Читать книгу The Lost Angel - Katharine Tynan - Страница 4

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THE misfortune of John and Ellen Luff was that they had lived too long. Their mistress before she died had made provision for them, counting that they would live to seventy-five or so. But now John was eighty-six and Ellen was eighty-two, and the provision had been spent ten years ago. During the greater part of these ten years they had been kept alive by the sixpences collected by a charitable soul who had come to be aware of their necessity. But now their benefactress was gone. Who could have imagined that John and Ellen would have outlived her? And there was nothing at all between them and starvation.

They had covered up their poverty jealously. Little by little during these ten years they had parted with the pieces of furniture which old Mrs. Kynaston had left them as part of her legacy.

The young doctor who had attended John for his winter bronchitis had taken a fancy to the Chippendale wine sarcophagus. They had haggled with him over how little they would take and not how much. The doctor had been very kind to them. He had given them medicine and nourishing things out of his own pocket; and had accepted with a delicate understanding the shillings the old man paid him from time to time for his fees. To be sure they found their way straight back to the fund collected for the old people by their benefactress.

The doctor was young and bright-eyed, with a kindly and humorous shrewdness of expression in his keen, clever face. He was on his probation down here in this slum that once was country. But presently he knew he would be among the great men in Harley Street or Cavendish Square. He knew the things he had done and was capable of doing. Meanwhile he was poor and ambitious, a glutton for work, and head over ears in love.

The love affair made his eyes absent as he hurried from one patient to another. If she hadn't been so horribly rich! That place of hers, Eastney Park, stood between her and her proud lover. She was rich, she was independent, she was old enough to know her own mind,—thirty if she was a day, said the gossips—her brown eyes had a bewildering softness in them for Dr. Richard Saville. If only he had not been so poor!

This day of spring he was doing something most distasteful to himself. He was trying to persuade the old couple to enter the workhouse. The old man was always so ill in the east winds of spring; the old woman was growing blind and helpless.

He looked around the little bare empty room, fireless although there was still a bite in the air. There was a slip of garden outside. The cottage had once been country till the squalid fringe of the city had overtaken it and built it in. There were a couple of apple-trees in the garden with their tight buds just ready to burst. A thrush was singing in an elm-tree at the back; and a large bright-eyed blackbird was walking about on the grass plot as though the place belonged to him.

The old couple were very fond of their garden in summer. They had been originally country-folk. The cottage had two storeys. A crooked staircase with a door, the latch of which opened on a string, ascended to the upper storey. There were heavy beams in the walls and ceiling. The place was a rebuke to the hideous little yellow-brick houses, with all their noisy inmates, that encroached upon it.

"It is not so bad there," he said, looking from one old face to the other. "It is clean and bright and the nurses are kind."

"I'd rather have my old woman," said John despairingly.

"You will lie in a soft bed, and be fed with nourishing things and kept warm."

That matter of the separation of the two was something that did not bear talking of.

"It would be softer in the grave with her beside me," said the old man.

"O Lord, Lord, why didn't you take me when my little Jacky was born!" moaned the old woman.

The young doctor went out feeling their disconsolateness in his heart. All through that day and its busy round the thought of them came between him and his thoughts of Margaret. He imagined them sitting together in the dimness of the bare room. The old woman was so nearly blind that she could do her few household tasks as well in the dark as in the light. How cruel it seemed to part them! And yet...they had been miserably pinched on those few shillings a week. It had not been so bad while the old man could grow a few vegetables and the old woman take in a little plain sewing; but now it was miserably inadequate.

They were on his mind lest they should fall into the fire or down the steep stairs. They were not fit to be left alone. Why had Death forgotten them while he was so busy with his harvest of the young and the much desired?

The thought of them put a pucker between his brows, even while he sat by Margaret Steele's side at dinner that evening. The hostess had sent them down together, perhaps being aware of something more than friendship between the two. Usually it was enough of Heaven for him to feel the fragrance of Margaret's presence about him. Her dress that was softer than down, whiter than the swan's breast, the white roses in her bosom, the beautiful profile, the velvety brown eyes, the soft pale cheeks—their nearness usually filled him with a rapture that left him all the colder and more despairing when he had gone out of that gracious presence and remembered his own poverty.

He crumbled his bread absently and frowned.

"What is it, Dr. Saville?" said her exquisite voice, close to his ear. "You are in trouble about something. What is it?"

In front of them there was a mass of growing lilies of the valley, the electric light which had been pulled low down making transparencies of their leaves and blossoms. He turned round to her and felt suddenly as though the world had left them alone in a blissful isolation.

He had no thought of keeping from her the thing that was worrying him. She had the key of his heart, and could wring from him every secret except one, if his love for her could really be called a secret.

He told her about John and Ellen Luff, as he had seen them and as he imagined them. "Ah!" she said softly once or twice; and there was a world of hurt pity in the exclamation. Looking at her admiringly he thought she had the compassion of all the world in her face.

"Cannot something be done?" she asked, when he had finished.

He prided himself on his common sense, and now in some curious phase of feeling he answered her almost roughly.

