Читать книгу Bracken Turning Brown - Pamela Wynne - Страница 13

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Oddly enough the Rector made no demur at the idea of taking paying guests. He sat at the head of the table pale and unsmiling. Did he even grasp what they were talking about, wondered Millicent, watching him.

“Are you sure they won’t worry you, Arthur?” said Susan timidly. And then she gave a little quick laugh. “We haven’t got anyone yet,” she said. “And I dare say we never shall have anyone.”

“It will not worry me in the least,” said the Rector slowly. “Do exactly as you like about it, especially as you say Rachel is in favour of it. I shall be very late to-night, Susan,” and then the Rector’s eyes glowed a little. “Young Thwaites is out of danger,” he said, “but his mother badly needs a night’s rest. I have promised to sit up with him to-night.”

“You look as if you needed a night’s rest yourself,” said Millicent impulsively. As she sat at the round table she thought how queer it was all being. The brother-in-law sitting there, cadaverous and dark, like a spectre. Her sister, small and pale and somehow faltering. The high ceiling and the white round of the lamp on it. The sort of old-fashioned bleakness of it, and yet the enchanting beauty of the scenery that surrounded it. And the nice food. A lovely roast fowl and all the things that went with it perfectly well cooked. And a sort of pancaky pudding that fluffed and melted in your mouth.

“I am not in the least tired,” returned the Rector, and he suddenly got up from his chair and went out of the room, closing the door silently behind him. And when he had gone the eyes of the two sisters met. And then they glowed and Millicent got up from her chair with a little caper.

“It’s settled,” she said. “And I shall write to Sir Pelham to-morrow and send him back his glove at the same time. Come and tell Rachel about it, Susan. We’ll clear away afterwards; we must tell her directly. My dear, think of the real excitement of it!” Millicent’s voice was shrill with excitement as she charged across the hall.

“Yes, I’m glad,” said Susan soberly, and although her voice was sober it held a sort of quiet satisfaction in it. Because even if the idea didn’t come to anything, it meant something new to talk about. Something new to think about. Something new to fill up her life that was so desperately barren and empty. Because with Rachel to manage things what was there for her to do? There was no parish to see to; besides, her husband preferred to do it himself with a couple of lay helpers. She played the harmonium certainly, but what was that? And even that could be better done by someone else. Pollie Woodford, who had left school and taken a place in the big draper’s shop in Keswick market-place, was longing to do it. Rachel had told her so; she had met her in the market-place two or three days ago. Pollie found the lonely valley dull on Sundays and wanted to keep up her music. Well, if that occupation was taken away from her what would she do? No, this was going to be a blessing if it could ever really come off: Susan walked into the kitchen, her grey eyes shining with a sort of inner excitement.

And Rachel rose to the occasion wonderfully. She approved of Millicent’s choice of the large low room that ran out at the back. “It’ll be warm,” she said, “because it’s mostly all over the kitchen. But we’ll have to freshen it up a bit.” And then Rachel’s face became more serious. “It’ll cost a lot of money,” she said, “and where’s it all to come from?”

“From what I’m going to pay,” said Millicent triumphantly. “If you can hang on without it, Susan, it’ll buy all we want. We only want new curtains and perhaps a rug or two and some pretty china for early tea. Sir Pelham Brooke has early tea, Rachel?”

“And who may he be?” inquired Rachel, tying on her coarse kitchen apron preparatory to washing up. Her faithful eyes sought those of her mistress with a look of deep affection in them. She looked better, did the mistress, thought Rachel. And she had got to go on looking better, decided Rachel passionately. Even if it meant filling the Rectory with a pack of fussing women and perhaps their lap-dogs into the bargain. For Rachel knew all about women and their need for something to love. She had even felt it herself until she had got herself installed in this Rectory. But now Susan satisfied that need. Susan with her grey eyes and slender shoulders and her sudden frantic storms of tears which nothing would satisfy but Rachel’s warm arms and tenderly whispered words of comfort.

And now Rachel, fishing about among the warm slippery cups and saucers, heard all about Sir Pelham Brooke. She listened attentively, and her shrewd North-country brain was busy in a way that Millicent never dreamed of. He was evidently a very fine gentleman, was this gentleman from London, decided Rachel. Too fine, probably, to think of coming to settle down in a faraway valley such as the Vale of Castlemere. But if he did come ... and here Rachel almost cracked a saucer with the quick clutch of her unsteady fingers in the boiling hot water. He should fall in love with the mistress, should this fine gentleman from London, thought Rachel, the idea coming to her in a flash from nowhere. The Rector was not worthy of her, not nearly. Even with his care of the villagers in the scattered hamlets along the valley he wasn’t. He should die, decided Rachel suddenly, lifting a rather flushed face from the steaming basin. Pop off with something like pneumonia from one of the times when he came in streaming wet and forgot to change until he’d cooled down.

“It’s a grand idea!” she exclaimed, and her honest face was gleaming with heat and excitement.

“Do you really think so, Rachel?” exclaimed Susan eagerly. For some reason or other her own heart was jumping. It would be such fun ... such frantic desperate fun. Millicent should write that very afternoon so that it caught the evening post. The postman would take the letter with the others when he called that afternoon. They would have to have a long tough envelope to take the glove as well. Arthur would give them one. Without thinking about it any longer, Susan went dashing out of the kitchen and across the hall.

“May I have one of those long envelopes of yours, Arthur?” Susan had flung open the door of the study.

“Which long envelopes?” The Rector, standing there in his shabby trench coat, was busy with a little despatch case. He hardly seemed to see his wife. Young Thwaites had had a relapse; he had just been speaking with a young and breathless brother of his who had bicycled frantically from the tiny farmhouse at the head of the valley. He might pass out that very night; the Rector was packing his robes into the little pocket reserved for them.

“Take care of yourself, Arthur,” said Susan suddenly. She stood there and looked at him, so absorbed in what he was doing. “I’ll leave something hot for you in a Thermos,” she said.

But the Rector had only heard the first part of the sentence. He was walking to the door now and reaching up for his round black hat. “Take care of myself? Why?” he said, and then like a flat stealthy shadow he crossed the dimly-lighted hall; opened the front door and went out of it.