Читать книгу Kitty Carstairs - J. J. Bell - Страница 3

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Through the still summer dusk the night mail for London roared down the long declivity, clashed into a cutting and forth again, screamed, flashed past the deserted little station of Dunford, and thundered triumphantly along the level towards Kitty Carstairs.

Leaning on the fence bounding the track, the girl watched the tremendous approach with a fascination which custom had failed to dull. As the monster seemed to leap upon her, her attitude lost its easy laxness; she stood erect, her white-clad arms leaving the fence, her slim brown fingers clutching it. A sensation of oily, steamy warmth, a glimpse of two dark human figures in a fiery glow—and the great engine was past. A whirl of brilliantly-lighted corridors with their puppet-like occupants, a couple of darkened sleeping-cars, more carriages, a postal van, a guard’s van—and the train was gone. A rush of air cooled her delicately-tanned face and disturbed her unprotected dark hair. Her brown eyes gazed after the train, and saw the big net swing out from the postal van, and snatch the little leather-covered bundle from the iron arm, which Sam the postman had moved into position a minute earlier.

With a sigh Kitty took her hands from the fence. The thrill was over, the reaction had come. For a moment she hesitated. Should she wait for Sam, the postman, as she sometimes did, and get his honest, cheerful company home? No, she couldn’t be bothered with Sam to-night; she would sooner run the risk of meeting some one whom she would rather not meet.

She turned to cross the broad field that stretched between her and the main road, and found herself face to face with a young man in light tweeds, well cut but getting shabby. He was fairly tall, grey-eyed, and inclined to fairness, and his shaven countenance was decidedly attractive.

“Good evening,” he said, with a grave smile, as though not quite sure of his welcome.

She was startled, but recovered herself as quickly as the flush left her cheek. “Good evening, Mr. Hayward,” she returned in a tone of politeness softened by kindness. “I didn’t know you were in Dunford.”

“I came home this afternoon. May I walk a bit of the way with you?—that is if you aren’t—” He stopped short.

Following his gaze she saw the figure of a man crossing the field in their direction. She frowned slightly, saying: “You know your people won’t like it, Mr. Hayward.” Then hurriedly—“I don’t want to have to speak to Mr. Symington—if that’s he coming.”

“Then I’ll stay with you, Kitty, for it’s certainly Symington. Ah, he’s turning back. One would almost think he had heard you.”

“He couldn’t possibly hear me at that distance, unless in his mind,” she said. “And you had better not call me ‘Kitty,’ Mr. Hayward,” she added. It was more an appeal than a command.

He made no reply, and they walked a little way in silence. He was first to speak.

“So you still go down to watch the London mail run through.”

“Yes. I don’t miss many evenings, but then, you know, it’s the one sensation of this place—to me, at any rate.”

“The first time I ever saw you was at the fence there—five years ago, it must have been. Your hair was in a pigtail and—”

“I was sixteen then, and now I’m—about sixty.” She laughed rather drearily.

“And the last time I saw you, three months ago, you were there—”

“And no doubt if you come back in a hundred years, Mr. Hayward, you’ll find me there again!”

“I was glad to see you there to-night, Kitty—please don’t forbid me to be friendly. I’m feeling particularly friendless at present. Indeed, I think you might be kinder than call me ‘Mr. Hayward.’ What’s wrong with ‘Colin’?”

She ignored the question, but said kindly enough—“If you are in trouble, I’m sorry, and I hope it’s not serious.”

“I’ve failed in my final—for the second time.”

“Oh, Colin!” she exclaimed, sympathy putting an end to formality.

“Thanks, Kitty. That’s the most comforting thing I’ve heard since I came home.”

“Surely they weren’t hard on you.” Kitty’s social position was several steps down from that of Colin’s people, but behind her words lurked the suspicion, not based entirely on fancy, that the Haywards might have been very hard indeed on the youngest son and brother.

“Oh, I daresay I deserved the dressing-down I got,” he returned. “You see my parents, brothers, and sisters take my failure as a sort of public affront. My brothers have been brilliant, and because two of them became a minister and a lawyer without any apparent trouble, my father can’t see why I have not become a doctor with equal ease and speed.”

