Читать книгу Caroline Terrace - Warwick Deeping - Страница 4

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The Royal Hotel was all mahogany, gilding, and red plush. It welcomed its visitors with a white-pillared porch, bowed them into a pleasant dining-room, or up curving and carpeted stairs to an equally pleasant drawing-room with windows and balcony fronting upon the sea. The hotel might flatter itself with the knowledge that for one month it had housed royalty, but that did not deter it from greeting hungry visitors with culinary savours, odours of roast beef and rich gravy, the smell of good brown ale, and more subtle perfumes, the bouquet of wine and old port. The gentle world fed well here, and were served by waiters who were known by their Christian names, and were almost part of the furniture. The beds were feather mattressed for those who could command such comfort. An array of candles in brass sticks stood ready at night on a long mahogany table on the first-floor landing, and even slippers waited for those who desired them. It was all ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘Yes, madam,’ to the elect, and chambermaids in lavender-coloured frocks and white mob caps curtsyed when they met a lady who rustled in satin or in silk.

Miss Luce made no such formal entry. Meeting the boy in buttons on the stairs she inquired for No. 13, and his response was casual. He was sucking a bull’s-eye, and he did not attempt to conceal moist noises.

‘Thirteen? Top floor back.’

Miss Luce climbed up and on, with a sensitive white hand on the polished rail. Top floor back! That was to be expected, but a sudden sense of weariness and of bitter languor ascended with her towards No. 13. Even the stair-carpet differed on the third flight, for it was foot-worn and blurred as to pattern, nor were the stair-rods of the same polish or quality. The bedroom doors were narrower than those below, and of a dull brownness, with their numbers painted in black. No. 13 was at the end of the passage, with a lavatory opposite it.

Miss Luce put a hand to the brass handle, and opened the door. The handle was slightly greasy, and her sensitive fingers reacted to the touch. No. 13 displayed itself, narrow and austere, with a strip of faded carpet beside the bed, and a small window draped with cheap chintz curtains. No plush or gilding here. One cane-bottomed chair, a chest of drawers, and a severe washhand-stand that displayed on a lower shelf a certain sanitary vessel that had lost its handle, and three wooden pegs fastened by a board to the wall. Miss Luce closed the door, went to the window and looked out upon a vista of back gardens, stables, chimney-pots, and the grey cobbles of the Mews. Pink roses once had bloomed upon the wallpaper, but they were very faded flowers.

Isabella Luce sat down upon the bed. It was a hard bed, with a mattress that was not swansdown. She drooped. She took off her hat and laid it beside her, and put a white hand to her forehead. Assuredly she and the room were inevitably thirteen.

Her travelling trunk stood beside the cane-bottomed chair, and in regarding it she could remind herself that this black box contained all her worldly possessions. Yes, the trunk and her purse. Seven shillings or so, and some coppers. If she was capable of self-pity, the feeling was spiced with irony, for Isabella Luce was no mere sweet sad soul. Her quick dark eyes and lovely brow, her mobile mouth and firm chin were not those of a mere sentimental fool. She could speak both French and Italian, and was more than a moderate pianist, and yet in the genteel world she appeared to be worth about twenty pounds a year.

Why should she bear it? Could she bear it? That bully of a woman and those poisonous children! She had had three weeks of them, and the torture that certain little savages can inflict upon the sensitive. The ingenuity of the little brutes, their gloating cleverness in inflicting pain! She straightened her slim body, and gave a little flick of the head. ‘I will bear it,’ was her inward cry, ‘I will—because I must.’

She was about to rise when she heard footsteps, and they were heavily familiar. So was the voice that rallied her.

‘Miss Luce. What—are—you—doing?’

The door opened upon the Pankridge lady, florid and indignant.

‘What, just sitting on your bed! Where are the children?’

Isabella did not rise.

‘I could not find them.’

‘Indeed! Did you try?’

‘I did.’

‘My dear young woman, you must cultivate responsibility. I want you to unpack for me. I am a delicate subject, Miss Luce, and I count upon consideration and industry.’

