Читать книгу Gerald Cranston's Lady - Gilbert Frankau - Страница 16

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“Hallo, Gordon.”

“Hallo, Hermione.” For a moment, as she greeted him and their hands met, Ibbotsleigh’s black eyes took their fill of Gerald Cranston’s lady. To him, she was all beautiful, all appeal. Ever since her wedding he had been thinking of her, wondering if she were happy, wondering how soon he dare visit her. Then as, greetings over, she bade him be seated in her husband’s hall, his eyes veiled themselves under dark lashes; and he knew himself, for the first time in his impetuous life, tongue-tied and ill at ease. She asked—and for him her low-modulated voice held a new, unremembered thrill—whether he had found rugs for his horse, whether he would like a drink, whether he had had a good day’s hunting. He answered her:

“Thanks. The nag’ll be all right for half an hour. I’ll take a peg if I may. You don’t mind my calling to—er—congratulate. I’ve been out with the Quorn. We killed half an hour ago. At the Spinneys. It seemed a good opportunity to—er—pay one’s respects. You’ve been out, I see.”

For a full five minutes they talked hunting. Her friend’s attitude puzzled Hermione. He seemed weirdly aloof, uncertain of himself. Even his, “Well, how’s the boy?” sounded forced.

She answered his question gaily enough. “Thanks. The boy’s at Rorkton House.” Nevertheless it was a relief when Rennie brought the drink; and Gordon, apologizing for the state of his boots, sat down by the fire.

Taking the opposite chair, she chaffed him about his remissness in not inquiring after her husband. “As a caller, Gordon, that’s one of your first duties.”

“My dear girl”—a little of the man’s old self-possession seemed to return—“what’s the use of asking after a chap like Cranston. The Gerald Cranstons of this world don’t require congratulatory callers. They can get on without congratulations—or sympathy. That’s one of the main advantages of being rich.”

The words grated, but Hermione was hardly aware of their grating. Gordon Ibbotsleigh had been Cosgrave’s intimate crony. For years, ever since her first marriage, she had been friendly with him. For years she had, as she thought, understood his curious cynicism, his curious temperamental violences, which, at times, awakened almost to mania.

“Please apologize, Gordon,” she said, quietly.

“Sorry.” He drained his whisky and soda. “How is the great Gerald Cranston?”

“Very well, indeed, thanks.” She laughed, play-actress-wise. “And the great Gordon Ibbotsleigh?”

“Broken-hearted, of course.” The grating note went out of his voice; and for a sentence or so they chaffed on—decorously, after the fashion of intimates. Looking at him, Hermione knew pleasure. Gordon Ibbotsleigh was a man of her own world. His thin compressed lips spoke her own language. If his eyes, black-browed above the eagle nose and the sallow weather-beaten cheeks, were a trifle arrogant, it was only with the arrogance of birth, the self-certainty of education.

“Being a millionairess suits you,” he said, quizzing her.

“I’m not a millionairess.”

“No, but you soon will be.” He crossed his booted legs and for a moment sat speechless, his dark pupils refracting the red fire-glow. Then, slowly, half to himself and half to her, he went on. “You were right to marry Cranston. A good-looking woman’s a fool if she doesn’t marry some one with money.”

“Aren’t you being rather impertinent, Gordon?” Hermione’s cheeks flushed.

“Possibly!” He still spoke slowly, more to himself than to her. “Truth’s always impertinent. Besides—as Tony’s friend, I’m a privileged person.”

“I’d rather you didn’t talk of Tony.” Again Hermione’s cheeks reddened, and with an effort, Ibbotsleigh controlled himself.

“Anyway,” he continued, “it’s a grand marriage for the boy, and I only hope you’ll be happy. That was why I came to-day—to wish you every happiness.”

Gordon’s change of mood, his reference to little Arthur, affected Hermione. She realized, and for the first time, how much—as a pal, of course, merely as a pal—he cared for her.

“It’s nice of you to have come,” she answered. “I’m glad you’re the first—”

“Are you?” His eyes lifted to her face, and a little of the old cynicism flashed in them. “Are you really glad? I doubt it. One’s women-friends, when they marry, haven’t usually got much more use for one.”

“Romances of a broken-hearted bachelor!” laughed Hermione.

“No.” Gordon’s lips were set. “Just common sense.”

“Common nonsense!” Hermione laughed again. “What difference can my marriage make to our,” she hesitated ever so slightly over the word, “friendship?”

“You promise it shall make no difference?” Impetuously Gordon rose to his booted feet, and stared down at her across the glow of the fire.

“You promise?” he repeated. “You promise me continuance of our friendship?”

“Of course.” She, too, rose, faintly uncomfortable at the suggestion of over-intimacy; and for a moment they faced each other in silence. Then, once more the cynic, Gordon held out his lean hand with a smiled, “I’ll take my congé on that, if you don’t mind”; and, picking up his whip, prepared for departure.

“Tell Cranston I’m sorry I missed him,” he went on, as Hermione, still faintly uncomfortable, clicked up the lights and rang to order his horse. But almost before the words were out of his mouth, Hermione, hearing the scrunch of car-wheels up the drive, retorted: “You haven’t missed him, Gordon. Here he is!”

His hostess’s voice sounded utterly unperturbed; to Ibbotsleigh, however, the arrival of Cranston was something more than a mere annoyance. There had been moments, ever since that first uncontrollable moment on Hermione’s wedding-day, when he had caught himself hating Cranston.... But the meeting was now inevitable; and as the car-wheels scrunched nearer, as they ceased their scrunching, he braced himself to cope with it.