Читать книгу The Guarded Halo - Margaret Pedler - Страница 6

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Apparently June had suddenly recollected that she was supposed to be a summer month and decided to behave accordingly, for blue skies and sunshine greeted Shirley as she closed the house door behind her and stepped into the street. Her spirits, already on the up-grade, rose still more. It seemed like a good omen that, after so many days of rainy weather, the sun should elect to shine again on this particular morning, and she hurried along on eager feet. As though the Fates were definitely on her side, she caught the omnibus she wanted without any delay, and was soon being carried swiftly toward her destination.

It was not until she was once more on foot, and actually making her way along Fremingham Place, that the good spirits with which she had set out on her errand all at once deserted her, to be replaced by gathering qualms of apprehension. Supposing she didn’t get the job, after all, and had to return to Pagan Street with the same depressing report of “No Luck” that had so far attended every effort to find work which she and Bob had made? In spite of the encouraging assurance she had given him that “they would hang on somehow till something turned up,” she knew very well that they were rapidly approaching the end of their tether, for, although sixpence may be being made to do the work of a shilling, there is nevertheless a limit even to the number of sixpences at one’s command.

Sheer panic lest to-day should prove only a repetition of the failures of all the previous days overtook her, and when finally she reached the brief flight of steps which led up to No. 15 she was sorely tempted to run away without waiting to hear those unpleasantly familiar words: “The situation is filled.”

Summoning up her courage, however, she pressed the bell-push and, during the brief interval which elapsed between the ring of the bell and the opening of the door, she did her best to fight down the rising tide of nervousness. But, in spite of all her efforts, when finally the door swung back, it was in rather a breathless voice that she addressed the manservant who had opened it.

“I’ve called in answer to an advertisement.”

The man regarded her with the impassive gaze of the well-trained servant, and stood aside to admit her.

“Come this way, please,” he said. And, still feeling as though her heart were in her throat rather than in its proper place in her anatomy, she followed him across an attractive, irregularly shaped hall into what appeared to be a man’s study.

The room was situated at the back of the house, and looked out on to a small oblong space of garden—one of those spaces, attaching sometimes to an old house, which the owner has treasured and kept sacredly preserved against the surrounding onslaught of encroaching bricks and mortar. A very charming garden, Shirley thought it, as her glance took in the path of crazy pavement which ran down betwixt a narrow strip of lawn and a herbaceous border, bright with old-fashioned flowers. At the farther end a big horse-chestnut tree in blossom spread itself like a green, candle-lit tent above some gaily-coloured wicker chairs, and, in the warm sunlight, the whole aspect of the tranquil little garden brought her a curious thrill, half pleasure, half pain. It was such a refreshing contrast to the drab outlook from the windows of the rooms in Pagan Street, and sent her mind travelling wistfully back to Fen Wyatt—Fen Wyatt, with its shaven lawns and shady trees, its riot of summer flowers, its atmosphere of leisured peace.

The sound of a door opening behind her recalled her thoughts sharply to the exigencies of the moment, and she swung round to see, not as she had anticipated, the “young married lady” of the advertisement, but a man’s tall figure standing in the doorway. For an instant a sudden feeling of dismay rushed over her. She had not expected to be interviewed by the husband. It made the whole thing seem so businesslike, far removed from the pleasantly informal impression created by the advertisement. And then a quick glance at the face of the man who had just entered reassured her. It was a well-cut face, though rather thin and worn-looking, with lines on it that spoke of physical suffering. His hair, too, which was so dark as to be almost black, was slightly touched with gray at the temples, and Shirley mentally guessed him to be about thirty-eight or nine. His eyes were dark gray, and it was in these and in the sensitively moulded mouth that she had found reassurance; both held kindness and a quiet, rather whimsical sense of humour.

Nevertheless, she explained her errand a trifle shyly. The recent rebuffs she had met with had taught her that, regarded from the standpoint of the average employer, she was possessed of really very few marketable qualifications.

“I saw your advertisement,” she said, when she and the gray-eyed man had shaken hands. “And I thought perhaps I might—might suit.”

The ghost of a smile flickered over his mouth.

“I think perhaps you might,” he said quietly. He pulled forward a chair. “Won’t you sit down, Miss——” He paused interrogatively.

“Wilson—Shirley Wilson,” she supplied.

He nodded, and as she seated herself, continued:

“And now, tell me what you can do?”

Her heart sank. If this situation depended primarily on what she could “do,” it differed very little from others which she had tried to obtain and failed. However, she met his grave-eyed glance quite candidly.

“I’m afraid,” she said, “there isn’t a great deal I can do. I can speak French—really fluently. And—and I suppose I could make myself generally useful.”

For a moment he returned no answer. He had not seated himself when she did, but had remained standing, leaning against the chimney-piece and looking down at her thoughtfully. The silence and his quiet, appraising scrutiny drove her into further speech.

