Читать книгу The Wings of Victory - Fred M. White - Страница 11

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Sylvia stood there irresolutely, with the envelope in her hand. It was a desperate situation, and one that she recognised with a heart that beat fast and a certain dizziness that caused the room to revolve round and make her feel weak at the knees. A cruel situation for a girl to find herself in, and one that, for the moment, entirely overpowered her.

Her first impulse was to sit down on the nearest chair and give way to tears. But then tears were not Sylvia's way; she had been brought up in too hard a school for that. She could be soft and yielding enough when the atmosphere was right, but, on the other hand, she had learnt to look out for herself, and she had always known since she had come to years of discretion that those criminal practices of her father must end, one day, in dire disaster.

But she had always hoped and prayed that when the time came she would be far away from the trouble. And yet here it was, and gripping her in its toils like a serpent. And again there was the cruel and amazing coincidence of the whole thing. It was as if fate had conspired to drag her into it.

Well, whatever happened, she would speak the truth when the time came. She would not stand quietly by and see her whole career blasted for the sake of a worthless man, though he did happen to be her own father. And once she had made up her mind to this, the natural courage of the girl came back to her. Gradually she got a grip upon herself, gradually the room ceased to revolve round her, and every article there came back to her in its proper perspective. She opened the flap of the envelope to look inside and see for herself whether or not her worst fears were realised. And then she discovered that what she held in her hand was nothing but the envelope, neatly slit open, and the letter itself was not to be found. Somebody had opened it, no doubt, and had placed the contents on one side for further consideration. Well, she knew the worst of that, at any rate. And she would have been, perhaps, easier in her mind had she known what had become of the photograph. The letter in itself was nothing by comparison; it was the photograph that would cause trouble for her.

Just for an instant Sylvia was almost tempted to turn her back upon the silent bungalow and seek shelter and safety in the darkness of the night. If she could get away without being recognised, she might still save the situation.

The storm which had lulled for a time broke out with redoubled violence, the thunder crashed overhead, and the storm of rain, driven by the force of the wind, pelted on the windows like a volley of musketry. No, there was no escape that way. With all Sylvia's courage and resolution, she could not face the open country on such a night as this. Therefore, she resigned herself to the inevitable, and, pulling up a chair, seated herself in front of the fire. There must be someone about somewhere, she told herself; the people who inhabited the bungalow could not be very far away. It was impossible to believe the place had been actually deserted. So she sat there for half an hour or more until she heard the door open presently and a moment or two later a man entered the room.

Sylvia could see that his handsome face was wet, that his boots were muddy and sodden, and his neat black suit was dry enough, and he had the air of a man who is quite at home. His face was set and firm, almost like that of a mask; his black hair was brushed back from his forehead, and a pair of singularly lustreless eyes regarded Sylvia without surprise and much as if the new-comer had expected to find her there.

"I beg your pardon," she said. "I had to come here. I was walking through the woods when the storm overtook me, and I came here because I saw a light. As no one answered the door to my ring, I ventured to come inside."

It sounded very unconvincing, even to Sylvia's own ears, but apparently the black-haired man standing there in the doorway seemed to see nothing wrong about it, for he merely bowed in the respectful manner of a well-trained servant and proceeded without speech to arrange one or two articles on the table. Then he turned to leave the room.

"One moment," Sylvia said. "I am afraid you don't quite understand."

"I understand perfectly, madam," the man said. "You came here to seek shelter."

"Certainly, I did," Sylvia replied. "But that is not everything. Would you mind telling me to whom I am indebted for this kindness, and to whom this bungalow belongs?"

"It belongs to my master," the man replied.

"So I presume. But would you be good enough to tell me the name of your employer?"

It seemed to Sylvia that the man looked a little uneasy, but no more uneasy than she felt herself.

"Professor John Bevill," he said.

"Oh, indeed, and is he here?"

"Not for the moment, madam. But he will not be long. He won't be more than an hour at the outside."

