Читать книгу The Devil's Advocate - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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In a roomy old world cottage on the west side of Hitherfield, Philippa Goldfinch lived with her father, a retired doctor of small means and a man devoted to science and research of various kinds. He was a perfect child in all worldly matters, in spite of his wonderful store of general knowledge, and he might have been quite comfortable in his simple way but for the fact that he was ever ready to believe everything that he heard, and take human nature, generally at its own valuation. He was always going to make a fortune in some mysterious way, and ever indulging in fond dreams that obsessed him every time a fresh company prospectus came into his hands. It was part of Philippa's business in life to get hold of these and destroy them before they reached her father's hand, or there would have been nothing left to live on. For the rest, a fairly good annuity, paid monthly, by a wealthy brother of the doctor's, was the mainstay of the household.

The garden of the cottage was one of Philippa's chief delights. Here she spent most of her time in the spring and summer, with the doctor usually in close attendance, for his botanical knowledge was minute, and he was constantly experimenting with new plants and rock vegetation of various kinds.

They were there now on the morrow of David's ghastly discovery, after an early breakfast in the glorious sunshine, and admiring the great bed of wall-flowers in front of the cottage. The doctor was busy with some new plants which had reached him only the day before from a brother botanist in Hertfordshire.

"Now this, my dear Philippa," he was saying, "is something that has never been tried in England before. It belongs to the Depreesa family, and is indigenous to the Alps. But I am sanguine that we shall make a success of it here."

He wandered on in his kindly way, with his black smoking cap on the back of his grey head, making occasionally a shrewd remark which was not altogether in keeping with his character. It was a way he had, and one that occasionally deceived people who were prone to accept him as the acme of simplicity. But there were times when Dr. Goldfinch, believing himself to be absolutely right, displayed a tenacity of purpose and a dogged perseverance which surprised his friends almost as much as they surprised himself.

"Ah, well," he said, "I suppose I shan't have you here to help me much longer. Of course, the garden will suffer, but we can't help that. You might come over and give me a hand sometimes."

"Of course I will," Philippa said. "Why not? David will have his work to do, and the garden at the Bungalow is quite a natural one. There will not be much to do there, Dad; it will be one of my great regrets to turn my back on this old place."

Dr. Goldfinch went on with his planting. He was only just beginning to realise what Philippa's departure would mean to him. She had engaged a responsible housekeeper for him, it was true, but then, that would not be quite the same thing. They were talking the matter over in their simple way when the postman, coming up the drive, distracted the doctor's thoughts.

"Ah, here comes the post," he said briskly. "The postman with a parcel for me. Those new books, I expect. Now, you go on with this work while I take the books and remove the covers. I shall be back in a few minutes."

Philippa bent over her rock garden with a tolerant smile. She knew perfectly well that, unless something out of the common happened, she was not likely to see her father again this side of luncheon time. She was still working quietly away when a shadow falling across the bed attracted her attention, and looking up she saw that Richard Farrell was standing there.

"Good morning," he said. "I hope I didn't startle you. But, as I was passing by, I saw you at work here, and I could not resist the temptation to come and speak to you. Isn't it a glorious morning? Quite good to be alive."

Farrell spoke cheerfully enough, but there was a certain something about him that did not suggest that this apparently genial mood of his was in perfect accord with the beauty of the day. It seemed to Philippa that he looked drawn and tired, and for the first time she noticed a certain suspicion of red about his eyes. He had strangely coarsened of late. There was a nervous movement of his hands, and Philippa could see a little pulse throbbing behind his left temple. In a vague, resentful way she was wondering why he had obtruded himself on her in this fashion, and yet, only a few brief months ago, he had been more than a welcome guest at the cottage. Why had she not noticed these points in Farrell before? Philippa wondered. She knew very little of the world, having lived most of her life in that beautiful and secluded spot, but she seemed to know now without anyone telling her that Farrell had been drinking. She had never spoken to a man in that condition before, and yet something told her that she was right. Not that there was anything offensive about his manner, his speech was clear enough, and he stood before her a fine, handsome figure of a man that any girl might have admired. But the vague something was there, and Philippa shrank from him.