Isabella rose slowly from the bed.

‘Which is your room, madam?’

‘No. 1, of course. And when you have unpacked for me you can unpack for the dear children. They are in No. 3.’

The long windows of No. 1 opened upon a balcony. The porter had unstrapped the Pankridge trunks, and Isabella, lifting a lid, discovered that this trunk was male. Was she expected to unpack for Mr. Pomposity? Hardly so, and the conventions might regard such activities as not quite decent. The new era had arrived, and Mrs. Pankridge was all for the proprieties. No longer were gentlemen expected to end the evening in a drunken stupor beneath the dining-room table, or to house pretty ladies in Mayfair. Maybe Mr. Pankridge, who had known the latitudes of Europe’s First Gentleman, regretted those more gorgeous days, but as the husband of Clarissa Pankridge, and the father of two dear children, he had become an outward conformer, and a pillar of the proprieties.

Miss Luce, carrying a clutch of silk petticoats towards a chest of drawers, saw for the first time that spacious sea and landscape, and stood to gaze. How was it that she had not seen it so before? How much of your vision was inward, and waiting upon the destined moment! Her dark eyes took in all that pleasant scene, the estuary, the white-sailed ships, the dim hills of Kent, the green growth at her feet. Almost, her face expressed a sudden tenderness. Yes, beauty could be consoling. No one could rend that front you, or scold all loveliness out of the world.

She was laying the silk garments in a drawer when the door opened, and Mr. Pankridge’s booming voice addressed her.

‘Ha, excuse me, I intrude.’

Her shoulders stiffened, and she did not turn her head.

‘I am unpacking, sir, for madam.’

Obviously so. Mr. Pankridge ran red fingers through a blond whisker, and became ponderously paternal.

‘My dear young lady, you must not tire yourself on my account.’

‘No, sir.’

‘I am quite capable of dealing with my own trunk. And after the journey—a little rest is indicated.’

He strolled to the window, admired the view, and something else. Assuredly, his wife had engaged a pretty governess, and Mr. Pankridge was so much married that his sentiments escaped—when they dared—into fatuous flirtations.

‘I hope you are—er—happy with us, my dear?’

Isabella gave all her attention to the petticoats.

‘Oh, quite happy, Mr. Pankridge, thank you.’

‘I’m very glad, my dear,’ and hearing voices in the passage he escaped to the respectable solitude of the balcony, sat down, and lit a cigar. Clarissa would not permit smoking within doors.

It was one of the hours when Caroline Terrace came out upon parade, and gathered at the Assembly Rooms or at the Marine Library for literature and social contacts. There were seats in the Shrubbery for those who preferred a more sylvan solitude, or the cliff paths or the pier for exercise. Mr. Pankridge sat and surveyed the scene, legs extended, waistcoat comfortably bulging. He could look and he could listen. Clarissa was in the bedroom.

‘Tch, Miss Luce, be more careful with those bonnets. Lay them on the bed. The best straws crush so easily.’

Silence from Miss Luce.

Sir Montague and Lady Merriman were passing with serene sedateness, and Sir Montague had John Keats under his arm. Keats was permitted, but Shelley and Lord Byron were not considered socially knowable. Miss Jane Massingbird followed, carrying a Dickens. Humphrey Hapgood’s white topper sailed out from No. 10, and was waylaid by Miss Bellamy’s pink bonnet. Major Miller, with his waving wen concealed beneath a black beaver, found himself strolling with the Nabob. Dr. William Rollinson’s gig rolled up from the other direction. The Lardner girls, fresh from bouncing in the sea, regained the sanctity of No. 5.

Mr. Pankridge heard an exclamation.

‘Faugh, a horrid smell of smoke. Where can it come from?’

More silence from Miss Luce. Clarissa went to a window.

‘Percival, I am surprised at you. You know how cigar smoke irritates my sensitive throat.’

‘My dear,’ said her husband, ‘if that is so, why not shut the window?’

