Читать книгу A Boy in the House - Mazo de la Roche - Страница 5

LINDLEY had decided that this was the very sort of place he had been looking for. Here was a seclusion he had not thought to find possible within his means, not in these days of senseless noise and ant-hill confusion. Even if he had rented a cottage in a tiny village, what might not his neighbours have been? Did a village exist without its burden of motor traffic? But here would be peace. Here was true remoteness, and that only a stone’s throw from a highway. Here he would write the book he had been longing for ten years to write.

A small legacy had made it possible for him to be independent for a year, or even more, if he were careful. Through a chance acquaintance he had heard of the two sisters who owned the house. He had come to see it and he had taken part of it on a year’s lease. When he had been told that only a part was to be let, he had all but refused even to inspect it, but, once having seen it, he had made his decision and was now entrenched, with a supply of paper, in a silence that might be matched, he thought, only in a desert.

He recalled what the chance acquaintance had told him of the sisters. ‘Rather eccentric,’ he had said, ‘and as Victorian as crinolines. I remember their old father. He certainly was a Tartar. Kept his wife and daughters subdued, if ever a man did. Once they lived in fine style but he lost most of his money in bad investments. I guess it made him bitter. Anyhow these two women have had a hard time. They’ve sold most of their good old furniture. I’ve bought some of it myself. They live absolutely secluded. You couldn’t find a quieter place.’

Now he was settled, with his few belongings, in his part of the house. He had his own front door, leading into a narrow hall, out of which mounted the white spindled stairway to the rooms above. To the right of the front door was a large, sparsely furnished room. A handsome walnut table dominated it. Here he would write. He wondered how he would feel about that tall pier-glass with its heavily gilded ornate frame. He would see his own reflection in it, every time he raised his eyes from the paper. Of course he could place his back to the mirror, but in that case he would cut himself off from the view through the open window that gave on to long grass moving gently in the breeze and old lilac trees heavily in bloom. Lindley almost trembled in anticipation of the moment when he would sit down to write in this room. But, on this second day of living here, he was still too restless to begin work. It crossed his mind that perhaps he would be better off writing in one of the upstairs rooms. He went up the stairs, covered by worn brown carpet, and examined the three bedrooms. He would sleep in the largest, the one with the mahogany four-poster and the marble-topped dressing-table and wash-stand with the huge ewer and basin and intimidating slop-bowl. The floor was bare and the clean pine boards unpainted. The walls were of pale-grey plaster, a lovely room for sleeping and dreaming.

Of the other two, one was small and unattractive, the other looked out on an enormous cedar tree, still wet from last night’s rain. The sweet scent of it came through the open window. He remembered his stuffy room in the lodging-house in the city, the monotony of his work in an accountant’s office, and his heart sang for joy. He realized now why he could not yet settle himself down to work. He was simply too happy. In another day or two he would become tranquil. Then he would choose a room for his work, sharpen his pencils, take out the fair paper and lose himself as he longed to do.

Slowly, in a kind of haze, he descended the stairs. At the foot he stood still, staring at the door on his right which connected his part of the house with that part occupied by the sisters. It had been locked, they said, ever since their father had died and they had decided that the house was too large for their needs. Mrs. Morton, the younger sister, had added, with her genial smile, that they somehow felt safer with that door locked. From what? he wondered. Perhaps from the ghost of that disagreeable old man who had dominated their lives? Standing there, with bent head, he tried to recall what else his acquaintance had told him of their lives? Oh, yes, Miss Lydia Dove had been a beauty who had considered no man she had ever met worthy to become her husband. Elsie had, at twenty-six, married the son of a neighbour who had left her widowed and without means only a year later. She had returned to this house and her father’s tyranny.

On the other side of the door there was dead silence. What did the two women do to pass the time, Lindley wondered. He rather wished the door were not there. It was a reminder of the existence of other people in the house, and the very silence on the other side of it had strange significance. He was but newly transplanted, he thought, from the noise of the city, and it would take him a day or two to get used to this seclusion.