"What could you do?" he said. "Supposing we paid for their rent and keep, and for some one to look after them, we should have no guarantee that it would be properly done. No, they had better be where they would receive proper care and attention. They are on my mind. I never knock at the door but I expect to hear that something has happened to one of them since I was there last. The old man ought really to have been in the infirmary long ago."

She said no more, as though he had discouraged her. They talked of other things, of the newest discoveries in science and medicine, the things that interested him most. She was delightfully intelligent. With such a woman for his Egeria what might not a man do?

"Well," he said to the old couple next day, "have you made up your minds?"

They seemed to him to lean a little closer together, and his heart smote him.

"We've been talking about old Madam," the old man said irrelevantly. "It 'ud trouble her where she is to know what's befallen us. There be some folks that wish for length of days. The Lord might ha' took us while we were yet together."

"Luff drove Madam's daughter to the church to be married," said the old woman. "And I dressed her for her wedding. If Miss Agatha had lived she'd never have seen us brought to this."

"I suppose Luff has had his broth, Mrs. Luff," said the doctor. "Yes? I hope you haven't been giving any of it away to that thriftless Mrs. Collier next door, as you did last time. Come, Mrs. Luff, you'd better make up your mind. I shouldn't be able to look after you much longer, for I think of joining an expedition to South Africa. Sister Gertrude in the infirmary has promised me to be very good to Luff. At your side of the house, Mrs. Luff, there is an excellent woman in charge. You'll be surprised to find how pleasant it all is when you get there, and will wonder why you ever dreaded it so much."

The old couple seemed as if they had not heard this well-meant consolation.

"You'll be ready to go,—Friday, shall we say?" Dr. Saville said with a cheerfulness he was far from feeling.

"Oh, aye, it might as well be Friday as another day," John Luff said. "Might happen the Lord 'ud call us before Friday."

Dr. Saville went away heavy-hearted. He called to thriftless Mrs. Collier next door and gave her money to provide a good fire for the old people, and something for herself to light it and see that it was kept going. The old Luffs had arrived at a habit of economy which would make them stint themselves even now when he wanted them to be prodigal.

He called at the Co-operative Stores farther on, and sent them in a chicken, some bacon, eggs and butter and a bottle of port wine. He had an odd sense of making reparation for his cruelty to the old couple. But after all it was for the best. If they could be kept in their cottage it would mean some horrible accident one of these days. The thought of Mrs. Luff cooking, and blind with the helplessness of those who have always had their sight, terrified him. Supposing she were to catch fire!

And he had very nearly made up his mind to join the African expedition. The pursuit of the thing that caused one of the most horrible diseases into the deadly swamp where it lurked was fascinating to him. If he came out of it alive it meant reputation. If he didn't—Well, he couldn't go to Margaret now as he was. He must have some equivalent for Eastney to offer her.

The old couple sat as he had left them. Even the incursion of Mrs. Collier to light the fire did not disturb them, nor the conversation with which she accompanied her task. When she had gone away, and the fire had lit up merrily, the comfort hardly reached their physical sense through the trouble that was come upon them. It was now Tuesday afternoon, and on Friday they were to go into the House. They had just three days to be together, three days in which the Lord might call them.

After a time they began to talk. They had the memories of very old people for things of long ago, while things of yesterday were dim to them. Old Madam and Miss Agatha, and Miss Agatha's baby were in their talk. They wished now they had taken the lodge and the pension as Madam Kynaston had wished, and not set up a house in London to take in lodgers, a venture which had not succeeded at all. They might have been at the lodge to this day. There would not have been rent to think of or fires. They could have kept fowls, and had milk from the dairy at the house. That was a friendly world they remembered. There would have been neighbours and neighbours' daughters to come in and help. London was a terribly unneighbourly place.

John remembered how he had superintended Miss Margot's first riding-lessons. He recalled her in her blue habit, the fair hair falling about her shoulders, her spirit, her generosity, her daring.

A boy came and knocked at the door and delivered the doctor's gifts. Old Ellen was usually the most stirring of mortals, considering her more than eighty years, but now she let the things lie on the table, while she and John went over and over those good days in the past. In three days' time each of them would be alone. There would be the unhomely white walls of the infirmary. Ellen had been there once or twice to see people. There would be the strange, masterful nurses: and the old people who would have no such honourable memories of the past as belonged to her and John.

If but the Lord would call them before Friday was come!

"'Tis like when I sat under the apple-tree last summer," said John, stretching his fingers to the blaze. "It makes me sleepy-like same as long ago the bees in the hives in the garden. There was a sunny corner back of the lodge where we might have kept bees."

There was a sudden tapping at the door, and a lady came in, bringing a smell of violets with her. The east wind blew aridly outside, and she was wearing furs over her purple dress. She glowed in them as palely warm as a white rose that has a flush in it.

Old Ellen got up and set her a chair. She flashed a quick glance around the room, almost empty of furniture. Her eyes took in the parcels on the table. Then went on to the wondering faces of the old couple.