“I thought—the advertisement,” she murmured lamely. “You didn’t seem to want any very special qualifications.”

“But I do,” he said, speaking at last. “I want—very special qualifications.” He paused, then, regarding her with a curious directness, continued: “I want someone who can ‘be’ more than someone who can ‘do’—someone who could be a real understanding pal to a woman who has just been through a very rough time.”

“Then, your—your wife——” she began.

“My wife?” he said in a puzzled voice. “Oh, I see. You thought I was advertising for my wife?”

“Yes, I thought so.”

“Evidently you think I look the type to give a wife a thoroughly bad time, then,” he observed dryly.

Shirley’s face broke into a smile, and she shook her head.

“No, I don’t,” she said. “I don’t believe you’d give anyone a bad time.”

“I’d prefer not to. There seem so many people ready to do that, that to add to their number would be superfluous. But come, suppose we clear the ground a bit, and then you’ll see whether my job is one you would care to undertake. What I’m looking for is a travelling companion for my sister, Mrs. Harford. My name, by the way, is Drake—Simon Drake. She—my sister—is badly in need of a change, and unfortunately I’m prevented by certain legal matters which require my attention just at the moment from taking her abroad myself. Even if I could,” he went on thoughtfully, “I don’t know that I would. I think, in the circumstances, she would be better for a little while away from everyone who’s been associated with recent events in her life.” He paused, then added: “She has just lost her husband.”

“Oh, how sad!” Shirley’s quick sympathy shone warmly in her eyes. “It—it’s so terrible when someone you care for—dies.” She knew what the loss of even an Uncle Nick had meant, and she could guess a little what it must mean to a woman to lose the one man in the world whom she had loved well enough to marry.

“Yes,” answered Drake quietly. “Death is very sad. But sometimes other things are sadder. Kit’s husband—my sister’s husband isn’t dead.” In answer to Shirley’s look of surprised interrogation he went on quickly, as though he disliked what he had to say and was anxious to get it over and done with. “He made her very unhappy—so unhappy that there was only one way out. She divorced him.”

“Oh!” It was a little cry of utter dismay. To Shirley’s sensitive imagination those three short words conjured up a tragedy that hardly bore thinking of. She was young enough to have an untarnished belief in love as the most wonderful thing in the world, and it always seemed to her unbelievably tragic that two people who had once cared enough to want to go through life together should ever drift so far asunder that an irrevocable parting of the ways was the only solution of all their pitiful misunderstandings.

“Perhaps,” she hazarded, “they will make it up again some day. Don’t you think they might?”

A curious expression crossed his face.

“No, I don’t think there is any likelihood of that,” he said. “So you see, what I want to do is to try and take her thoughts away from it—from all the worry and trouble she has been through—and get her to take a fresh grip on life. And I want someone to help me do it—a partner in the job”—with a sudden charming smile. “That’s why I advertised. I thought I might be able to find somebody—just the right kind of person—who would be willing to.”

“I should think you’d find heaps of people willing to,” answered Shirley. “The question would be whether you thought them the ‘right kind.’ ”

Drake’s eyes sought and held hers a moment.

“I think I’ve found the particular kind of partner I want,” he said. And as he finished speaking there came a queer little whimsical twist to his mouth, as though something in the wording of his speech had secretly and unexpectedly amused him.

Shirley caught her breath. Intent on the matter in hand, she had missed that fleeting expression.

“Do you mean you really think I might suit?” she queried half incredulously.

He nodded.

“I really do. That is, if you’re willing.”

“But perhaps your sister may not like me?” she suggested seriously. “After all, it’s as companion to her that I’m wanted.”

“True,” he answered, with equal gravity. Yet in spite of his becomingly serious tone two irrepressible imps of amusement twinkled in his eyes for an instant. “True. I’ll go and ask her to come downstairs and meet you.” With a brief, reassuring nod he quitted the room, and as he crossed towards the door she noticed that he limped a trifle. In the trepidation which had seized upon her at his first entrance she had failed to observe this—or, if she had, her mind must have registered the fact unconsciously, owing to her nervous preoccupation at the moment. In any case, it was so slight a lameness that it was only just perceptible.

Left to herself, her thoughts concentrated on the man with whom she had been talking. There was something oddly arresting about him, in spite of—or, more truly, perhaps, because of—the quietness and simplicity of his manner. His lameness, and the suggestion of physical fragility written in the rather worn lines of his face, hinting that he was no stranger to pain, contrasted curiously with his tall, muscular build. And in the gray eyes, for all their kindness and whimsical humour, there was an underlying expression of weariness, as if their owner had found life not quite worth while—as though it had disappointed him in some way.

