Читать книгу Kitty Carstairs - J. J. Bell - Страница 5

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The morning mail for Dunford was usually in the post-office by a quarter to seven. It was conveyed from the train by Sam, the postman, a little stout person with a grey military moustache, whose age, according to his own statement, was “forty-nine and a bit.” It had been that for a good many years. With Sam’s assistance Kitty was wont to sort the letters, and the two had become staunch friends, though no very serious confidences had been exchanged.

In the midst of the sorting this morning Sam suddenly remarked that Mr. Colin Hayward had not made a long stay with his people.

“I seen him at the station,” he continued. “I couldna say where he was bound for, but he had a pickle luggage, and he wasna looking extra cheery. Been getting lectured for no passing his examination, I suppose. Poor lad, I’m vexed for him. He never got on with his folk, and he’s the only real gentleman in the family. They’re a cauld-hearted stuck-up lot. Him an’ me used often to gang fishing—that was afore your time, Miss—and a kinder, blither chap I never hope to meet. Well, well, if he’s the black sheep, the others ha’ used a queer lot o’ whitewash.”

Kitty felt that she was expected to say something, but just then Sam came on an address that required deciphering, and the subject dropped, not a little to her relief.

When the sorting was finished, Sam set out on his round, and she made her way to the cottage for breakfast. Her uncle was already at table looking more than usually morose; her aunt was muttering to something on the stove—a habit of hers when annoyed. Kitty perceived that she was still in disgrace, and her heart sank. After all, those two people constituted her whole kin, and she would have pleased them had it been possible, if only for the sake of peace and cheerfulness. More, she would have loved them had they given her the slightest encouragement.

Mr. Corrie took no notice of his niece as she approached her accustomed seat. To his sister he growled over his shoulder—

“The paper’s late again! I’ve a good mind to start selling newspapers myself. That woman seems to think she can play wi’ her customers just because she’s a widow.”

“I’ll speak to her,” said Miss Corrie, coming over with a dish of bacon.

“Tell her she had best bring the paper here—or send it—within five minutes o’ the train’s arrival. D’ye hear?”

“Ay, I hear ye, John. Take yer breakfast now, and ha’ patience for the paper.”

The meal was almost over when Mr. Corrie spoke again—this time to his niece.

“Well, ha’ ye thought over what I said to ye last night?” he abruptly demanded.

Kitty was not unprepared for the question, and she answered calmly enough that she had not further considered the matter—which was not, perhaps, quite accurate—because she had assumed that it was closed.

“Then ye’d better think it over now, for Mr. Symington’s pretty sure to come again to-night.”

“If he comes, I can only tell him what I told you—of course, I’ll do it politely. … Uncle John, why are you so anxious for me to marry that man? Tell me straight—do you and Aunt Rachel want to get rid of me?”

Corrie hesitated. He dared not say, as he was tempted to say, that he could not afford to give her a home any longer, because, for one thing, the girl was as well aware as himself that he kept the allowance made by the post-office for her services as assistant—an assistant, by the way, who did practically all the work.

“Not so long ago you thought very little of Mr. Symington,” she pursued, “and I’ve often heard Aunt Rachel call him anything but a nice man. Besides, he must be nearly forty.”

“That’s enough,” said Corrie sharply. “Your aunt and me know him better than we used to. We want you to marry him because we see ’twould be a good thing for you. Same time, he’s come into a heap of money.”

“Ay,” said Miss Corrie, “he has that! He’s talking o’ giving up the farm and setting up house in the city—Glasgow, maybe. That would suit ye fine, Kitty.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do what you want,” the girl said slowly. “I’d rather be dead than married to him. He—”

“Don’t talk trash!” exclaimed Corrie, lowering upon her. “Ye’ll give him ‘ay’ to-night or it’ll be the worse for ye. Don’t you try to cross me, ye daughter o’ a beggar!”

“John!” squealed his sister.

Kitty was on her feet, her beautiful eyes blazing from her white face. “How dare you?” she cried, shaking with furious indignation, “how dare you speak so of my father, a man with a great, noble mind?—you, you miserable thing, with not an idea in your head, not a thought in your heart, but money, money, money! My father owes you nothing—nothing, do you hear? His daughter has earned every penny she has cost you.”

John Corrie, unused to contradiction, much less to retaliation, rose, grey of countenance, shaking with passion. Probably he was not aware that he had the bread knife in his hand, but his sister grabbed his wrist.

“Listen to me,” he began in a thick voice.

“I won’t! You are not sane,” said Kitty, “or you would never have spoken such words about my father, your own sister’s husband—not that I’ll ever forgive them or you. But you are mad—mad with greed! I tell you, once and for all, I’m not for sale to Mr. Symington!”

He sat down with a crash, his mouth gaping.

“Go, go!” whispered Miss Corrie, motioning frantically with her free hand. “It’s eight o’clock—time the office was open.”

Kitty turned and went. She was glad to go, for her courage was already burned out.

Miss Corrie shook her brother. “Ye fool, ye forsaken fool!” she sputtered. “That temper o’ yours has ruined everything. Ye’ll never get her to marry him now.”

He turned on her savagely. “What ha’ ye told her?”

“Me? Never a word.”

“Then what did she mean by saying she wasna for sale? … God! she must ha’ heard—”

“Guessed maybe. Why did ye tell her the man had come into a heap o’ money? I warned ye to go canny.”

He flung her from him and got up. “Let her guess what she likes, think what she likes, do what she likes—but she’s no going to beat me. I’ll find a way! I’ll manage her yet! Ten thousand—twenty—maybe twenty-five thousand pound—no, by heavens, I’m not to be done out o’ that by a stubborn lass.”

“Let be, John. Ye ha’ siller enough. Ye dinna spend a trifle o’ your income. Ye’ll rue the day that ye cheated your sister’s daughter, for that’s what it comes to.”

“Hold your silly tongue, woman. I’ve cheated nobody but myself.”

She shook her head, saying, “I would like to read Hugh Carstairs’ letter again.”

“Ye’re welcome—another time. There’s the paper at last.” He almost ran to the front door.

He returned, opening the paper at the financial page. Seating himself, he cleared a space on the table and laid it thereon. Then his thick forefinger began to move down one of the columns as though it was feeling for something. At last it stopped, and he gazed awhile. … His breath went in with a hiss. “Zeniths!” he muttered.

His sister was staring over his shoulder, but her sight was indifferent. “What is it?” she gasped. “What about the Zeniths?”

In a hushed voice he replied, “They rose seven-and-sixpence yesterday. They’re now worth ninety shillings a share. That means £22,500 for the five thousand. … That would be £11,260 for me—us. … I wonder if Symington shouldna sell now. Wait till I see if it says anything about them here.” He turned to some paragraphs, headed “Mining Notes.” … “Ay, here it is! Oh, listen, Rachel! It says they’ll likely go to eight pound! Almighty! We munna let him sell!”

She sighed and said, “It’s time the shop was open.”

“Ay, so it is—but wait a minute.”

With another headshake she began to clear the table.

He rose suddenly. “There’s the keys,” he said, throwing them on to the table. “Ye can open the shop. I’m going up to White Farm.”