Читать книгу The Altar of Honour - Ethel M. Dell - Страница 12

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The May sunshine was streaming upon an enchanted world when Charmaine set forth to pay her visit in Park Lane on the following day. She went in her brother-in-law’s car which had previously deposited Sylvia at the Ritz, and the lonely grandeur of the brief journey filled her with a sort of joyful trepidation. She was desperately nervous, but she would not have missed the adventure for worlds.

When the tall front-door swung open, and she was confronted by a tall footman of imposing presence, she could hardly find sufficient voice to make her request for Lady Cravenstowe audible. But he swept the door wide for her as though she had been a princess, and she entered, still murmuring inarticulately.

There was something very daunting about this London mansion. Its magnificence made her feel a mere pigmy, and she marvelled at herself for daring to enter. Yet as she followed the footman, a curious sense of elation came upon her, as if this wonderland in which she found herself were not after all so foreign to her. She was no longer a stranger in a strange land, for an odd quickening of the pulses in this new atmosphere of quiet splendour of which she had no personal experience seemed to proclaim it as her birthright. She could not feel a stranger here.

She went up a shallow, thickly carpeted staircase, still following the lordly footman, and in response to his lofty gesture entered a room of palatial dimensions with a high painted ceiling and walls of cream and gold. Here her guide left her with a request to be seated which did not even penetrate her consciousness. She remained standing in the middle of the great apartment, feeling as if she were in a strangely familiar dream. The furniture was all in blue and gold, and she knew it to be French, yet could not have said how she knew. Three tall windows along one side of the room looked on to the greenness of the Park. They were shaded by striped sun-blinds that threw a cool shadow on to the polished floor with its dim, glowing rugs. And in a far corner she caught another glimpse of green mingled with exquisite colour which drew her as by a spell. Here was a conservatory arranged like a grotto with a tinkling fountain that played over a marble pool of goldfish, with a great bank of ferns behind it and myriads of rare flowers around.

The heavy fragrance of the place was like incense. She paused at the entrance, longing to enter, yet half afraid.

All her life she had had a passion for flowers, and in this enchanted spot was some wandering scent that reminded her vividly—vividly—of a certain tiny conservatory where once she had sat and wept in lonely desolation, and someone had come to her—someone with an amazing warmth of vitality—and had charmed her tears away. Often still in dreams that memory was with her, though she had long abandoned all hope of meeting that beloved hero of hers again. He had flashed into her life and flashed out again, nor had she ever managed to recall his surname—which possibly indeed she had never heard. She treasured him in her heart as Rory Daredevil, and she had never associated any other name with him. Where he was now—whither he had gone after that brief golden friendship—she knew not, and in that abject submission to which she had been schooled she accepted her ignorance with resignation. She never would know. He had forgotten her—of course he had forgotten her—long since, and even if he saw her now, he probably would not know her. That was a thought that hurt Charmaine, but she did not dwell upon it, for—though she would have known him out of a million—she was sure that their paths could never cross again. Five years is an eternity to youth, and he had become a dream-hero to her whose memory was sacred, but whose face she could never more hope to see.

But that haunting fragrance brought him back to her so that she heard again his quick merry voice, saw that sharp line of his boyish chin; and, urged by a sudden, almost unbearable emotion, she stepped into the magic grotto and stood there, as it were immersed in the overpowering sweetness of its atmosphere.

Several seconds must have elapsed before she realized that the scent which so enthralled her came from a mass of dark heliotrope in one corner, and she moved towards it in obedience to a blind longing which would not be denied. She reached it, bent above it; then, as the scent rose all about her, she knelt and, gathering a great head of the flower into her two hands, she softly kissed it.

The next moment, at a sound behind her, she sprang to her feet, scarlet with confusion, to meet the eyes of a stranger looking in upon her.

They were quite kindly eyes, but Charmaine was too startled and dismayed to notice that. She stood quivering and downcast, as one caught in a guilty act.

He spoke at once, easily and with a most reassuring friendliness. “I say, are you fond of flowers? They are jolly, aren’t they? I’m Basil Conister. I’ve been sent down to amuse you till my aunt comes.”

His voice was so pleasantly devoid of censure or even criticism that it was impossible to continue to maintain her crushed attitude, but she still had the uncomfortable feeling of having been caught. She looked up at him apologetically.

