Читать книгу The Blind Man's House--a Quiet Story - Hugh Walpole - Страница 14

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Celia Cromwell found herself in the little wood to the left of the House and lost in it.

Now, at the end of the real summer, there was a thick pressure from the trees of leaves about to burgeon into amber, gold, saffron, a glorious transmutation before death. She had noticed it before—that hushed listening pressure of senses before the change—silent, heavy, ominous as with the passing of a human being. Death itself is light, almost careless. Preoccupation with death is sinister, as though it were against the law.

The little wood, weighted with darkness, was pierced with shafts and spears of light. How ridiculous to be lost in it when it was so very small and already she knew it so well! In the very centre of the little wood was a holly tree that seemed to be more alive than any tree should be. The leaves are so dark that they suggest steel, but the bark is white. The leaves are fiercely independent, caring neither for God nor man, but the bark is silk. The wood of the holly is so close-grained that in country-made furniture it has been inlaid to look like ebony, and in its natural state to imitate ivory.

This tree was shaped into a provocative hostility and, for a moment, Celia had the foolish fancy that it caught and enveloped her. She even looked at her hand to see whether the flesh were torn. Ever since she could remember she had suffered from a kind of claustrophobia, hating to be shut in, to be held by any one or anything unless she loved.

Now she shook off the imbecility. Was it to right or left? With her arms she brushed some branches aside and burst out on to the long, smooth, open lawn, green, sparkling, clear under the early afternoon sun like water.

She stood, without moving, the little trees behind her, gazing on that open view, with the fields that ran down to the hollow, the hill that ran up beyond, moving with rhythm like a sloping green wave of an endless ocean. She saw Jim Burke, with his back to her, bending down above a flower-bed that bordered the path in front of the house.

She moved across the lawn towards him and stood again watching the strong sturdy figure working with such easy pleasant naturalness.

'Well, Jim,' she said.

He started as though a bird had cried in his ear. The whole world had been so very still. He straightened up and turned to her.

'Planting some chrysanths.'

He wiped the back of his hand on his cheek. He was hot and his forehead shone with sweat.

'I might help you if it weren't so hot.'

'The last days of summer.' He always looked at her with an honest amused frankness. He always seemed to find something funny about her, and that she didn't like.

'I hope you find plenty to do,' she said.

His shirt was open and the hair on his chest was golden and damp.

'Plenty,' he said. 'But I like work.'

'And do you like being with us?'

He grinned. 'I always like where I am for the time being.'

'Do you never mean to settle down to anything?'

'No. Why should I? This isn't a world for settling down. The settling-down days are over. There'll be another war soon and then I'll have a real job to do.'

'Oh, I hope there won't be another war!'

'Of course there will. It's like turning the soil over before you plant the new seed. My father was a parson, you know, and he used to say: "Give us Peace in our time, O Lord." But I say: "Give us War, and War until human beings are made to realize the sort of world there ought to be. Shove it down our throats and then we'll realize!"'

She thought of the holly tree.

'That is very fierce of you. You speak as though you'd had a hard time.'

'I haven't. Not at all. I've enjoyed my life. It's been just what I wanted.'

She disliked his self-confidence.

'You're lucky. Very few of us can say that.'

'That's because most people do what they think they ought to do, not what they want to do.'

'If everyone always did just what they wanted, everyone would be miserable. You have to think of others.'

'Do you?' he said, looking at her and laughing. 'I mean—does everybody? Not as I see it. Everyone's for himself. It's only cowardice makes them think of others.'

'What an extraordinary idea! Don't you believe in the goodness of anyone then?'

'Oh, I like people! Everybody, almost. But that doesn't mean that I admire them—any more than I admire myself. Everyone's the same—look after number one.'

She was suddenly angry.

'Well, I don't agree with you. I know lots of unselfish people—my husband, for instance.'

'Mr. Cromwell. He's different. I think the world of him. There's nothing that I wouldn't do for him. That's how I feel at present, anyway. I may change, of course, and when I do I'll go somewhere else.'

'Did you like it at Mr. Ironing's?'

