Читать книгу The Passionate Year - James Hilton - Страница 19

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It was altogether by good luck that he did get a cab in the village; a Millstead cab had brought some people into Parminters and was just setting back empty on the return journey when Speed met it in the narrow lane. Once again, this time as he opened the cab-door and handed her inside, he gave her that look of triumph, though he was well aware of the luck that he had had. Inside on the black leather cushions he placed in a conspicuously 'central position his hat and his bundle of essays, and, himself occupying one corner, invited her to take the other. All the time the driver was bustling round lifting the bicycle on to the roof and tying it securely down, Speed sat in his corner, damp to the skin, watching her and remembering that Miss Harrington had told him that she hated men. All the way during that three-mile ride back to Millstead, with the swishing of the rain and the occasional thunder and the steady jog-trot of the horse's hoofs mingling together in a memorable medley of sound, Speed sat snugly in his corner, watching and wondering.

Not much conversation passed between them. When they were nearing Millstead, Speed said: "The other day as I passed near your drawing-room window I heard somebody playing the Chopin waltzes. Was it you?"

"It might have been."

He continued after a pause: "I see there's a Chopin recital advertised in the town for next Monday week. Zobieski, the Polish pianist, is coming up. Would you care to come with me to it?"

It was very daring of him to say that, and he knew it. She coloured to the roots of her wet-gold hair, and replied, after a silence: "Monday, though, isn't it?—I'm afraid I couldn't manage it. I always see Clare on Mondays."

He answered instantly: "Bring Clare as well then."

"I—I don't think Clare would be interested," she replied, a little confused. She added, as if trying to make up for having rejected his offer rather rudely: "Clare and I don't get many chances of seeing each other. Only Mondays and Wednesday afternoons."

"But I see you with her almost every day."

"Yes, but only for a few minutes. Mondays are the only evenings that we have wholly to ourselves."

He thought, but did not dare to say: And is it absolutely necessary that you must have those evenings wholly to yourselves?

He said thoughtfully: "I see."

He said nothing further until the cab drew up outside the main gate of Millstead School. He was going to tell the driver to proceed inside as far as the porch of the Head's house, but she said she would prefer to get out there and walk across the lawns. He smiled and helped her out. As he looked inside the cab again to see if he had left any papers behind he saw that the gaudily-coloured novelette had fallen out of her pocket and on to the floor. He picked it up and handed it to her. "You dropped this," he said merely. She stared at him for several seconds and then took it almost sulkily.

"I suppose I can read what I like, anyway," she exclaimed, in a sudden hot torrent of indignation.

He smiled, completely astonished, yet managed to say, blandly: "I'm sure I never dreamt of suggesting otherwise."

He could see then from her eyes, half-filling with tears of humiliation, that she realised that she had needlessly made a fool of herself.

"Please—please—don't come with me any further," she said, awkwardly. "And thanks—thanks—very much—for—for bringing me back."

He smiled again and raised his hat as she darted away across the wet lawns. Then; after paying the driver, he walked straightway into the school and down into the prefects' bathroom, where he turned on the scalding hot water with jubilant anticipation.