"Dr. Saville is a friend of mine," she said softly. Her voice was as sweet as her face. "He has told me about you. Your names are John and Ellen Luff. I think you must once have lived with my grandmother, Mrs. Kynaston, of Eastney Park, Hampshire."

"It isn't Miss Margot?" said John incredulously, while Ellen came nearer and peered with her blind eyes into the beautiful delicate face.

"Yes, I am Miss Margot. I remember quite well how you taught me to ride, John. And I remember you, Ellen, displaying my grandmother's finery for my delight on wet afternoons. I liked you better than my nurse; and I remember once how we had out all the furniture of my doll's house, and gave it a thorough spring cleaning. Do you remember that, Ellen?"

"For sure I do, Miss Margot. Many a time me and Luff have talked about it."

"I oughtn't to have lost sight of you," she went on, looking from one face to the other. "Only we spent so many years abroad. And I thought,—I thought—"

"We didn't ought to have lived as long, Miss Margot," cried John apologetically.

She laughed softly, and her eyes were dimmed.

"Ah, well, I am very glad you have lived," she said, "and most grateful to Dr. Saville for finding you for me."

"John wouldn't be here only for him. The bottles of wine he's sent and the medicines! We had no fire to-day till he sent it. And all these things from the Co-operative," Ellen vaguely indicated the table. "May the Lord reward him!"

Miss Margot glowed more than ever, and leant forward a little over her huge muff. The fire sparkled in the jewels that clasped her sable stole, and set up other fires in the depths of her eyes.

"And now," she said, "wouldn't you like to come back to Eastney? The west lodge is empty, but it is in order, and you can come at once. I have a woman who will look after you both and see that Ellen hasn't too much to do. And we have all the summer before us. What do you think of it?"

"Oh, Lord," said John, "and we were to have gone into the House on Friday."

"We asked Him to call us," said Ellen, "but He has done it in His own way. Back at Eastney before we die! It makes me young to think on it!"

"I must see Dr. Saville and ask him if I may arrange for you to leave to-morrow. I have only to send word to Eastney and all will be ready. I will come back and tell you what Dr. Saville says."

"We thought we were to be friendless and forgotten,—the doctor going off to that Africa, where more likely than not he'll leave his bones," said Ellen. "We little thought the Lord was sending us you."

"Africa!" Miss Margot repeated in a startled way. "Who said he was going to Africa?"

"Himself, sitting in that very chair this morning."

"I will come back and tell you what he says," said Miss Margot, rising up with a soft rustle. "A carriage shall come for you, so that you won't be exposed to the east wind. Now, good-bye for a little while."

Though she kept her voice quiet she was wild with fear. Could it be true that he was going away from her to that deadly malarial country? She remembered now that he had talked of the expedition the other night. If he went her heart would go with him. If he never returned she would be his to her grave. But before he went, if he must go, she must hear him say that he loved her. Without it how could she endure her life? She must hear him say it, and afterwards she thought that she could endure anything else that befel. If he were only hers and she his she could bear anything that was to come.

She was shown into his consulting-room, where he sat writing busily at a table. The room was fundamentally dreary, with its dusty carpet, its heavy rep curtains and wire screens to the windows, its fire almost out, its general air of neglect and dust, as dreary as the mean street outside swept by the east wind. Yet to her it was beautiful because he was there. It was enough for the moment that they were alone in such a solitude as they had never known before.

He sprang to his feet with a little cry of delight at beholding her. The white lids veiled her conscious eyes; the colour flamed in her cheeks.

"You will wonder why on earth I have come," she said.

"For the moment it is enough that you are come," he said, setting a chair for her with an exhilarated laugh. This sudden coming of hers had put him off his balance. The smell of her violets was heady, intoxicating.

"I came down to see your old people, John and Ellen Luff. They proved to be, as I thought they might when you told me their names, old servants of my grandmother's. They are not going to the workhouse. They are going back to Eastney Park. They will have a lodge to themselves, and a woman I am interested in, a widow, to see that they don't fall into the fire. I came to ask you when they might go. Tomorrow?"

"They must have thought you were an angel," he said. "They may go whenever they are ready. The sooner they are out of their present abode the better,—Eastney will be Heaven."

She looked down at the muff in her lap and a quiver of agitation passed over her face. She opened her lips as though to speak once or twice, and he had an idea that her hands clasped each other nervously in the covering of the muff.

"What is it?" he asked. "What is it—dear?"

"They told me you were going to Africa," she said, "to that place you told me of the other night. Let some one else do it, some one who has less to live for. Not you. You mustn't go. I should—I should—"

She burst suddenly into tears and hid her face. Then she was sobbing in his arms.

"What must you think of me?" she said, amid her sobs.

"What must you think of me? I never meant to have spoken, till I had done something. A rich woman like you, Margaret! But now, if you had not come I should have been strong—now, you have done something you never can undo, Margaret. You have made me tell you that I am yours for ever."

"Your eyes told me that long ago. But I thought you never would speak. I was starved to hear you say it."

"You shall hear me say it till the day of my death."