Читать книгу Caroline Terrace - Warwick Deeping - Страница 6

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Had Miss Luce been something of a hussy she might have accepted the interested stares of Caroline Terrace, and perhaps turned them to good account, for a pretty wench can preen herself and collect these posies of gentlemanly appreciation; but Isabella Luce was not a hussy. She was profoundly unhappy, everything and nothing to herself, and even her mirror showed her a tragic face. One of those shrinking and super-sensitive moods which can afflict the finer spirits was accusing her of failure. As yet she could do nothing with the Pankridge children, and the little sadists, sensing her as an easy victim, were exploiting persecution. Mrs. Pankridge, full of her new idea, and the finishing and garnishing of No. 12A, was less admonitory for the moment, but her husband was betraying signs of amorous interest, and to Miss Luce such silliness was no salve, for vanity was dormant in her.

Yes, people stared, especially so that gaunt, distinguished, hawk-faced gentleman, Ludovic Lardner, Q.C. Mr. Lardner had retired from his profession; he had been a terror in the courts, especially to those who were ripe for the hangman, and he stared at Isabella as though she challenged some elusive memory. So did his daughters, but differently so. They stared Miss Luce out of countenance, and with a sardonic scorn that spilled itself into sisterly remarks. This governess girl was much too pretty, and as Miss Faith put it, ‘looked sly’. For Miss Faith Lardner was unable to distinguish between slyness and a wounded self-consciousness, and maybe she did not wish to make the distinction.

Miss Luce had been shopping—she needed new stockings—and, seeing the Terrace full of people, she had turned aside into Caroline Mews, a quite ridiculous piece of panic, for in passing along the Mews she would be no nearer home and solitude. In fact, she found herself in quite another situation. Mr. Harbourn’s coachman and Sam Pond, who drove a fly, were in the thick of a furious fight, and Caroline Mews had made a ring round them. Excited women shouted. Ginger Pond was getting the worst of it; his face was bloody, and two yellow teeth hung on his lower lip. Big, black Fred Childs could punch hard and had long been waiting for an excuse to thrash this bully. His wife was waving her arms and cheering him on.

‘Go it, Fred, go it, my man.’

This was too much for Mrs. Pond, and in another moment the two wives were fighting, tearing at each other’s hair. Miss Luce, shocked by the unpleasant scene, hesitated, and then glided swiftly past doorways, face averted. No one noticed her. She was just nothing to Caroline Mews, merely the Pankridge governess, and somehow she was conscious of her nothingness.

Caroline Terrace had still to be dared. She turned into it by the Wilderness, the queer sunk garden which lay between Nos. 18 and 19. The Terrace appeared more empty. She was passing No. 5 when its door opened and Mr. Lardner emerged. He stood and stared at her, and she felt his hard glance following her along the terrace. But why? He was not of an age or temper to be piqued by a pretty girl.

There was a side door leading into the Royal Hotel, and she entered by it. A quiet passage led her to the main stairs. Peace and her bedroom. Those screaming, clawing women! Horrible! She was half-way up the stairs when Mrs. Pankridge rushed out from No. 1, a Mrs. Pankridge who was in a temper.

‘Miss Luce, where have you been?’

‘Shopping, madam.’

‘Indeed! I expect to be consulted before you leave your duties.’

‘I am sorry, madam, but I needed stockings.’

‘Stockings! Do you know what the children have been doing?’

‘No, madam.’

‘Squirting water from the balcony over Sir Montague Merriman and her ladyship. I cannot have such things happening. You must exercise more control.’

Miss Luce was so agitated that she dropped the roll of stockings and they went bouncing down the stairs. Clarissa clucked.

‘Really, pull yourself together, my good girl.’

Isabella went to recover the stockings, and she was in tears.

Again Clarissa clucked.

‘Upon my word, Miss Luce, you must learn to control your emotions. You are old enough to know better. You had better go to your room, and recover your dignity. Such exhibitions are most unseemly.’

Isabella fled up the stairs to her shabby little room. She shut and locked the door, and sat down on the bed. Her window was open to the sounds from the Mews, and she could hear a woman screaming hysterically, and other voices making a medley of human discords. Miss Luce, hands interlocked, sat breathing like a girl who was near the edge of an exhausted patience. More screams from the Mews. Was life all bullying and brutality? She rose, shut the window, and falling suddenly upon her knees, covered her face and tried to pray.

‘Oh, God, give me strength to bear all this.’

She was not yet of a temper to ask why she should have to bear it.