“But you never wanted to be a doctor.”

“That is not the point, Kitty. I was expected to become one. Well, I’ve struggled through four professionals, but Providence—I’ve no doubt about its being Providence—says I’ve gone far enough for humanity’s sake.”

“Do you mean that you are not going to try again?” she asked after a moment.

“Exactly! And that has added to the trouble at home. I’m twenty-five, and I told them that I could not go on wasting more years at a thing I was plainly not adapted for. They insisted that I should go on, and I respectfully but firmly refused.” He paused.

“Well, Colin?”—anxiously.

“I don’t want you to imagine,” he said slowly, “that I’m thinking any evil of my people. I understand their feelings, their pride, and so on, well enough; but they don’t understand me one little bit. Well, I’m going to look for something to do that doesn’t require a university brain. To begin with, I’m going to London—”

“London! Oh!”

“Still hankering, Kitty?” he gently inquired.

“Never mind me. Please tell me more—if you want to.”

“There isn’t any more. If you are watching the train to-morrow night, you may see the last of me. I’ll be on the look out, anyway.”

They had come to the gate leading to the main road, and by tacit agreement they halted.

“But you haven’t quarrelled with your people, Colin?”

He smiled queerly. “We don’t quarrel in our family—more’s the pity. We bottle it up, and of course that preserves the resentment. So, as far as I can see, we shall part politely, but I’m perfectly well aware that I needn’t trouble to come home again until I can prove that my way was the right one.” His tone changed suddenly. “But that’s enough—too much—about my affairs. Tell me something about yourself, Kitty.”

She shook her head. “I must go; it’s almost ten, and—”

“Let me come as far as the end of the little wood.”

She hesitated and gave in. It was for the last time. “We must walk quickly, then,” she said.

But their steps lagged in the darkness of the pines.

“Do you still want to get away from Dunford?” he asked her. “Does the London train still call you?”

“Oh, don’t speak about it! And please try to forget that I ever spoke about it. I’m a silly girl no longer.”

“I never thought your ideas and ambitions silly, Kitty.”

“You tried to discourage them,” she said quickly.

“That was my selfishness. I didn’t want you to go away from Dunford. It may not be a very lively place, but it’s safe. Quite a number of people seem to find moderate happiness in the neighbourhood.”

“The happiness of turnips!” she said fiercely, then laughed sadly. “Oh, that wasn’t fair of me,” she went on. “But, you know, before I came to live with my aunt and uncle here, I always looked forward to seeing the world and doing something in it, and my father encouraged me—but there’s no use in going over that again. Some day, perhaps, I’ll resign myself to selling postage stamps, and sending telegrams and—”

“Are your uncle and aunt still set against your going elsewhere? Now that you’re of age they could hardly prevent—”

“Please say no more, Colin. When you come back rich or famous, or both, you will find me here.”

He could not check the words that rushed from his heart. “Kitty, if I could only hope that I might find you here—waiting.”

She did not affect to misunderstand him.

“You don’t really mean that,” she said quietly. “We are too good friends for that sort of thing. Yes, I believe we are good friends, although our friendship has not all been open and straightforward. But I’m glad we’ve had it, Colin, and I don’t want to be sorry afterwards.”

“I never supposed you could love me,” he said sadly, “but since you allow the friendship, will you let me write to you? You’re the only friend I feel I want to write to while I’m trying to prove that my way is the right one.”

She considered before she said, “I’d like to hear from you, but you must not write. It will only make trouble. And now I must say good-bye and—good luck.” She put out her hand.

He held it, striving with himself. Then he said a little unsteadily, “I think you must know that I have cared for you all along, and because I may never see you again, will you—will you let me kiss you—once?”

“But, Colin, you understand that I—I don’t love you?”

“Too well!”

She could just see that his face was white. She made an almost imperceptible movement, and it was not of refusal.

A moment later he was gone.

When the sound of his footsteps had ceased, Kitty stirred.

“Am I crying?” she said to herself, and wiped her eyes. “Poor Colin, poor boy! I wonder if he will write, after all.” She started for home. “And I thought I had sort of got over the London longing,” she sighed.