Читать книгу The Meadows of the Moon - James Hilton - Страница 11

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She went early to her room that night, pleading tiredness. But it was not to sleep. The night was warm, and she took a wicker-chair close to the open window and read some of her notes on economic history—the subject in which she had specialized at college. But they did not hold her attention at all keenly, perhaps because of the many interruptions—the large moths that dashed themselves against the orange lamp-shade, the waves of perfume drifting up from the gardens below, and over everything the high, distant moon, a constant lure for her eyes.

It was almost midnight when she heard footsteps in the corridor outside, and then a sharp, eager knock at her door. She opened it, and Michael faced her. His cheeks were pale from some strong inward excitement; he stammered slightly as he spoke.

“Fran.... I thought I could see you reading by the window. Fran.... John’s got my b-books—all the b-books I b-bought in Oxford this last term. They’re in his study downstairs. How on earth ... ? It’s queer.... I d-don’t understand....”

“Come inside, Micky, if you want to talk. And—and—if you like—I’ll explain all about your books.”

She put the matter, as she thought, quite impartially. She told him exactly what had happened, and then made a few brief comments. “Of course, Micky, it was rather extravagant of you to buy all those expensive books. Mind, now, I’m not defending John. I certainly don’t think he ought to have written for them without telling you. You’re both of you wrong—to a certain extent.”

She had guessed that he would be angry, but she had hardly anticipated the extraordinary vehemence of his wrath. He almost trembled with rage as he listened to her quiet narrative. “Fran, I’ll not p-put up with it!” he stammered. “He treats me like a l-little schoolboy.... Fran—he’s only a few years older than me—why—why should I obey him? Writing to Oxford behind my back—the d—damned little c-cad!”

A curious feeling of pity for him overwhelmed her; it wrapped her round like a warm and living glow, kindling her cheeks and making her temples throb with her quickened heartbeat. She touched his sleeve and said: “It’s no use arguing, Micky—you’re wrong as well as John. All the same—I think—I think—perhaps—I’m rather more on your side than on his—at least—I mean——”

But she did not know what she meant. It seemed at that moment as though the moon blazed out more dazzlingly over the meadows; Michael must have noticed it, for he exclaimed suddenly: “Fran, come for a walk—somewhere—anywhere. I can’t sleep tonight, and it’s beautiful in the moonlight.”

She laughed softly. “What an absurd idea, Micky! Somebody would hear us and then there’d be a terrific burglar-scare.... Go to bed—you’ll soon be asleep.”

The moment came, as it was bound to come, when she knew that she did like him, when she felt that she knew him perfectly, every inch of him—his brown, eager eyes and gold-brown hair that would never comb out tidily, the mole on the back of his left hand which in the old days they had called “Christopher,” and, above all, his smile, sudden and almost bewildered, like a light that dazzled even himself.

He gave her that smile now. “I shan’t sleep,” he said, shaking his head. “I shall just lie awake all the night through—and plan out the battle.”