She was sure that it was wrong to gossip about her neighbours, but curiosity drove her on.

'Fred Ironing!' he laughed. 'Oh, he's all right. You didn't have to bother yourself with admiring him. We had some times together, we had——'

'Where have you been in between?'

'Let me see.' He considered. 'I was steward on a liner for a bit. Then I helped in a joint in New York. Then I trekked out to Hollywood and did Extra work for a bit. I was valet to a man in London. Then I helped with some fishing down at Penzance.'

'What brought you back here?'

'I've never liked any place in the world as much as this. I used to think of it over and over again in America. It's got everything, this place has—the sea only a few miles away, and the Moor, and the prettiest little church in England. I like the people here too—Fred Ironing and old Mr. Lamplough and Corbin at the "Three Pilchards" and the kids at the Rectory.'

'Weren't you surprised when my husband took you without knowing anything about you?'

'No, I wasn't. He could tell I meant it when I said I would do anything for him.' Then he added: 'There, that's enough questions for one day, isn't it? I must be getting on with my work. I promised Cotterill.' He turned his back to her and went on with his gardening.

She laughed.

'Your manners aren't terribly good, are they?' She heard him chuckle.

By tea-time she had decided that she would ask Julius to get rid of him. There was something she didn't at all like about him. Besides, he wasn't needed. They had already Cotterill the gardener, a gardener's boy, Curtis and Oliphant. Four males! Quite sufficient, surely. What with Mrs. Gayner and all these men about the house there seemed to be no place for her at all. If it came to that, Mrs. Gayner wasn't really needed. Julius adored her and was dreadfully under her influence. One day Mrs. Gayner should go—but not yet. She must work slowly and with caution there. It was not in her nature, however, to work slowly about anything. This business of Jim Burke's should be settled at once.

Between six and seven she went into the room that they called the Study, a foolish name perhaps, but it was Julius' own room where he had the gramophone, his Braille library, and his own writing-table.

When she came in music filled the room.

'What's that?' she asked, going over and sitting on the arm of his chair.

'Elgar's Second Symphony. Shut it off.'

'Not if you want it.'

'I don't want it if you're here.'

'You mean,' she said, laughing, 'I don't like good music.'

'You don't, as a matter of fact. But what I really mean is that when you're here I like to talk: I don't want any sound but your voice.'

She shut off the music, went back to him, kissed him and moved away.

'I'm not going to sit with you, because there's something I want to say.'

'Can't you say it just as well if we're together?'

'No. Because when you're holding my hand I'm weak. And now I want to be strong.'

'Go ahead then.'

'First—I hate Daisy Brennan.'

He turned on his side and stared about the room as though he were looking for her.

'How terrible! I don't like her very much myself.'

'She hates me, too. Mrs. Lamplough told me——'

He interrupted her almost harshly.

'Look here, Celia, you're not to listen to a word that woman says.'

'Oh, I know she's a cat——'

'I mean that seriously. We've come to live in a little village and villages are full of gossip. Some people aren't harmed by it, but you're so made that you take everything seriously. You must pay attention to nothing!'

'Why, how serious you are!'

'Yes. I get a sort of warning of things sometimes. Perhaps it's being as I am. I hear more than most people. Come here!'

She didn't move.

'Come here! Come here!'

His voice had a crying note in it, of unexpected urgency.

She ran across to him, threw herself on to him, kissed his eyes, his cheek, his mouth.

'I tease you. I shouldn't. It's the worst thing I do. But I want you to love me. I want you to! I want you to! I like to hear you cry out like that! I mustn't. I shall tease you once too often!'

After a little while she got up and stood out of his reach. 'No. What I said is true. I can't fight for myself when I'm touching you. I believe you have twice as much magnetism in your body as people who can see.'

'We need some compensation. Come back. Come back. I want you.'

'No ...'

He stretched out his arms.

'No, Julius.... Look here, what do we need to keep Jim Burke for?'

At that name passion that had filled the room died suddenly from it—just as a drum on an instant ceases to beat. In the new silence their words fell coldly.