"Yes, it is a lovely morning, isn't it?" she said. "We are taking advantage of it to get some new rock plants in."

"Oh, really," Farrell replied. "I should hardly have thought that you would have taken much interest in this garden now, since you have got one of your own to look after."

"I shall be always interested in this one," Philippa said, a little coldly. "It was a wilderness when we came here first, and just look what we have made it now."

But Richard Farrell did not appear to be listening. He gazed with a strange light in his eyes about the place, then he turned to Philippa with a queer smile on his lips.

"Some people are wonderfully lucky," he said. "But luck does not always last, you know."

The words sounded almost like a threat, and Philippa resented them accordingly. What did Farrell mean by that suggestion?

"I don't quite follow you," she said frigidly.

"Oh well, I think what I said was pretty plain. David Macrae is a lucky man now, but it does not follow that he will always be as fortunate. Perhaps you think I don't like him. You are not far wrong. If he had never come here—"

"Please don't," Philippa said. "I thought we had agreed not to allude to that subject again."

"Very likely," Farrell said. "But we are not all girls, you know. A man's affection isn't much to the average woman when the next man comes along. If Macrae had never come to Hitherfield you would not be talking to me like this."

Philippa listened in haughty silence. This was not the first time that Farrell had forgotten himself. And yet she had some sort of feeling for him, because she was bound to recognise the fact that what he said was perfectly true. She placed her trowel down on the bed and faced him with a certain dignity.

"I make every allowance for you, Richard," she said. "I have known you a great many years, and there was a time when I thought that I really cared for you. But, thank heaven, I found out my mistake in time. I never really cared."

"Yes, you did," Farrell said, savagely. "You would have married me if Macrae had not turned up."

"Perhaps I might—and regretted it ever afterwards."

A furious gleam came into Farrell's eyes. Just for a moment it looked as if he were on the verge of a violent out-break. It was fortunate, perhaps, that the doctor suddenly appeared.

"Philippa, those stupid people have sent me the books without the volume of index," he complained. "Without the index they are perfectly useless. Ah, good morning, Richard. A glorious day, isn't it? On your way to work, eh? Plenty to do for a rising young lawyer like you. What's the matter with your hand?"

Those mild blue eyes of the doctor's that usually saw so little beyond his own nose, save in the way of science, had gone straight to Farrell's right hand. On it he could see three or four small red angry indentations, much as if the fingers had been caught in a trap. Farrell put his hands behind his back quickly.

"Oh, it is nothing," he said. "I was opening a box last night and I got entangled with some nails."

"Let me have a look at it," the doctor said. "Those sort of things should never be neglected. If the nail happened to be a bit rusty, blood-poisoning and all sorts of complications might be set up. Now, come on, let me see it."

"Really, it is not worth troubling about," Farrell laughed awkwardly. "I never take any notice of these little things. I will put some liniment or something of that sort on when I get back."

Like most mild-mannered men, there was a certain vein of obstinacy in the doctor's simple nature. Therefore, at length, with a sullen air, Farrell extended his hand, and Goldfinch bent over it tentatively for some moments.

"They don't look like scratches to me," he said. "Now, are you quite sure that you haven't got a cat in the house?"

"I don't keep a cat," Farrell said. "What would one do with a cat in lodging? The landlady has one of course; being a landlady of the traditional type, she would."

"Are you quite sure the cat didn't scratch you?"

"Upon my word, I think you are right," Farrell said. "He is rather a nasty brute, and, now I come to think of it—but what does it matter? I must be getting along."

"Well, don't neglect those bites," the doctor said warningly. "If you like, I will give you something to put on them."

But Farrell declined to remain any longer. With a few commonplace remarks he backed slowly down the garden, and was lost to sight presently along the road. Goldfinch, with his black cap on the back of his head, watched him out of sight.

"Do you know, my dear," he said thoughtfully, "that is a very extraordinary young man. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that he has changed a lot of late. He used to look so healthy, and if I didn't know him to be quite an athlete I should say that he was a little inclined—but perhaps I had better not say it."