Suddenly, from the other side of the door, a sound came, the sonorous tones of a clock striking the hour of six. Lindley smiled. It was just the right sort of sound—unhurried, tranquil. Yet it told of the passing of another day.

His front door stood open. He saw that the shadows of the trees were lengthening on the now motionless grass. A small bird began its evening song. He thought he would take a stroll through the grounds before he prepared his supper.

Outdoors it was warmer than inside. He took off his jacket and hung it over his arm. He went along the drive, which was almost overgrown by tall grass and buttercups, toward the gate. The front of the property was occupied by an ugly redbrick house and its well-kept lawn. It had been built by a retired grocer who had bought the land old Mr. Dove had been forced to sell when his investments failed. Passing motorists never suspected that another house lay behind. In truth almost everybody had forgotten it, excepting the grocer who lay in wait to buy it, when poverty should force its sale. Mrs. Morton herself did all the shopping. With her shopping-bag on her arm she slipped through the narrow gate, walked the two miles into the village and returned, looking hot and tired, the bag bulging with provisions for the week.

Now Lindley saw her coming along the drive and wondered whether or not he should turn to meet her. He did not want to create an atmosphere of such intimacy with these two women that they would expect a friendly chat at every encounter. On the other hand he did not want to appear unfriendly, and his writer’s curiosity made him wonder about them. What were they really like? Were they resigned to their isolation or embittered by it? Well, the least he could do was to offer to carry the heavy bag for her, which must have doubled its weight with the miles. She did not see him coming till he was quite near. Then the look of pleased surprise, the return of his smile with one which charmingly lighted her face, told him that the encounter was welcome. She gave up the bag with a sigh of relief and stretched her arm. It was a short plump arm, Lindley noticed, and her figure was short and strongly made. She must have been an attractive young woman, with those shining grey eyes, that full-lipped, smiling mouth. But now she was obviously near to sixty and her face had coarsened. She took pride in her appearance, however. Her beige linen jacket and skirt were immaculately laundered. Her gloves were freshly white and her thick hair, strongly streaked by grey, was swept neatly back, beneath her small black hat. She glanced up at him with a look that was almost flirtatious.

‘How nice,’ she said, ‘to be met by a gentleman, and a gallant gentleman who will carry your bag for you.’

She had a pleasant contralto voice.

‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘it was pretty warm in the town. Surely these things should have been delivered for you.’ He was so incurably kind-hearted that he pictured himself going to the shops with her, carrying that ugly cretonne bag.

She relieved him of that fear. ‘Oh, I don’t mind it at all,’ she said. ‘In fact I like it. It makes a little break—and I’m very strong.’ She straightened her shoulders and stepped out briskly. ‘My sister will be wondering what has kept me,’ she added. ‘You know how it is with people who never go out. The time seems much longer to them.’ She spoke as though she herself went out a good deal.

At her own door, which opened into the dining-room of the house, he left her, but not before he had a glimpse of her sister hovering inside. He heard her greeting, high-pitched and querulous: ‘Why, Elsie, whatever in the world have you been doing? I expected you an hour ago. Was that Mr. Lindley who was with you?’

He did not hear Mrs. Morton’s answer. He turned away and went along the path that led past the back of the house, past the empty stable that looked ready to tumble down, past the empty poultry house which was indeed tumbling down, and followed the path toward the lake. This soon lost itself in the long grass out of which rose a few fruit trees whose gnarled branches still produced fairy white blooms but whose fruit was the succour of worms. The grass waved gently and he noticed a few white narcissi blooming among it, the remnant of what had once been a flower garden. He picked four of them and held them to his nostrils and inhaled their sweet, languishing scent.

He came at last to the steep bank, below which lay the lake, stretching like a pale-blue sea to the pale horizon. He knew that the sisters had been born in this house and he pictured them as little girls paddling on the sandy beach or sailing tiny boats. He pictured them as young women, walking here with their friends and lovers, feeling free, when they were here, of their father’s tyranny. Their mother, Mrs. Morton had told him, had died when they were children. Did they ever come here now, he wondered. Probably not, for Miss Lydia had been ill and still was weak and Mrs. Morton’s energies must be needed for the housework.