“I’m afraid I ought not to have come in here,” she murmured.

“Why not?” he said. “I should say to look at you that it’s the one place you really ought to be in. But of course I’m no judge.”

He smiled at her, and she gave him a very shy smile of gratitude in return.

“It’s Miss Audley, isn’t it?” he said, holding out his hand. “That’s all right,” as she gave hers timidly in return. “Now we know each other. What’s that flower you like so much? Why, it’s cherry-pie! Have a bit of it!”

He moved forward—a tall, loose-knit figure of athletic build—and gathered a beautiful bloom from her favourite flower.

“Oh, thank you!” said Charmaine. “How lovely!”

“Have a bit of maidenhair too!” he suggested. “Here’s a bit! And one of those Malmaison carnations wouldn’t come amiss, would it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Charmaine. “Do you think I ought?”

And then, because his eyes were so frank and kindly, she found her shyness slipping from her again, and she took his flowers without further hesitation.

“That’s fine,” he said, as she fastened them into the simple frock into which Marie had introduced so much hidden subtlety. “You’re right to choose heliotrope. It suits you down to the ground. That dark bit is just the colour of your eyes. I suppose that’s why.”

Charmaine laughed. “You ought to wear some too then,” she said. “Your eyes are just the same.”

“Oh no!” he protested. “Mine are the light shade—not nearly so romantic as yours. You find a bit that really matches them and I’ll wear it.”

She took him seriously. “Are you sure your aunt won’t mind?” she said.

“No, no! She’ll be delighted,” he assured her. “Fire away! Ah, that’s more the colour—near your hand. You’ve got to gather it, you know.”

“It’s very pale,” said Charmaine.

“Well, you take a good look at my eyes,” he said, “and see if it isn’t the right shade!”

She did so. There was nothing in the least formidable about him, and it seemed a perfectly ordinary and reasonable thing to do. His eyes were, as he said, much nearer in shade to the pale heliotrope than to the dark; but she liked them because they were so open and honest. The rest of his face did not impress her very particularly. It was quite good looking in a simple, straightforward fashion, but it was not the kind of face that one remembered with any great vividness afterwards. The principal thing that struck her was its complete friendliness. Here was someone of whom she did not feel she could ever be afraid! And yet he was by no means insignificant. She thought there was something rather fine and knightly about his bearing. She decided afterwards that he was the sort of person who did not need to make an impression. He bore the stamp of good breeding in every line—a free birthright of which he was not even conscious.

Somehow it seemed to be perfectly natural to be joking with him and offering him a flower before their acquaintanceship was five minutes old. He had the supreme gift of making everything seem easy, or was it something within herself that responded to a similar quality in him—a bond of sympathy which could not but flourish between them from the outset? Impossible to say! In this new world events were happening so rapidly that she could not stop to analyse their cause or meaning. She could only move in unison, yielding herself without resistance to that which seemed to be second nature.

“You know what’ll happen to it, don’t you?” he said, as emboldened by his semi-coaxing attitude she consented to insert the sprig she had gathered into his buttonhole.

“What will happen to it?” she asked, with eyes of deep innocence raised to his.

He smiled down at her, his look half-reverent, half-tender. “I shall press it in my Prayer Book of course, and keep it for ever and ever.”

“Shall you?” said Charmaine, momentarily puzzled; and then, with a hint of humour which surprised herself, “Is that what you use your Prayer Book for?”

He laughed. “Touché, Mademoiselle! And I deserved it. But I protest—my Prayer Book is not a museum of that description. Your gift will reign alone.”

“It isn’t really a gift,” said Charmaine, “because it wasn’t mine to give.”

“Well, it was jolly nice of you to think of it, anyway,” he declared. “Come and look at the goldfish! By Jove! They get fatter every day. Put your hand in and see if you can catch one!”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t like to be caught,” said Charmaine.

Nevertheless, it was amusing to sit on the edge of the marble pool with him and make abortive attempts to waylay the darting fish. They became in fact so uproarious over this occupation that Lady Cravenstowe’s entrance was unheard by either of them, and not till her laughter joined theirs were they aware of her presence.

“You mischievous infants!” she exclaimed, as they started and looked up. “If you don’t both of you deserve to be sent straight to the nursery! Look at you! Simply drenched!”