With that the reticent individual with the black hair turned his back upon Sylvia and walked out of the room. It was all extraordinary, so amazingly unconventional, that despite her difficulties and anxieties Sylvia could hardly restrain a smile. Still, there was consolation in the knowledge that this silent, well-trained servant had accepted her presence there as a matter of course. Evidently he had regarded her as a lady, and equally he had believed all that she had to say—but by no means the kind of thing likely to happen in the ordinary conventional household. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to sit quietly before the fire and to wait the advent of someone more human than the man with the black hair. And all this time the rain was coming down in torrents and the bungalow was shaking with the force of the storm. Then, presently, it seemed to Sylvia that she could hear the sound of wheels outside, followed by the toot of a horn, and a moment or two later someone else walked into the room.

It was a woman of apparently about fifty years of age, tall and with a kindly face framed in hair that was rapidly turning to silver on the temples. The new-comer flung aside a big cloak, with a hood, and disclosed a typical nurse's uniform. Then she turned with a look of surprise in those dark eyes of hers, but with a tiny smile in them that gave Sylvia fresh courage. It seemed to her, just for an instant, that the smile gave place to a half-startled expression that might, indeed, have been one of recognition; but it was only for a moment, and then the kindly look was back in those dark eyes again.

Here was someone, Sylvia thought, who might be a friend. Here was someone that perhaps she could confide in. She rose from her seat by the fire and crossed the room.

"I don't know what you will say or think to find me here," she said. "But I hope that you won't resent this intrusion."

"On a night like this?" the other asked. "Oh, surely not. You are quite welcome."

"I thought you would say that," Sylvia murmured. "I thought you would say that directly I saw you. I was walking—well, I was walking—oh, perhaps I had better tell you the truth. I was walking to London, because I hadn't the money to pay my railway fare, and I got caught in this awful storm."

"You are very wet?" the other asked.

"I am not in the least wet," Sylvia cried. "I managed to get here before the rain came down in earnest. I saw the light of the bungalow through the trees, and I thought that I might beg shelter for an hour or two until the storm was over. I knocked at the door two or three times, but no one came, and then I began to feel that something was wrong here. I was terrified, too, by the storm and the loneliness, so I ventured to try the door and found that it was not fastened. So I plucked up my courage and came in expecting to find all sorts of horrors here. And then, to my surprise, I discovered that the house was empty. After that a servant—or I suppose he is a servant—came in, and I tried to explain. For some reason or another he took my presence here as a matter of course."

The woman smiled.

"Yes, he would," she said. "Garrass is an excellent servant, but the quietest and most taciturn man I have ever met. I don't think an earthquake would disturb him. A most peculiar creature, who hates everybody in the world except his employer, and for Mr. Bevill I believe he would die. But do sit down and make yourself at home. You must stay the night here now. You will excuse me asking, but have you had anything to eat lately?"

Sylvia's cheeks flushed.

"Oh, that does not matter," she said. "I am not particularly hungry."

"Is that true?" the woman asked. "No, I can see it isn't. Now, my dear young lady, I'm a nurse, and I understand these sort of things. Mr. Bevill won't be very long, and he won't be in the least annoyed if we sit down and have supper before he comes back. He is a bit strange and eccentric perhaps, but one of the kindest-hearted men in the world. When he hears your story I know he will ask you to stay here as long as you like. He always does. Now, do come and sit down at the table. And perhaps I had better introduce myself. I am a distant relative of Professor John Bevill's, and, as you see, a nurse—Nurse Coterell to be exact. You see, I have been taking a holiday for some time, and as the Professor wants a good deal of looking after I came down here to stay with him. He is by no means strong, and working all night, as he frequently does, is rather too much for him. Now, come along, and let me give you a little of this cold chicken and a glass of port. If I were to prescribe for you, I should say that this moment a glass of port is the very thing you want. Come along."

There was a trace of tears in Sylvia's eyes.

"You are more than kind," she said. "Let me tell you my name. I am Sylvia Dorn."

Nurse Coterell looked up swiftly.