Читать книгу Interference - Roland Pertwee - Страница 10

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Two days later, dull with apprehension—and with the joy of giving shrouded in misery, Faith Marlay entered Asprey’s and bought the platinum and onyx card-case for John’s birthday.

She was a regular customer with the firm, well-known in all its departments, therefore no comment was made when she asked the assistant who had served her to enter the purchase. She was given an invoice and this, with the card-case, she tucked into a little brocade bag which hung from her wrist.

On the pavement outside, she almost collided with a slim angular woman, dressed in a smart coat of sable-trimmed apple-green cloth.

‘My good girl,’ said this lady, ‘why on earth don’t you look where you are going?’ Then in a different tone, ‘Gracious, if it isn’t Faith. My dear, what a ghost you look. Whatever can John be thinking of to allow you to get into such a state?’

The speaker was Florence Marlay, John’s sister, a spinster older than himself by seven years.

Apart from a slightly characteristic facial angle, there was little to suggest relationship between John and Florence.

The humour, tolerance and vigour of his features were in no way reflected in hers. She was of an exact type, with inquisitive eyes, an intrusive nose and a mouth which was prim, censorious and didactic. Her whole face was a wedge, as if designed by nature to thrust itself into the affairs of other people.

From a store-house of unqualified experience and opinions based on a sublime ignorance of human nature, Florence Marlay had equipped herself to take part in the battle of life. An indefatigable adviser and an unremitting interferer in other people’s affairs had united to inspire for her few friends and little esteem.

John, candid in all things, freely admitted very little taste for his sister’s society.

She had disapproved of his marriage with Faith and had expressed her disapproval by cablegram and in a variety of explosive letters.

As, at the time, she was unacquainted with Faith and the circumstances in which John was marrying her, he had resented her interference in the liveliest manner. The result had been an estrangement, affording considerable satisfaction to both parties.

But Florence Marlay was a woman who moved with the times and the sudden heights to which her brother had ascended, persuaded her to make efforts in the direction of a rapprochement.

Realising that John was unlikely to welcome a return of friendship which sprang from snobbish, rather than sisterly motives, she extended the olive branch to Faith, who was not a person to resent anyone, nor was likely to inquire too deeply into the causes of her sudden change.

Faith, with her confiding nature, which thought the best of everyone, was swift to accept Florence’s advances.

On those nights when John had to go out, Faith would drive round to Florence’s and sit sewing at her cross-stitch and listening to Florence’s stream of small talk about what had occurred in the pseudo-fashionable world of which she was an ornament.

‘My poor child, what is it?’ Florence asked. ‘For the wife of a well-known doctor to look as you do is enough to ruin his practice.’

Florence was the first person to comment on the change which had come over Faith’s appearance, and it was, therefore, with a tone of half resentment she replied:

‘I am quite all right.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Florence. ‘I know what it is; like all busy men, John has no time to take care of his wife’s health. I shall speak to him about it at the first opportunity.’

‘No, don’t, please don’t,’ Faith pleaded eagerly. ‘I’d hate you to do that. He has been frightfully busy and I won’t have him worried about me.’

‘I have always said,’ Florence replied, ‘and will always continue to say, that you do not give yourself sufficient importance in the house. A wife,’ she added, speaking from the fund of her ignorance on the subject, ‘is, or should be, a husband’s first consideration. But that, my dear, will never be so, unless we insist upon it. You should stand up for your rights and see that you get them.’

‘I do get them and much more beside,’ was the answer.

Florence made an effacing gesture with a lean gloved hand.

‘Ridiculous,’ she said. ‘You are far too reasonable. I am glad we met this afternoon, for I was going to ring you up and ask you to dine with me at eight to-night.’

‘I am afraid I cannot,’ Faith replied.

‘And why not?’

‘I never leave John if I can help it.’

‘Tell him to come, too,’ said Florence.

‘No, that’s no good, I have just remembered. He’s going out.’

‘Then,’ said Florence, with finality, ‘there is no reason why you should not come to me. I shall expect you at eight sharp and please don’t be late, for if there is one thing I cannot tolerate it is cold soup.’

She raised the knob of her umbrella to a passing taxi, jumped inside, with a kind of crisp agility, rattled an address through the off-side window, and was driven away.