His wife both shut it and latched it, and Mr. Pankridge was marooned upon the balcony.

The business of unpacking continued, and Mrs. Pankridge reclined in a padded chair, and directed the operations. She was a most didactic lady. ‘No, not in that drawer, Miss Luce, in the upper one. And the cupboard. Make sure it is not damp. I like my shoes in the cupboard. My jewellery case? Oh, yes, put it in that cabinet. I see there is a key.’ Came a rapping on a window. Mr. Pankridge wished to be released, but when Miss Luce made a movement in that direction, she was ordered to leave the window latched.

‘No, Miss Luce, I think Mr. Pankridge has yet to finish his cigar. He can remain there until it is finished. I cannot tolerate the smell of tobacco.’

Miss Luce refrained, with an enigmatic glance at the lady. Oh, delicate creature, strong as Juno, with a boisterous bust and legs that were too thick about the ankle! The weaker sex—indeed! Mr. Pankridge, having rattled the window, retreated somewhat flushed and rattled to the balcony chair, and Miss Luce was thinking that she would have preferred a husband who could put a fist or a foot through the glass, and perhaps smack that solid, stupid face.

The business of unpacking came to an end, and Miss Luce was dismissed to perform the same operation for the dear children.

‘Shall I open the window, madam?’

‘Certainly not. All in due season. I think I will rest on the bed for an hour. And—Miss Luce——’

‘Yes, madam?’

‘Order a maid to bring me a pot of tea.’

Isabella transferred herself to No. 3, and having dealt with the dear children’s belongings, went downstairs to order my lady’s tea. She was feeling tired and depressed. Oh, for a little peace and aloofness. She ascended to No. 13, put on her bonnet, and on her way downstairs she met the two dear children coming up. Master Albert was blubbing and snuffling, his sister somewhat subdued.

Miss Luce asked the obvious question.

‘What is the matter, my dear?’

Albert boo-hooed.

‘A horrid man smacked me.’

Isabella left it at that. Let Albert appeal to his mother. She escaped into the sunshine and, crossing the roadway, found herself in the green wilderness where the young were not.

A broad path sheltered by a holly hedge stretched right and left like a miniature terrace. Seats were spaced here and there, but this holly walk was too public for Miss Luce’s mood. She took a path which tunnelled downwards into the shade, and found a seat under the branches of two oak trees. A miniature glade gave her a view of the sea, all aglitter in the sunlight, with the wash of the miniature waves audible to her where she sat. The seat had a back to it, and, taking off her hat and laying it beside her, she let the nape of her neck rest on the seat’s back and her gaze go up into the cool green gloom above. She closed her eyes, and her face went dreamy, yet with a poignant sharpness. Oh, to be alone, even for a few minutes in peace and solitude, not to be talked at, admonished, teased! Her philosophy, if she had any philosophy, was more questioning and pitiful than positive. Why did certain things happen to certain people? Tragedy, for which you were not responsible, the past deep in shadow, the future—a sort of slavery. She had had no real youth, no play, no romantic adventure, save in the books she read by candlelight. She had secrets to hide, human horror that could not be forgotten or confessed to. Why, oh why?

Isabella kept her eyes closed, and for a moment or two breathed deeply, as though drawing in relief and strength. To escape, even for a few minutes, was to be yourself, though your self might be but a troubled ghost of what it should be. She was so far away, so much in a trance, that she did not hear the stumping of Captain Bullard’s timber leg. He paused, looked, and passed on with a comprehension that is natural to some worldly men. Poor, sweet thing, safe for a moment from the Pankridge ménage, and dreaming—dreaming. Well, let her dream in peace under the soft shadow of the trees.

Captain Bullard emerged upon the terrace to observe a restive gentleman rapping impatiently at a balcony window. Pankridge père marooned upon a balcony. And Captain Bullard chuckled, but there was the spice of human malice in the chuckle. Damned, pompous fool! Serve him right. His good lady wore the trousers. Yes, and what she needed was a man who would lower those garments and apply the business side of a hairbrush.