Читать книгу East Is Always East - Pamela Wynne - Страница 11

Table of Contents

Mrs. Metcalfe had a delicate and sensitive conscience and she knew that stalls at the theatre nowadays were expensive things. She tried therefore to give her attention to what was going on on the stage. But she couldn’t. She was only conscious of the man sitting beside her. The white blur of his shirt-front. The thick white line that his collar drew against the darker texture of his neck. His hands: without moving her head at all she could see them clasped on his crossed knees. If only he would take hold of her hand with one of them. She tried to subdue her thoughts and could not. Everyone around her was staring at the stage and so would she. She gripped her hands on the velvet arm of her seat and tried to open her eyes wider, so that she could take it all in more. Hopeless: she could only think more acutely of the man sitting beside her. Sitting so still. What was he thinking about? Was he thinking about her? Was he perhaps thinking that he wished he had not said what he had so hurriedly in the car? wondered Mrs. Metcalfe, in a sudden agony of fear.

But John, sitting with one long leg crossed over the other, was wondering how he was going to keep up his attitude of calm middle-aged placidity when he had got Mrs. Metcalfe alone with him in the car going home. It had been difficult enough at dinner. One little incident had showed him how difficult. Everything had been just right. The dinner was excellent, and the table cosily close to the fire and daintily shaded. Mrs. Metcalfe had sipped at the champagne as if she was frightened of it, and had then liked it and smiled down into her brimming glass. And then after the entrée she had given a little gasp. “Oh, it’s hot,” she said.

“Oh! Now then what can we do?” John was instantly the attentive host. He glanced round to see if they could change their table, but the room had filled up and they couldn’t. After all he had put her close to the fire because he had thought she would like it. “I’m sorry.” He looked penitently across the table.

“No, no. I think ...” and then Mrs. Metcalfe had hesitated.

“Doesn’t the saucy little coat come off?” said John, a sudden idea striking him. He suddenly noticed that Mrs. Metcalfe was rather wrapped up. She looked perfectly delicious, but still——

“It does. But I don’t know ...” Mrs. Metcalfe looked hopelessly across the table.

“Take it off,” said John firmly. He got up and walked round the table. Mrs. Metcalfe yielded with shrugging shoulders, and the little velvet coat was in his hands. It left a very beautiful neck and arms uncovered. John’s eyes dwelt for one fleeting second on them and then he walked back to his place carrying the little coat.

“It will be perfectly safe here,” he said, hanging it up on a convenient brass hook above his chair. He did not look at Mrs. Metcalfe, but his thoughts were tender. What sort of a life had she led that her innocent shyness had been so exquisitely preserved? he wondered, glancing casually at her across the table and asking her if she noticed how the room had filled up since their arrival a short half-hour before.

“Yes, hasn’t it?” Mrs. Metcalfe’s breath came rather flutteringly. But she had soon forgotten about her alarming scarcity of clothing. John meant that she should. Everything ended off delightfully. They got to the theatre at exactly the right moment and had beautiful seats. And now they sat in these seats and thought of nothing but each other. John was wondering whether he should slip his hand down between the two seats and take hold of hers. What would she do? Like all passionate men, he was deeply sensitive. He did not want to risk a rebuff, and for that reason he had not attempted to kiss her as they drove from the Club to the theatre. However, perhaps—— He unclasped his hands, and so that there should be no doubt what he meant to do he shot a quick glance to where the hand nearest to him was, and then took it in a strong warm clasp. Warm: yes, because her small soft hand was cold as ice. He gathered it more closely into his.

“Oh!” he could feel Mrs. Metcalfe’s little gasp although she made no sound. Her thoughts were incoherent. Had he known that in some strange way she had been struggling to get closer to him? Not exactly in body, but in spirit. Such a childish thing, really, this craving to take hold of somebody’s hand. And yet, the most perfect thing, really. The shelter of it! Now she could enjoy the play. Why did stupid people have these arms between the seats, though? To have nestled up closer to him! What unutterable rapture that would have been. However—Mrs. Metcalfe tried to steady her thoughts. After all she was forty-three, she told herself incoherently. However, age makes very little difference to one’s feelings, and she realized it more an hour or so later. They got out of the theatre at twenty minutes past eleven. If they were back at the hotel at half-past twelve it would do perfectly well, thought John, leaving Mrs. Metcalfe in the foyer of the Criterion and strolling round to where the chauffeur had told him he would be pretty certain to be parked. He was. John gave him a ten-shilling note and told him to get them back to 129 Ferndale Road by half-past twelve. The chauffeur touched his cap respectfully and said, “Thank you very much, sir,” and that was all settled very comfortably.

But John was tender as well as passionate. The woman that he held in his arms was sensitive in her surrender to his kisses. The lips under his were cold.

“Is it wrong?” she gasped.

“Wrong? No, why should it be wrong?” said John. He pressed her head a little closer into his coat. “Look here, we’ve got to talk,” he said. “We’ve got so desperately little time left to do it—because you’ll be gone in a week. It’s awful. I suppose you must go.”

“What do you think about it?” breathed Mrs. Metcalfe, lifting her face so that she could see his mouth.

“I think that I don’t want you to go,” said John simply, and he kissed her again.

“Well, then ...”

“Yes, but we must look at the thing all round,” said John. The car stole softly round the outer circle of Regent’s Park. He pressed her closer to him. “There is nothing more that I want than to have you for my wife,” he said. “You know that. But the relation of stepfather to two girls of the age of yours is a difficult matter. They would resent it dreadfully and quite naturally. That would make you wretched. It would,” said John gently, as Mrs. Metcalfe made a little sound of protest; “you don’t think it would now, but I know that it would. Therefore it would be much better if the girls could marry first. They will marry if you take them out to India. Therefore I think you will have to take them,” said John finally.

“Oh, but how shall I live without you?” gasped Mrs. Metcalfe.

“How shall I live without you?” said John ruefully. “That’s more to the point. But we shall just have to set our teeth and make up our minds to it. If it becomes unbearable and you want me too badly out in India I will chuck up my job and come out to you. I’ve got enough for you and me to live on without my work at the Museum. I’ve been to India too, so I know all about that. How does that please you?” said John, looking down at the little pale face turned up to his.

“Nothing pleases me but to be with you always,” breathed Mrs. Metcalfe, wondering what had happened to her love for her two children. It was there still, it must be there. But where was it? This! ... Why, this was like heaven, thought Mrs. Metcalfe, thinking with a sort of mild wonder of Paul and realizing that she had actually been married to him.

“You darling,” said John quietly. He kissed her again speechlessly. Anyhow, for the week that was left he was going to see as much of her as he could, he resolved. April would understand, and after her first natural grief that her mother was hers no longer she would be unselfish enough to rejoice in her happiness. But Flavia wouldn’t. Flavia would be spiteful, thought John, who was a good judge of character and who had never cared for Flavia.

“Shall we tell the girls?” asked Mrs. Metcalfe, letting her hand stray upwards so that it touched John’s chin ... then feeling how forward it was of her and hurriedly bringing it down again.

“No,” said John after an instant’s hurried thought. He caught her wandering hand and held it to his mouth. “It’s better not, I think,” he said. “After all, we’re not children: we haven’t to ask anyone’s approval. But it’s much better not to invite disapproval. It will only make you miserable, and I don’t want anything to do with me to make you miserable. I want to bring only happiness into your life,” said John gently.

“I wasn’t alive at all until you told me that you loved me,” said Mrs. Metcalfe, and in the darkness a soft happy tear stole down her pale face.