Shirley wondered what lay behind that unsatisfied expression. It had not been bred by any such lack of this world’s goods as had abruptly taken the sheer unthinking joy of living out of her own and Bob’s lives. Everything about No. 15, Fremingham Place betrayed that quiet, unobtrusive expensiveness which points to the possession of plenty of money. No, she was sure that no question of limited means was responsible for that weary look in the eyes of Simon Drake. Probably, she reflected, it was his physical disability. Lameness, even as slight as his, to a man so obviously built for splendid strength, must be a very bitter burden to carry. Shirley’s heart ran out in sympathy to him, and by comparison, her own lot in life suddenly appeared much lighter. After all, health was hers, even if wealth was not, and she knew very well which she would choose if she were compelled to make a choice between the two.

At this juncture her thoughts were interrupted by the reappearance of the subject of them, accompanied by his sister, and, as Shirley shook hands with the newcomer, her first impression was that rarely had she seen two members of the same family who resembled each other so slightly.

Some fourteen years younger than her brother, Kit Harford was an attractive-looking little person, somewhat below medium height, with russet-brown hair and big, wide-open eyes of the deep, soft, velvety brown you find in certain wallflowers. It was a softness, however, which was only that of colour, for the eyes themselves looked out on the world with a certain cynical mockery. She greeted Shirley very kindly, none the less, and as soon as she smiled the girl could discern her kinship with the man beside her. Both had the same charming smile, which flashed out unexpectedly, irradiating their faces and completely obliterating, for the moment, that something sad and bitter which had stamped itself on each of them.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to have a little talk together,” said Drake, after a short time, during which he and his sister had drawn from Shirley, in a friendly, sympathetic fashion, the particulars of her brief personal history. “You’ll get along better without a mere man shoving his oar in.” And, picking up a book which had been lying on a desk near at hand, he tucked it under his arm and strolled out through the open French window into the garden. Half unconsciously Shirley’s eyes followed him as he went down the paved path and established himself in one of the wicker chairs beneath the horse-chestnut. Then the sound of Mrs. Harford’s voice recalled her wandering attention.

“My brother tells me he hopes you’re going to consent to go abroad with me,” she said. Adding, with a pretty, appealing graciousness that would have made refusal difficult even if Shirley had not already decided in her own mind that she didn’t want to refuse: “I hope so, too.”

“Are you certain you want me?” asked the girl earnestly. “I should love it, of course, but, after all, you know very little about me. And, you see, I’ve no references to back me up. Mr. Drake may be quite wrong in thinking I should suit you.”

Mrs. Harford laughed and shook her head.

“I’m sure he isn’t,” she said. “I’d stake anything on Simon’s opinion of anybody. He has an almost uncanny instinct as to what people are really like. He only made one mistake in his life over anyone,” she went on, her face suddenly clouding. “And in that case he was blinded.... Blinded.” A new note had crept into her voice with the last words, a note of passionate resentment. It was as though some smouldering bitterness had place within her, liable to flame up at any moment. Almost instantly, however, it died down, and when she spoke again it was so composedly that Shirley could almost have persuaded herself she had only imagined that sudden flash of anger.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Harford resumed, “whether my brother has recommended me to you as highly as he recommended you to me. Probably he’s told you something of the circumstances——”

“Yes, he did,” broke in Shirley impulsively. “And I’m so sorry—so terribly sorry.”

“Are you?” Kit Harford gazed abstractedly in front of her for a moment. “I don’t know whether I’m sorry, or angry, or unhappy, or only just horribly humiliated. Each of them in turn, I think,” she went on, her brown eyes suddenly mocking, as though she were jeering at herself. “But, in my case, I’m not a particularly pleasant person to live with just now. I’ve a grudge against Fate, and it makes me decidedly fractious at times. Do you think you could put up with me?”

In spite of the harsh raillery of her tones, Shirley could intuitively sense the soreness of heart which it concealed. This woman had been hurt to the very core of her being, and she was trying to pretend to the world at large—as women always have and always will—that she wasn’t nearly as badly hurt as one might think. She was even trying to pretend it to herself.

“Do you think you could put up with me?”

The lightly uttered question, upon its half-derisive inflection, cloaked a desperate appeal to which all the girl’s ardent young sympathies responded.

“I’m sure I could,” she said simply. “I—I should love to come to you.”

“Would you really?” Kit Harford’s face held an almost hungry eagerness. “Then, my dear, do come. Come and prevent me from making a fool of myself.”

Afterwards, when Shirley had gone back to Pagan Street, hurrying to share with Bob the good news of her engagement, Drake and his sister sat together in their precious little strip of garden, discussing her. The low rumble of London’s traffic came to their ears pleasantly dulled by the surrounding houses.

“However did you find her, Simon?” asked Kit wonderingly. “She’s quite unlike the average girl who wants a job.”

“Quite,” he agreed, smiling. “I don’t suppose she’s ever ‘wanted a job’ before. She’s gloriously unbusinesslike—never even asked what salary was offered! However, we can settle all that later.”

“You’ll be decent to her over that, won’t you?”

His gray eyes were slightly quizzical.

“I think she’s the sort of person one would rather want to be decent to—over most things,” he said slowly.