Читать книгу The Poisoned Paradise - Robert William Service - Страница 4

"That you, Margot?"

"Yes, Mother."

"For God's sake close the door. You don't think I break my back gathering wood that you may warm the wide world."

There was a scuffle of sabots anxiously retreating.

"Margot!"

"Yes, Mother."

"You're not going away again, are you?"

"I..."

"Come here, little toad. I've something to say to you."

Submissively from the shadow of the doorway slipped a girl. She had twin braids of pale gold hair, and between them like a wedge, her face showed waxen with cold.

"'Fraid I'll eat you?" snapped the woman. "Come here, near to me. Brought home any money?"

"No, Mother."

"But I told you to ask."

"I did not dare. Madame will not pay in advance. The last time I asked her she almost sent me away."

"Nom de Dieu! Couldn't you give her some story? Your little sister's sick. There's no food in the house. Your poor mother's ... Ugh! What a fool I have for a daughter. So all you've brought back's an empty stomach. Oh, I could strike you, I could."

She suited the gesture to the threat, and the girl arched her slender arms to stave off the blow. But the woman dropped her hands disgustedly.

"Bah! what's the use. If I could only make you cry there'd be some relish in it. But no! I beat you till my arms ache and never a whimper. That's your stubborn nature. You'll do nothing to please me. Oh, you're a stubborn little devil, still as a mouse, obstinate as a mule. There's something in you, daughter, I can't get at. But I will. I'll thrash it out of you. You wait. Not to-night. I'm too tired to-night...."

From the tumbler at her elbow she took a gulp of cider and brandy, then turned broodingly to the fire. The sickly flames betrayed the wretchedness of the room, the gaunt rafters, the floor of beaten earth. On a deal table lay a clasp knife, and beside it a loaf of bread. The girl eyed the bread avidly. Then her hand, red and claw-cold, stole to the knife, while her gaze rested fearfully on her mother. But the woman no longer heeded.

"What a life!" she was muttering. "What a home! And to think I'd have been rolling in my auto, and crackling in silk and satin, if I hadn't been a fool. That's my weak point.... I always wanted to be respectable, to be married—all that sentimental rot. Well, I've made my bed and I've got to lie on it. But it's hell...."

She stared dismally at her draggled skirts, her coarsely stockinged feet, her wooden shoes so warped and worn. Seeing her absorbed, the girl hacked off a piece of bread and fell to wolfing it. The woman went on, her face harsh and haggard in the light of the fire:

"There was the American. Mad about me, he was. If I'd played my cards right he'd have married me. What a time he gave me, Paris, Venice, Monte Carlo.... Oh, Monte Carlo! But he had to go back home at last. His wife! Told me to wait and he'd get a divorce. Gave me all the money he had. Nearly five hundred pounds. Believe me, I was pretty in them days."

As if for confirmation, she stroked her hollow cheeks. Tears of self-pity welled in her weary eyes.

"Ah! if I'd known, I would have waited. But there was Pierre plaguing me to marry him. Told me he'd loved me since we'd worked together in that hotel in Brighton; me as bar-maid, him as head-waiter. Mighty nice he used to look too in his dress suit. He said he'd been left some money and wanted to go back to the little town where he was born and buy a pub. So we was married, once in England and once in France. God! I was particular in them days."

She laughed bitterly, and took another gulp of the mixture in her glass. Her eyes went glassy. Her fingers clutched unseen things. She maundered on.

"Yes, I was happy there. It was all so new to me. Then we began to get ambitious. The landlord of the big hotel died suddenly. It was a great chance for Pierre, but he had not money enough to take it. There was where I came in. I gave him my five hundred pounds. Told him an aunt had left it to me. He believed me. We bought the hotel and everything seemed to go well. Yes, them were the happy days."

A fit of coughing interrupted her. When it was over she took another drink.

"I don't know how Pierre got to know about the American. He was away a month and when he came back he was changed. He explained nothing, but he treated me like dirt. It was that made me take to the drink."

She was silent awhile. Then ...

"He didn't seem to care about the business any more and I was drinking too much to care; so we went from bad to worse. We lost the hotel and went back to the buvette. Then we lost that too, and he had to take a waiter's place. By this time the drink was master of me. I tried to give it up but it was no use. When Cécile was born I thought I'd be able to stop, but I was worse than ever. If he'd only tried to help me! But no, he hated me; and I began to hate him too. We fought day and night, like cat and dog. Well, it's a long, long story, and here's the end."

She threw a withered branch of gorse on the fire. It blazed up gold as its own May-day bloom. The girl had climbed on a bench by the high bed and was bending fondly over.

"Margot!" screamed the woman.

The girl started. In the sudden flare, her face was an ashen mask of fear.

"What are you doing there?"

"I'm just looking at Cécile, Mother."

"Come away at once. Haven't I told you a hundred times not to go near her? I know you with your sneaking ways. You want to steal her away from me. She's the only one I've got left, and I want her to myself,—all, all. If ever you go near her, I'll kill you. See!"

A fit of coughing choked her utterance. Again the girl stole to the door.

"Margot!"

"Yes, Mother."

"Fetch the bottle of brandy from the cupboard."

The woman poured herself a stiff glass and downed it in a gulp.

"Come here, you little imp; I want to look at you."

She drew the shrinking girl to her. Her lips twitched with spite.

"His eyes, his mouth, his chin. The very image of him. And he says you're not his daughter. Ah! that was the knife in me. Do you hear, girl? Your father says you're not his daughter."

She laughed harshly, scornfully.

"You're so much his daughter that I hate you, hate you!"

The girl had begun to struggle, but the woman was holding her with spiteful strength.

"Let me tell you something. He came to-day and told me he was going away for ever. He tried to take Cécile, but I fought for her, fought like a wild cat to hold her. You understand?"

The girl winced in her savage grip.

"Hear that. You've no father. He disowns you. And let me tell you something more,—you've no mother.... I disown you, too. After to-night I never want to see you again. You're the dead image of him and I hate him too much. Now go!"

She hurled the girl from her and took another gulp of the neat brandy. The glass dropped from her hand. She sagged forward.

Except for the crackle of the burning twigs all was quiet. The girl gathered a hurried armful of clothes. She was glad to go, but for Cécile!

She stole over to the bed where her sister lay sleeping. She saw a cluster of golden curls, a wan little face with lips parted and lashes that seemed to cast a shadow. Bending down, she kissed the white cheek. The heavy lashes stirred, the big blue eyes opened, the child's silken arm stole around her neck.

"You've come home, Margot?"

"Yes, but I'm going away again."

"Don't go, Margot. Don't leave me. I'm afraid of Mother. Stay with me. Stay with your little Cécile."

"No, I can't. Kiss me, dear."

The child held her so tightly it was difficult to free herself. Then the mother turned. She shrieked in sudden fury, and the girl in her terror made a leap for the door. But the latch jammed; and, the while she was fumbling with it, the woman made a rush for her.

The girl screamed with fright. The woman, in her haste, stumbled, caught herself, and with a foul oath snatched the knife from the table....

That was Margot's last memory of her mother,—a harridan hurling curses at her and threatening her with a naked knife....

Sobbing with terror, she stumbled over the stone sill of the doorway and gained the sanctuary of the night.