Mr. Pankridge was upon his dignity. He had been instructed by his wife to call and apologize to the Merrimans, and to administer proper punishment to his children, and both adventures had not been to his liking. Sir Montague had been curt to him, and young Albert had fought his father and kicked the paternal shins. Mr. Pankridge came into dinner with his chin tucked into his collar. Their table in the dining-room was by one of the windows, and was laid for three. The children—in disgrace—had been sent to bed, and Miss Luce had failed to do her duty. Mrs. Pankridge had sent the page to No. 13, and the boy had brought her a most disrespectful answer.

Clarissa had clucked, and ascended angrily to No. 13, and rapped peremptorily upon Miss Luce’s door.

‘What’s this nonsense, my good girl?’

‘I am sorry, madam, but I have a racking headache.’

She should have said heartache, and Clarissa had tried the door, only to find it locked, and no response had been vouchsafed to further questions. So, Mrs. Pankridge had descended to seat herself opposite a silent and sulkily dignified husband.

‘Really, I think we shall have to discharge Miss Luce.’

Percival grumped at her.

‘What the devil’s wrong now?’

‘Percival!’

‘My dear, I have indigestion. If a fellah can’t eat in peace—— Isn’t the girl coming down to dinner?’

‘Certainly not. I should like you to remember that in my delicate state of health——’

Mr. Pankridge glanced at the next table, where people were listening with amused faces.

‘Tut-tut, my dear. Supposing we discuss it later. Ha, waiter, what’s on the list? Turtle soup—splendid. Try the turtle soup, my dear.’

Mrs. Pankridge put a handkerchief to her mouth, gulped, rose, and with a reproachful glare, left him. Mr. Pankridge combed his whiskers with restless fingers.

‘John.’

‘Yessir.’

‘Bring me a double brandy.’

‘Yessir.’

An oppressive day. High summer was in, or low summer, whichever you chose to call it. Dr. Rollinson and his groom—Bob Clements—had been out on a country round in the yellow-wheeled gig. There was dust on the hedges, and a glare upon the sea, and not a cloud in the sky, and no shade save where great elms lined the road. Even the wheat appeared to be feeling the heat and its million heads drowsed on throats that were turning blue. The distance was all soft haze, and the great grey tower of Holywell church rose like a ghost beyond the trees of the Priory.

Both doctor and groom were silent, Dr. Rollinson because he was worried and sad, Bob because he knew what troubled his master. Dr. William Rollinson was one of those little men with a great spirit housed in a small frail body. Beside the burly Bob he looked all head and top-hat, spectacles on nose, white stock immaculate, whiskers neatly trimmed, black-coated, elegantly prim. To the initiated he gave an impression of primness, and some irreverent souls had christened him ‘Old Mother Rollinson’, but his potency was proved by a bevy of seven bland children, and one of them was desperately sick.

Turning a corner, they were met by a giant of a man on a big bay horse, Canon Turnbull of Holywell. He was a handsome and hairy soul, somewhat given to shrewd silence, but turning upon frail humanity eyes of a peculiar blueness and of profound sagacity. Canon Turnbull did not wrestle with Satan when they met, but chaffed him, and made the Devil look such a sorry fool that even his horns drooped.

Canon Turnbull pulled up his horse, and so did the gig, and for a moment these two good men looked at each other in sympathetic silence.

‘Any good news, Rollinson?’

‘Not very good.’

‘Sorry, my friend.’

‘Thank you.’

That was sufficient in its simplicity and sincerity, and parson and doctor went their several ways.

As the gig rolled down South End’s incipient High Street Dr. Rollinson saw the sea and was moved to strange emotion and the thoughts which emerged from a wounded spirit. It was the same sea, and yet different, like a face that was all meretricious smirking glare, and not the friend of yesterday. Awnings were down over the Assembly Room windows, and the eyes of Prospect House were darkened. Parasols paraded over muslin frocks, pink, cream, and yellow. As the gig turned the Terrace corner Dr. Rollinson began to draw off his black gloves. He wore these gloves in all weathers, and as he peeled them off with moist hands he wondered whether their sombreness was significant.

The door of No. 8 stood open, and a face was watching at the dining-room window. The doctor was laying his hat and gloves on the hall table when Ruth—his eldest girl—came silently to join him. She was a gentle creature, wise beyond her years, and her father, taking off his spectacles to dust them with a white silk handkerchief, gave her one quick, short-sighted glance.

‘Mother upstairs?’

Ruth nodded, and Dr. Rollinson replaced his spectacles. The girl was watching him with solemn eyes, and as he moved towards the stairs, she went with him and put a hand in his. The doctor’s mouth twitched. He pressed the child’s hand, and when they reached the landing he kissed her on the forehead. She released his hand, and turned away. Her young sympathy had served.