“Oh no! We’re all right,” her nephew assured her, though he looked for the moment slightly embarrassed. “We haven’t done any harm. Are you very wet, Miss Audley? Have my handkerchief!”

“Is she very wet?” said Lady Cravenstowe, smiling at the sweet flushed face of her guest as she shook hands. “Her sleeve is soaked!”

“Oh no! Oh no!” protested Charmaine. “It isn’t indeed! And it doesn’t matter. Really it doesn’t!”

“Well, I don’t think my nephew’s handkerchief will help you much,” said Lady Cravenstowe. “Has he introduced himself properly, by the way?”

“Of course he has,” said Basil Conister with his frank smile. “That was the first thing I thought of naturally, so we needn’t go back to the beginning of things, need we?”

“You certainly haven’t wasted much time on preliminaries,” commented Lady Cravenstowe. “Well, my dear, come along and have some lunch! I must apologize for not being here to receive you. I was detained by a stupid lawyer man who came to talk business and simply wouldn’t go.”

“He probably wanted some lunch too,” observed Basil.

“Perhaps he did!” said Lady Cravenstowe. “Ah well, he will have to provide his own to-day. Thank goodness he has gone at last! My dear, you look like a rose—the most refreshing thing I’ve seen to-day.”

She smiled appreciatively at Charmaine and drew her hand through her arm to lead her from the room.

Again it seemed to Charmaine that this world of delightful people in which she found herself was more natural to her than the one in which she had been brought up. It was impossible to feel ill at ease in Lady Cravenstowe’s friendly presence. For everything she said and looked expressed appreciation.

It was a cheery little luncheon-party, and before it was over she felt that it was not a party at all, but that she actually belonged to this atmosphere of geniality which so short a time before she had feared to enter. She thought Basil Conister was quite the nicest man she had ever met. His gentleness and his complete absence of subtlety appealed to her very strongly. She also discovered that he was a lover of the country, and this instantly established a bond between them, though he shook his head when she confessed with some shame that she was too nervous to ride.

“That means you haven’t been taught properly,” he said. “You wouldn’t be nervous if I had the teaching of you.”

And, very curiously, in her heart she agreed with him.

Lady Cravenstowe did so audibly. “Ah yes! If you had the teaching of her on those lovely slopes of Culverley! There isn’t a girl living who wouldn’t enjoy that.”

“Where is Culverley?” Charmaine asked.

It was Basil who answered her. “It’s my cousin’s place—one of the old family inheritances of England, the sort of place you would love.”

“I should think she would!” said Lady Cravenstowe warmly. “It’s a dream of a place, and has been owned by the Conisters for ages. I was a Conister, you know. I was born there.”

“I wish I knew more about people,” said Charmaine. “But I’ve been out so little that I know hardly anything.”

“My dear, what does that matter?” said Lady Cravenstowe with a good-natured smile. “You’ll soon learn. And it’s such a pleasure nowadays to meet a girl of your age who doesn’t know as much as, or more than, anybody else. What were we talking about? Oh yes, Culverley. Some day I shall get Hugh to let me take you down for a visit. Poor old Hugh! He is the present Lord Conister. He injured his spine in a motoring accident and is helpless. There is nothing to be done. They say the marvel is that he is still alive—if you can call it living! I am very fond of him.”

“I would love to go,” said Charmaine, “if you think he wouldn’t mind.”

“Yes, you would like him,” said Basil. “You might stand in awe of him a little at first, but you would soon get over it. He is quite one of the best.”

“All the Conisters are,” said Lady Cravenstowe humorously. “I believe we date back to the Knights of the Round Table, and they were the essence of good form as everybody knows.”

“Oh yes, I’ve heard of them,” said Charmaine. “But they were rather like other men, weren’t they? I mean, they weren’t all of them good.”

“They were good old sportsmen, anyway,” declared Basil, with a twinkle. “By Jove, life was worth living in those days. What fun they all had!”

“I don’t think the girls could have enjoyed it much,” observed Charmaine. “There was such a lot of fighting and being killed.”

“Oh, they liked it all right,” he assured her. “Plenty of excitement and so on! No time to be bored!”

“Oh no, I don’t think they were bored,” said Charmaine. “But they must have longed for a little peace now and then. I know I should.”

“What! Don’t you like things to happen?” he said.