‘If I keep on thinking about these old girls,’ he reflected, a bit grimly, ‘I shall be dragging them into my book. . . . But I needn’t worry. As soon as it is begun I shall never give them another thought.’

He remembered his evening meal, and retraced his steps. The shadows were longer and darker. He saw some white birds sailing in the blue sea of the sky and realized that they were gulls. The scent of the narcissi he carried rose to his nostrils. Suddenly he wondered if he should have picked them. He avoided the open door of the sisters’ part of the house and from the opposite direction went into his own.

He had no kitchen, and the arrangement was that at certain hours which had been specified, he would have the use of theirs. At these times the two women disappeared, leaving kitchen and dining-room to him. He had a cupboard to himself where he kept his provisions and few dishes and utensils. Now he put the flowers into a small vase he had found and carried them up to his bedroom. They shone out like pale stars against the grey plaster of the walls. They took possession of the emptiness of the room. He stood looking at them for a bit before he went downstairs.

The kitchen was empty and a fire was burning in the wood stove. He took bacon and liver from their brown-paper wrappings and laid a fraction of each in the frying-pan. Soon they were sizzling. He went into the dining-room and set a place for himself at one end of the table. Before long he was sitting there, happily munching, a pot of coffee ready at his elbow. His attention was drawn to the open piano, of which, up to this moment, he had been scarcely conscious. Which of the sisters had played on it, he wondered. Probably Miss Dove. He could imagine the die-away pieces. He wondered why the piano should be here in the dining-room, then remembered that this was now the sisters’ living-room. The piano stood near the door which opened into his part of the house.

He was clearing the table when he heard steps coming down an uncarpeted stair. So, there were two stairways in the house. No—three, for he had noticed a short stairway leading from the kitchen to a room above it.

Mrs. Morton came into the room, not abruptly but hesitating on the threshold. She looked refreshed, and her rather coarse mouth wore an almost shy smile.

‘I waited,’ she said, ‘till I heard you moving about. I hope you’re getting on all right with your meals.’

‘Oh, fine, thank you.’

‘It seems hard for a gentleman to have to look after himself.’

‘I enjoy it. You see, I came here to be alone.’ He must emphasize that, he thought, or she might bother him with her chatter.

‘Yes, indeed, I know,’ she said hastily. She took another step into the room. ‘I do hope you’re getting on with your writing.’

‘Well—I’ve not actually begun. I begin tomorrow morning. You have to get used to a place, you know.’

‘It must be wonderful to be a young man—and writing a book.’

‘I’m older than you think,’ he laughed. ‘And the book will probably be a failure—if it’s ever published.’

‘I can’t imagine your failing at anything.’ She showed open admiration in her shining grey eyes.

‘I wish I felt that way about myself.’

‘But you must. It’s splendid to do what you want to and to succeed. I was ambitious once.’

He sighed and set the coffee-pot again on the table, giving her his attention.

‘I wanted to be a really good musician. I used to practise a great deal, on this piano. But then I fell in love, and married, and everything was changed.’

‘Girls generally give up their music when they marry, don’t they?’

‘Not I,’ she denied quickly. ‘I loved it too well. I’ve always kept up my practising.’

He could not hide the consternation that swept the mild interest from his face. Was his seclusion to be shattered by piano practice?

Mrs. Morton gave him a wide, reassuring smile. ‘Please don’t worry about finger exercises or anything of that sort. But I’ve been wondering if it would bother you if I played in the evening. Perhaps at the time when you take your walk. You see,’ she hurried on, ‘my sister is used to hearing me play at that hour. It’s soothing to her and she hasn’t had much pleasure since her illness. Of course, I shouldn’t like to bother you.’

She looked apologetic, even pathetic, standing there in the doorway. He felt ashamed of his overbearing position in the house. The two women seemed so defenceless.