'Jim Burke? Why—what's the matter with him?'

'I don't like him.'

'First Mrs. Brennan, now Jim Burke.'

'Oh, you are tiresome! What I mean is that we don't need Jim Burke.'

'Don't we?'

'We've got Cotterill and Johnny and Oliphant and Curtis. I know you want this place to look nice, but surely we don't need Jim Burke as well as all these other men.'

He leaned right over the fat leather arm of the chair, staring just a little to the right of her.

'Now—this interests me. What have you got against Jim Burke?'

'It isn't that I have anything against him. I simply don't see what you want him for.'

'I like him.'

'Oh, you can't like him already. You only met him a week or two ago. It isn't as though you could see him, and anyway you're not a woman. He's awfully good-looking, of course.'

'No, it's not his physical charms,' Julius said, grinning. 'I like him—that's all.'

'Why do you?' she said tempestuously. 'There's nothing to like about him. He's a gentleman by birth. What's he doing loafing around——'

'He doesn't loaf.'

'No, I must say he doesn't. Anyway he's a waster. In the last two years he's been every sort of thing from a tramp to gentleman's valet. He told me so.'

'Oh—so you've been having some talks with him?'

'I asked him a question or two. He has the most dreadful reputation, Julius. When he was with the Ironings no girl in the place was safe from him. He's said to be the father of at least half a dozen children in the village.'

'Said to be! Said to be!' Julius retorted. 'There you are! Gossip again! I know he's not a saint, but I don't want saints to work for me. They'd make me feel uncomfortable, not being a saint myself.'

How maddening and irritating he could be! Yes, and frightening! The change was coming that she knew so well, when he passed out of her reach—with his blind eyes he looked into a room where she was not.

'It was silly of me,' she said, 'to talk about his character. You're quite right. That has nothing to do with it. The point is you don't need him.'

'That's for me to say.'

'No, it isn't altogether. It's to do with me a little, too. You've got all these men about the place and Mrs. Gayner. I'm not wanted.'

She felt a sudden horrid little fear within herself lest he should suddenly say: 'No. You're not.'

'If it weren't for you,' he answered slowly, as though he were counting his words, 'we shouldn't be here at all. I wouldn't bother to have a house or servants. I'd have a room at my club and sometimes go to sea.'

'And you'd have Oliphant to look after you and be twice as happy as you are now.'

He shook his head. 'No. Not more happy. A different kind of happiness.'

He was gone. He wasn't in the room at all. She was alone. He was always removed from her as soon as he began to see. He was seeing now.

'Then,' she cried, 'you can have your old ship and your room at the club and Oliphant! If you don't want me you needn't think——'

He was back in the room again.

'Come here. Come here,' he said softly. 'Don't be angry so often. Like a little child.... When I love you so ... so very, very much.'

She came to him.

Exactly as eight-thirty struck from the grandfather's clock half-way up the stairs Violet brought in Mrs. Gayner's supper. Mrs. Gayner liked that her meals should be precisely punctual.

Just before Violet's entry Mrs. Gayner had drawn her curtains. The sky was dark but luminous, promise of the rising moon. Stars silver and virgin shone with a brilliant quiet. The little clustered wood lifted its ragged head against the waiting sky.

She saw that the ladder was still outside her window. Cotterill had been tending the creeper that covered her side of the house.

She gave the curtains a last loving tug and turned back to the table. There was her favourite supper: cold tongue and cold chicken, a salad, some Stilton, an apple, and a jug of beer. Violet stood waiting.

'Will that be everything, Mrs. Gayner?'

'No. As a matter of fact it will not.'

How pretty the girl was! With her dark hair and rose colouring, her large black eyes with the black eyelashes, her body held erect but lightly. The girl had breeding from somewhere. She had impertinence too. She stood there now, expecting a scolding, angry, her mouth curved with scorn.

'Oh yes—she thinks I'm an old dumpy woman whom men can't love any longer—so what's the use of me?'

She showed no temper, however, but said quietly:

'Violet, I have a job in this house just as everyone else has. And that job is to see that everything goes along quietly.'