“Of course—nice things,” she said. “But not bad things—not violent things. One doesn’t like to think of people going out to one of those tourneys to be hurt.”

“Ah! I know what you mean,” he said, “and I agree with you every time. Those spear-heads were nasty things to get into you—and much nastier to get out. Still, they were good old days, and chivalry was an article worth having.”

“But isn’t there any left?” asked Charmaine.

He laughed a little. “Well yes, I suppose so. Just here and there! But it isn’t so fashionable as it used to be.”

“Does it matter about being fashionable?” she asked rather timidly.

He looked straight at her with his kindly eyes. “Not to anyone like you,” he said. “I should think you belong to the happy few who can afford to be—just themselves.”

She flushed, but more from pleasure than embarrassment. “It isn’t much good trying to be anything else, is it?” she said.

“Hear, hear!” said Basil.

“No, but really!” she protested. “I’m not laughing. When one knows one is ignorant and childish—and—and dull, is it any good pretending not to be? It’s only deceit, and one is sure to be found out.”

“I shouldn’t think you ever deceived anyone in your life, did you?” he said, watching her with sheer friendly amusement.

She coloured very deeply and lowered her eyes. “Oh yes, I did—once,” she murmured. “It’s—a very long while ago, and I was punished for it very severely—as of course I deserved to be. I’ve never done it since—at least, never intentionally.”

She made the confession with immense effort and with quivering lips. If he had not been so full of kindly credulity she could not have done it; but somehow it seemed imperative, before they went any further, that he should know her at her worst.

Had her words been received in silence she would probably have risen and fled, so poignant for the moment was her distress. But he covered her instantly as it were with a shield of sympathetic badinage that somehow restored her equanimity.

“I say, how awfully sweet of you to tell me that!” he said. “But I’m sure you never did anything half so bad as the things I used to get swished for at school, but I’m such a hardened sinner I’ve even forgotten what they were. You know what a little brute I used to be, Aunt Edith,”—he turned to his aunt almost appealingly—“remember that time I broke your umbrella and swore it was the cat?”

“My dear Basil, I remember many of your misdeeds,” she responded with gusto, “to none of which, I am quite sure, could any of Miss Audley’s have ever held a candle. You really ought to have known him as a boy,” she went on to Charmaine. “He was so plausible, and always had an excellent reason for everything he did, however outrageous. In fact, his very sins appeared virtues if one listened to him long enough.”

Basil laughed. “Now don’t give a wrong impression of me!” he begged. “You’re making me out a horrid rogue, which I’m not. Miss Audley, I appeal to you for protection.”

“Oh, do call me Charmaine!” she said. “I like it so much better.”

“So do I,” he said promptly. “But I didn’t know I might.”

“I don’t think I should let him if I were you, my dear,” said Lady Cravenstowe judicially, “until you know each other a little better.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” murmured Charmaine humbly. “I didn’t think it mattered what anybody called me. You let Sir Robert Blakeley call me Cinderella yesterday.”

“I have no authority over him,” said Lady Cravenstowe, with a smile towards her nephew.

“Whereas,” explained Basil with an answering smile, “she rules me with a rod of iron. But I’m hanged if that Blakeley fellow is going to steal a march on me. If he is allowed to call you Cinderella——”

“He isn’t!” said Charmaine hastily. “He just did, that’s all.”

“I should like to wring his neck for him,” said Basil.

“Oh, why?” said Charmaine, looking startled. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“Not if I may call you Cinderella too,” he said.

She turned to Lady Cravenstowe with a childish gesture of coaxing. “May he?” she pleaded.

“And what are you going to call him?” said Lady Cravenstowe, a hint of warning in her voice despite the banter.

“Oh, I am the prince, of course,” said Basil, lightly coming to the rescue. “I shall be calling on you with a glass slipper one of these days.”

She turned back to him with a merry laugh. “I hope it’ll fit!” she said.

Something in his smiling eyes confused her. She made a shy movement of withdrawal, and in the same moment Lady Cravenstowe rose from the table.

“I’m sure I hope it will,” she said. “If I am to be the fairy godmother, I will see that it does.”

She put her arm round Charmaine with the words, and there was that in the motherly touch which went straight to the girl’s lonely heart. She remembered it afterwards with a deep sense of comfort. Whatever happened, she was sure that Lady Cravenstowe would be her guide and friend.