “Are they very happy? But of course they must be. I should dearly like to write a line to Lottie if Mrs. Winch will allow me. You saw her, did you? What did she look like?”

Bill considered. “I don’t know. Much as usual, I think.” He paused again, then something moved him to confidence; his trust in Ellen Barnet was as instinctive as that of the children who loved her. “Look here,” he said. “I’d like to tell you something. May I?”

She looked surprised and shyly pleased. “You must do as you think fit,” she said.

“It’s only this.” He lowered his voice slightly. “I shouldn’t say it to anyone but you. I went to congratulate, and when I got there I found they were all—except of course Fanny—up against me, particularly Molly who rather gave the show away. Look here! You’ve been through it no doubt. You’ll understand. Do you think Lottie has any reasonable cause for offence? I’ve never made love to her, that I swear. I never even thought of it.”

He spoke with that boyish earnestness which was somewhat characteristic of him. Miss Barnet turned and gave him a very straight look.

“No, Mr. Quentin, I haven’t been through it,” she said gently. “But I think I do understand. I—it has been my privilege to sympathize with a good many who have. I am sorry about Lottie. I knew a long while ago that—it was in your power to make her very happy. But evidently God willed it otherwise, and she is probably doing quite right to turn elsewhere. You have certainly nothing to reproach yourself with, and I hope He will send her great happiness in the life that she has chosen.”

“Oh, you knew, did you?” said Bill surprised.

She nodded with closed lips.

“I didn’t,” he said. “I don’t understand it even now. All the years I have known them, I have never treated her any differently from the rest.”

“It was not your fault,” said Ellen Barnet. “Those things happen, and no one is really to blame. I think it is the Hand of God shaping our souls, if you will forgive me for saying so.”

“But why should I mind your saying so?” questioned Bill.

“You know so much more about these things than I do,” she made humble answer. “I hardly know how I could presume to say such a thing as that to you.”

“Good heavens!” He laughed aloud. “You need never be afraid of that, Miss Barnet. You have a greater right to express an opinion on these matters than anyone else I know.”

“I?” Miss Barnet began to look distressed again. “I can’t imagine why you should think so. I am so very ignorant and insignificant.”

“You are one of the best women I have ever met,” said Bill with simplicity. “No, you needn’t mind my saying that. It is the absolute truth. And I will tell you this too. You do more good in the world than you have any idea of.”

“Oh, Mr. Quentin, please stop!” She spoke almost imploringly. “You don’t know me. I assure you—I do assure you—I am not like that. It is only your own goodness which you see reflected in others.”

“My what?” said Bill Quentin almost roughly.

She glanced at him, startled; then, subduing her agitation, “Shall we change the subject?” she suggested somewhat anxiously. “I fear it is one upon which we shall never agree.”

“I fear it is,” said Bill humorously. “Well, you had better choose the next. I don’t seem lucky this afternoon.”

She tittered faintly. “Would it not be better for you to mount and ride on?”

“Not unless you want me to,” he said.

“Oh, how could I?” pleaded Miss Barnet. “I only thought that it could not be very amusing for you to tramp through the mud carrying my basket. And there is really no reason why you should do so.”

“Not if it gives me pleasure?” he said.

“But it couldn’t—possibly,” said Miss Barnet with absolute conviction.

“Then you are mistaken,” said Bill. “It does. It does me good to talk to you and hear your point of view. It is always different from other people’s, always kinder.”

“But it is easy for a foolish creature like me to be kind,” she said.

“I don’t think it is easy for anyone to be kind,” said Bill. “It may come more naturally to some than to others, but no one will persuade me it is easy. Tell me what you think of the people at Beech Mount! Have you seen them yet?”

“Mrs. Rivers and her son? Oh, yes, I have seen them but not to speak to. I was very much impressed with her,” said Miss Barnet, in her eager, charitable way. “She has such a beautiful smile.”

“Ah!” said Bill Quentin. “You noticed that too.”

“I did indeed,” said Miss Barnet fervently. “I met her in the post-office. Mrs. Brook had given her some wrong change. She was so sweet about it.”

“I spoke to her for the first time to-day,” said Bill. “She was walking up the hill from the village and I overtook her. I felt I had to speak.”

“But of course!” said Miss Barnet. “She must have been very glad that you did.”

“I invited her into the Vicarage garden to see the aloe which is going to flower this year. She was rather interested in it—said it was lucky.”

“I hope and trust that it will be,” said Miss Barnet.

He laughed a little. “And then Mrs. Winch came out and scattered us. So that was the end of that.”

“Mrs. Winch is going to call upon her, I know,” said Miss Barnet. “She was saying so only to-day, and that she hoped you would do so also.”

“Very kind of her,” said Bill drily. “I certainly shall call. I met the lad this afternoon as a matter of fact, and he gave me to understand that they wouldn’t close their doors to me if I did.”

“I should think they would be very pleased,” said Miss Barnet. “He is not strong, they say. I believe it is on account of his health that they have come here.”

“Yes, nerves,” said Bill. “He looks as if he were strung on wires. Well, this place ought to suit him if it is quiet he wants.”

“I hope it will. I hope they will stay,” said Miss Barnet.

Bill Quentin gave her a quizzical glance. “To relieve our boredom; is that it?”

“Oh, I am never bored,” she said as though repudiating a grave offence.

“Well done, you!” said Bill lightly.

“Oh, but surely!” she protested, “surely no one could be bored in this lovely place!”

“I should think most people die of it here,” he said.

She turned on him almost with mild rebuke. “Mr. Quentin, you are not serious when you say things like that.”

He smiled at her. “I’m beginning to be, I assure you. But I do make jokes too sometimes even now. I’ll tell you when to laugh next time.”

She flushed faintly. “I know I am very dull,” she said, apology in her voice.

“You are just right,” he assured her. “Don’t ever be any different or I shan’t be able to come to you with my troubles!”

They had reached a turn in the lane where a stile led into a field. She held out her hand for her basket.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Quentin. I must say good-bye now. It is getting late and I must take the short cut to the village or Mrs. Winch will be wondering.”

There was no questioning her sincerity; she was always sincere. He surrendered the basket without remonstrance.

“I’m awfully glad to have seen you,” he said, as he prepared to remount his horse. “Good-bye! And ever so many thanks for the primroses!”

She smiled and turned away. The clatter of Paddy’s hoofs told her of his departure as she crossed the stile, and she stole a glance behind her as they broke into a trot. How kind he was! And how generous! But no, he had not looked back. She uttered a small, involuntary sigh and went her way. No man during the whole of her life had ever taken the trouble to look back at her. Who could blame Lottie Morton for taking her fate into her own hands? And yet—poor Lottie, poor Lottie! It was a grievous risk to run.