'What have I been doing then?'

'You know well enough. You were impertinent to Mr. Curtis this morning when there was no call to be. It wasn't your place to tell him to be quicker about his work.'

'Mrs. Cromwell wanted the car and sent me to tell him so.'

'Did she tell you to be rude to him?'

'He doesn't bother with her. He only thinks of Mr. Cromwell.'

'That isn't true, but even though it were it's none of it your business.'

'It's my business to see that my mistress is properly served.'

Mrs. Gayner looked at her. She felt a kindly warmth—she was little more than a child and so very pretty! She sat down to her supper.

'Sit down for a moment, Violet. I don't mean to be angry. I know that Curtis is sometimes irritating. He's been with Mr. Cromwell so long and he doesn't like new faces. But with a girl as pretty as you he can't be unfriendly long.'

Violet had sat down, but on the very edge of her chair. Her face was clouded with sulkiness. She didn't speak.

'We've all got to get along together,' Mrs. Gayner went on. 'You haven't been here very long, have you?'

'No, I haven't.'

'It takes time to know people, and this house isn't quite like others, Mr. Cromwell being blind.'

'I tell you what it is, Mrs. Gayner, there's a lot too much made of Mr. Cromwell's blindness. Oh, I know it's an awful thing to be blind. I'm sorry for him all right. But there are plenty of other people blind. Look at all the St. Dunstan's men! Anyway, you'd think from the way Curtis and Oliphant go on—yes, and yourself too, Mrs. Gayner—you'd think no one had ever been blind before.'

'It isn't only that Mr. Cromwell is blind,' Mrs. Gayner said quietly. 'It is that we have become very attached to him. You will also when you've been here a little.'

'Oh, he's all right,' the girl said impatiently. 'I've nothing against him, but it's my mistress I'm thinking of. You all of you behave as though she were of no account at all.'

There was a little pause, then Mrs. Gayner said:

'I didn't ask you to stop, Violet, to discuss our mistress and master. That's not our business. All I want to say is that if you can't behave you'll have to go.'

Violet sprang to her feet.

'Oh, will I? And who's to have the saying of that? Am I at your beck and call or Mrs. Cromwell's? Mrs. Cromwell seems well enough satisfied with me, and that's good enough for me.'

She left the room, banging the door behind her.

Well, really!... Well, really!

Lizzie Gayner ate her supper, but without enjoyment. In all her time with Mr. Cromwell such a thing as this had never occurred. There had been troubles, of course, and girls had been impertinent, but unless they apologized they went. There had been little apology here.

And Mrs. Cromwell? Would she be behind this impertinence? The trouble came from the fact that Lizzie Gayner did not yet know Mrs. Cromwell. All that she knew about her was that she was young, spoilt, impetuous, with a real heart, kindly but probably ill-judging.

She realized that Violet had conceived for her mistress a passion and that Mrs. Cromwell was indulging the girl more than was wise. How Lizzie wished that she had never engaged the girl at all! She had hesitated between her and a plain-faced child from Rafiel. Something had warned her that Violet would be difficult. Things were not as easy in this house as she had hoped they would be. She did not like this Jim Burke who was under nobody's orders and was a gentleman really. She profoundly distrusted gentlemen who were servants. It was against nature.

She pushed her tray away from her and sat there thinking. She must proceed carefully. It would never do to complain of Violet to Mrs. Cromwell and then not be supported. This would need tact and knowledge of human nature.

She raised her hand to pull the standard lamp nearer to her so that she might see well to read, and fancied that she heard a tap on the window-pane. No, that it couldn't be. One of the tendrils of the creeper.... There was the knock again! Something told her that this was a human being.

She stood up, her hand at her breast. She was frightened. Then she shook her head. No, she was not frightened. She was in God's hands. So she went to the window, drew back the curtain and looked out. Because of the light in the room she could see very little, but someone was there, balancing on the top of the ladder. He was peering in with his nose against the pane.

She knew who it was.

'Oh God! God help me!'