‘Why, certainly,’ he agreed. ‘We can easily arrange a time.’ He looked at the piano. Every note from it would be audible in his part of the house. ‘What about from seven to . . .’ he hesitated to set either too long or too short a period.

‘Never longer than an hour,’ she exclaimed. ‘Usually less. And I don’t play very loudly. But you see how it is. My sister looks forward to it.’

‘And I shall, too, I’m sure,’ he couldn’t stop himself from exclaiming, while, at the same moment, he cursed his imbecile good nature. What sort of torture might not the woman put him to?

‘I should have spoken of this when I rented you the place, I know,’ she said, almost humbly. ‘But I couldn’t bring myself to. I so badly wanted you to come. You are just the sort of quiet gentleman . . .’

‘Oh, I’m quiet, all right.’ He smiled and picked up the coffee-pot. ‘But not so quiet that I don’t like a little music in the evening. So please go ahead.’

She did, that very evening, but waited till she saw him out of hearing, walking toward the lake. There was a large boulder there which he liked to sit on, looking out across the calm expanse of the water. Strangely shaped clouds were edged with fire by the aftermath of sunset. He heard the distant voices of boys at play, and, in his mind’s eye, saw a white sheet of paper with the first words of his book written on it. A shiver of something between apprehension and exultation passed over him. In twelve hours he would begin his book.

When he drew near the house it was dusk. Out of the long grass the white narcissi showed like stars. Their faint scent came to him for an instant but was soon drowned in the heavier scent of the lilac. The door of the sisters’ living-room stood open, and Lindley heard the sound of the piano. Mrs. Morton was playing one of Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words, playing it with feeling and great sentimentality. It was what he had expected, only better. She really had skill.

Lindley had a desire to see the performer—and her audience. The two windows of the room were shaded by a trumpet vine. He moved close to them and peered through the glossy new leaves. It was as though he were in the room with them. The light fell from an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling. It was of china and decorated with glass prisms. In its kind light the two women were transformed. He saw that the elder, Miss Dove, had once been beautiful. She must have looked like a Dresden china shepherdess, with her sloping shoulders, delicate hands and exquisite features. She now sat, leaning forward, drinking in the music, her large blue eyes dreamy with delight. Mrs. Morton too was transfigured. She had now begun to play ‘The Hunting Song’ with much spirit. Her full-lipped mouth took on a look of pride and power. Her hands, poised above the keyboard, swooped like amorous birds, and, at last, came to rest.

Lindley went round to his own side of the house and stood for a space in his own doorway, drinking in the deepening dusk in the garden, the almost palpable stillness, for the music had now ceased. He felt deep relief at the thought that he was not to be annoyed by bad piano playing. In truth he rather liked the thought of those two women cherishing their love of music through the years of adversity. He tried to remember all his acquaintance had told him of their past, but, at the time, it had seemed important only in the light of their willingness to let him part of their house. He did, however, recall that Mrs. Morton’s husband had been a handsome young fellow but that her father considered him ‘fast’ and had forbidden the marriage, and the pair had eloped. Later, when she had been forced to return home, a widow, he had made her pay for her disobedience.

There was a gentle rain in the night and the morning was moist and mildly sunny. Growing things were pushing up, unfolding, with urgency, as though there were no time to waste. In tune with the morning Lindley laid out his paper, sat himself down at the uncompromising marble-topped table, and wrote the title of his book at the top of the page. The opening sentences had long been in his mind. Now he wrote them, with almost precise care, and looked at them. They looked somehow different from what he had expected, and he sat staring at them, with a feeling of wonder.

Half an hour passed and he still sat there. He found that he had smoked two cigarettes without realizing it. He got up and paced the room. Outside a woodpecker was tapping on the trunk of the old cedar. He could see its small head, its thin muscular neck in energetic movement. As soon as it stopped that noise he would sit down and get to work.

In the next hour he wrote two pages and had nothing more left in him. He felt exhausted, but a glad exhilaration possessed him. With a kind of tender solicitude, as for a new-born weakling, he laid the manuscript in his writing-case. A manuscript of two and a half pages.