Читать книгу East Is Always East - Pamela Wynne - Страница 8

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Soon there was only a week left before it was time for them to start for India. The heavy luggage was all packed and labelled and ready to go. One morning John Maxwell saw it all standing in the hall. Nine packages in all, he counted. And as he stood staring at it April came down the stairs and stood by his side. More and more she had begun to like this tall, distinguished-looking man who gazed so often and so long at her mother. Why didn’t Madeline say something to her about it, thought April rather resentfully. She would understand so absolutely. This nice man could see what a dear Madeline really was. Like a nice understanding brother. And yet Madeline never mentioned him. It was odd. Very odd, thought April, who, however, kept her own counsel about it, never mentioning it to Flavia.

“Well, this looks like business.” From his greater height John Maxwell looked down into April’s beautiful little face. How odd that he had ever found it difficult to distinguish the sisters apart. They were not in the least alike really. At least not in spirit, which was the only thing that mattered, thought John, knowing that he ought to start off for the South Kensington Museum and yet hating the thought of it. Life was meant to be happy and alive in. All this grubbing about in the past. ... Useless!

“Yes, we shall soon be gone now,” said April, returning John’s gaze with a look of complete confidence.

“Glad?”

“Madly, for some things. Not for others,” returned April.

“Such as ... ?” John smiled.

“I don’t believe Mother wants to go,” said April slowly.

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, I can’t quite explain it,” said April.

“Try. Come in here, it’s empty.” John glanced through the glass door of the lounge. He put his hand on April’s shoulder, pushing her in ahead of him. He had absolutely forgotten about the South Kensington Museum: if someone had suddenly rushed in and told him that it was on fire he felt that he would have been rather glad. He certainly would not have left the girl who stood beside him now, to go and help to put it out.

“Now then, tell me why you don’t think your mother wants to go to India,” said John. They were both sitting in low chairs close to the fire. It was beginning to get chilly, being nearly the end of September, and a fire was nice. That was why 129 Ferndale Road was nearly always full. Mrs. Rixon, who ran it, never grudged fires.

“Well, she hasn’t got that sort of joyous look about her any more,” said April confidentially. “I know Mother so well, you see. When we first got here she was just ordinarily cheerful. Then after about a week she got most frightfully cheerful, sort of shining through—I don’t know if you understand what I mean. And now for the last ten days she has got as if something inside her had gone out. As if a lamp that had been keeping her alive had gone out,” said April, struggling to make herself intelligible to this kind man who sat listening to her so intently.

“I see.” John sat back in his chair and then leant forward again. “I haven’t really seen your mother to speak to for about ten days,” he said; “she seems suddenly to be so busy.”

“Oh, well then, perhaps that’s it,” said April brightly. “She misses you, I expect. That quite accounts for it. I noticed that you stared at her a good deal as if you wanted to say something and couldn’t get the opportunity.”

“Did you?” With difficulty John controlled his face. But in spite of himself the corners of his clean-shaven mouth twitched. This child was delicious; no wonder her mother thought so much of her.

“Make an opportunity to say it,” said April soberly.

“Well, will you help me?” said John suddenly. “What does your mother like, for instance? Does she like pictures? I could take her to Burlington House to see the Italian Art. Or does she like the theatre? Milestones is on. She might enjoy that.”

“She simply adores the theatre,” said April eagerly. “Oh, do take her to Milestones, Mr. Maxwell. I know she would love that. Take her on Friday, because that is the day that Flavia and I have been invited down into the country for the night. We are going to stay with one of Flavia’s friends and go to a dance. Do ask her for that night,” said April, her delicate face flushing.

“Well, I think I will,” said John slowly. “Is she in the hotel now?—because I might ask her if she is. I ought to book seats at once if I am to get good ones.”

“Shall I go and find out? I am sure she is,” said April excitedly.

“Do, will you?” said John, and as April bolted out of the lounge he got up and walked to the window. So his carefully-thought-out scheme of action had been a success after all. She did like him and had missed his society. And now his mind was made up. He would ask her on Friday evening to marry him, because they would have loads of time as the girls were going away for the night. She would accept him. He would make her accept him, thought John, clenching his hands in his pockets and then wheeling round because he heard the door of the lounge open and shut.

“April said that you wanted me,” Mrs. Metcalfe’s mouth was a little tremulous. How the light from the two huge windows must be showing up her wrinkles, she thought, trying to meet his eyes and not being able to because the look from them was so intent.

“Yes, I do.” What an opportunity, thought John, staring at the lounge door and wondering what fool had conceived the idea of making it of glass. “I want you to come to the theatre one night,” he said. “I was talking to April, and she tells me that she and her sister are going down into the country on Friday. How would Friday do for you?”

“Oh, I’ve packed all my nicest clothes!” The words escaped Mrs. Metcalfe in spite of herself.

“Never mind. I expect you’ve got something that will do,” smiled John. “I’ll only wear a short coat to keep you in countenance.”

“Oh, I should love to come,” faltered Mrs. Metcalfe.

“Good. What would you like to see?”

“Milestones,” said Mrs. Metcalfe promptly.

“So would I,” said John. “I saw it years ago, but I believe it’s better than ever now because of that. Nineteen-twelve fashions make us laugh just as much as the 1860 ones do. I’ll get tickets, then, and we’ll dine somewhere first, if you will.”

“How heavenly,” exclaimed Mrs. Metcalfe, forgetting instantly her misery and depression of the last week. She had thought that he had got tired of her and he hadn’t. She had waked up so dreadfully early that morning and thought it all over, about how disgustingly selfish she was becoming and that the happiness of her children used to be enough, and it wasn’t now. About how she had developed a dreadful clutching feeling that she wanted happiness of her very, very own. And now here it was! She stood and gazed up into the kind face that she knew by heart. One of his dark eyebrows was just an atom higher than the other. His mouth had a whimsical, amused look on it even when it wasn’t smiling.

“Well, then we’ll consider it settled,” said John. Again he cursed the transparent door because if it hadn’t been there he would have taken Mrs. Metcalfe in his arms and kissed her then. Kissed her, and then got her faltering confession that she loved him, and then rushed out and bought a special license and married her without telling those two pretty girls. And then chucked his work at the South Kensington Museum and gone out for a jolly cold weather in India, which he already knew fairly well. And then he came down to earth again. He was a man of forty-five. When you are forty-five you stop to think, he reflected, taking hold of Mrs. Metcalfe’s hand for no reason at all except that it looked soft and that he wanted to take hold of it.

“Good-bye then,” he said and he gave it a little shake as an excuse for having taken hold of it, and walked out of the room. And like any stupid girl of twenty Mrs. Metcalfe rushed to the window directly he had disappeared and watched him after a second or two appear again and go down the steep stone steps. How tall he was and how enchantingly he put on his hat, she thought wildly. Oh, supposing he was run over! she thought breathlessly, watching him sauntering across the road and stopping and standing very still as a bus charged by him on both sides.

Ah! but he was still alive! Mrs. Metcalfe dodged back from the window as he reached the opposite kerb and stood for a moment glancing back at the house he had just left. Ah, there she was, watching him! John turned his steps and his face towards the South Kensington Museum and his heart sang foolishly.