She pulled the window open and drew him in. He jumped on to the floor.

'Gee, Mother,' he said, 'you do take a time!'

He was a thin man with high shoulders, large bony hands, a face that was ancient and babyish—a timeless face with light watery eyes, faint eyebrows, a large mobile mouth, and a small thin nose. He stood there, peering about him as though he had been living in a cellar. He was not a beauty and he was Lizzie Gayner's only son, Douglas. She had hold of his arm and the first thing she said was:

'Are the police after you?'

He looked at her with scorn.

'No, of course not.'

His suit, although too big for him, was not shabby, and he wore in his buttonhole a faded flower.

She held him off, looking at him. Then she kissed him.

'All right, Mother. Don't eat me.'

'Where have you been all this while?' she asked sternly.

'What while?'

'It's four months since I heard from you.'

'Well, I couldn't. I've been moving about!'

'Moving about!' She spoke scornfully. I'm sure you have. And now what a nice way to come and see your mother—through the window.'

'Well, how was I to know?' He spoke in a whine and you expected him to put up his arm and shield his face from a blow. Not that Lizzie Gayner had ever struck him. It was his general attitude to life, that he was one of the strikable.

'You're in a posh position here. You wouldn't want me coming in at the front door, would you?'

No, she wouldn't. She gave a quick look at the door. No one must, for the moment, know.

She had seated him by the table, herself close to him.

'He hasn't prosecuted you—Mr. Menzies, I mean?'

'He hasn't caught me.'

'He easily could. You aren't so difficult to find. They got the cigarette-case back and everything.'

'Of course they did—I was a mug.'

'Oh dear, whatever did you do it for? Such a nice place as you had, and Mr. Menzies so good to you.'

'That's what I complain of. If he was so good to me why couldn't he be a bit better? He wouldn't let me have the money when I asked him for it, so, I being in the mess I was, I had to take something, didn't I?'

'Where have you been all these four months?'

'Oh, moving about!' He suddenly grinned. It was the strangest smile, wicked, tragic, and forlorn. 'I've been on the Halls! I have really! Doing my song and dance. Listen, Mother!'

And of all things, he moved back and began a shuffling tap-toe kind of dance and at the same time, with a voice as hoarse as a frog's, sang something about 'Smile, Smile, and Happy Days are coming!'

She jumped up in alarm.

'Stop! Stop! Do you want them all to hear you?'

'Well, I was only showing you.'

He collapsed like a bagpipe and, all huddled up with his shoulders perched so high that it was almost a deformity, sat leaning over the table.

'Do you want something to eat?'

'I had a feed at the pub. I don't mind finishing the beer though.'

He poured it out into her glass and drank greedily.

'How did you know which my room was?'

'I saw you an hour ago looking out of it. I was standing in that there little wood.'

'And what do you mean to do now?'

'Stay here for a bit.'

'Oh no! You can't do that!'

'Not in the house, silly. In the village.'

In spite of her fears she was pleased. She loved him and he would be near her.

'You might get me a job. Oh, I don't mean to claim relationship. I don't want you to lose your job.'

'I shouldn't. Mr. Cromwell would understand. All the same, it's better that way.'

She was thinking of Mrs. Cromwell. If Mrs. Cromwell knew she had a thief for a son, who was, perhaps, at that very moment being sought for by the police, it would be awkward for everybody.

'What do you call yourself?'

'Henry Sharp. That's my stage name. Don't you forget it.'

'Where are you staying?'

'I'm at the "Three Pilchards." Got a bedroom that's cheap as things go. And that reminds me. Got any money?'

'Yes. A little.'

She went across to the little bureau, unlocked a drawer, and returned with three pounds.

'There!'

He had watched her every movement, his eyes as sharp as a pocket-knife, although they were watery.

'Thanks, Mother. And now, so-long! I'll be seeing you.'

He let her enfold him in her arms. She stroked his sleek watered hair. She held him away for a moment and looked at him anxiously.

'You want feeding up.'

'I'm all right. So-long.'

When the window was closed and there was silence in the room, she fell on her knees and began to pray.