Dr. Rollinson climbed on, conscious of the house’s silence. Suspense, shadows. He stood a moment before the nursery door, hesitant, slightly bent like a man in prayer. Then he opened the door.

He saw two women, a cot, the child, Rose—who had been so like a rose. Both women were weeping with that silence that is more moving than noisy grief. Margaret Rollinson held a spoon, and was trying to trickle some liquid food or medicine into the comatose child’s mouth. Her hand was steady, though the tears ran down her cheeks. Dr. Rollinson looked at the little pallid face on the pillow, and knew that there was no hope.

He slipped in silently and stood beside his wife. He laid a hand upon her shoulder, and her free hand rose and laid itself on his. The nurse, looking at them, tip-toed from the room. So, these two good comrades, hands touching, spoke not a word, but watched a dying child, and were nearer to each other than they had been at the altar.

A bell rang and insistently. A maid who had gone to the door came slowly up the stairs. She looked with half-frightened eyes at the two people by the cot.

‘A message, sir.’

Dr. Rollinson turned his head.

‘Yes, Florence.’

‘A call from Mrs. Pankridge, sir, and will you please go at once.’

That vulgar, stupid woman who was as healthy as sin! Dr. Rollinson put out a hand and laid it on the child’s head.

‘Very good, Florence. Say that I will call presently.’

The Pankridge family had moved into No. 12A, and Dr. Rollinson was about to ring the bell when the door was opened by Miss Luce. The unexpected confrontation moved both the doctor and the girl to inward comment, for the habit of observing faces was so habitual in Dr. Rollinson that Miss Luce’s pallor and unhappy eyes caused him to register the impression that the governess was looking ill. As for Isabella, she saw the little doctor’s face as a frozen mask.

‘Is it Mrs. Pankridge who wishes to see me?’

‘Yes, doctor, she is in bed.’

Dr. Rollinson was noted for being a swift climber of stairs, but on this sad day he did not hurry. A part of him had been left behind with his wife and the dead child. He saw a flushed face upon a pillow, a fat hand holding a lace handkerchief. Mrs. P. had been dabbing her forehead with eau-de-Cologne.

‘So glad you have come, doctor. I expected you sooner. I am afraid something has seriously disagreed with me.’

She gabbled at him, and he sat and listened with perfunctory attention. He felt her pulse, examined her tongue, palpated a voluble and uneasy abdomen. Diagnosis—obvious, as obvious as her flatulent egoism. He ordered her a milk diet, and announced that he would send her medicine.

‘Mr. Pankridge is very worried about me.’

‘No need, madam. I will reassure him.’

Dr. Rollinson interviewed the husband, and departed to his surgery. He had left instructions with Mr. Pankridge that the powder should be taken at night, and a dose of the medicine in the morning.

‘I’ll see to it, doctor,’ said Mr. Pankridge, looking as grim as it was possible for him to look.

He did see to it. He gave his wife two powders instead of one and a double dose of mag. sulph. in the morning. And for two days the purging proved dramatic.

Dr. Rollinson, meeting the husband, asked after his patient.

‘Your treatment did all the good in the world, sir.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’

Dr. Rollinson looked absent, for he was on the way to see the spot where Rose would be buried.

At the Assembly Rooms opposite the Royal Hotel informally formal dances were now and again given in summer, very select affairs, the invitation being issued by the committee. The Marquis de Beaucourt, John Gage Esq., and Sir Montague Merriman decided who should attend and who should not, and on this particular summer evening Clarissa Pankridge was otherwise and so busily engaged that her presence would not grace the show. Clarissa was full of groans and indignation against her doctor. She had a new ball dress prepared in blue and gold silk, a sumptuous affair, but—as we have said—Clarissa was too busy. Nor would she permit her husband to leave the house, though Mr. P. had hoped for a flirtatious and free evening.

He had made a suggestion.

‘Why not let Miss Luce have your ticket?’

‘What—a governess! My dear Percival, do have some sense. These affairs are too—elegant—for a girl like Miss Luce. We should give offence.’

Mr. Pankridge was compelled to concur. He did not say that pretty girls were rare, and that Miss Luce was the best-looking girl in the place. So tactless a statement might have produced more spasms.

‘Oh, very well, my dear.’

‘I want you to see the doctor. He has not been since the morning, and he was most unsympathetic.’

Mr. Pankridge demurred.

‘Poor Rollinson has had trouble.’

‘Should that prevent him attending to a poor sick woman?’

‘There has been a death in the family, that pretty little daughter.’

‘I suppose you would not be concerned, Percival, if I told you I felt like dying?’

Mr. Pankridge left it at that, and went down to smoke a cigar on the balcony. It was Miss Luce’s hour when she was permitted to take the air in peace, before returning to her little back bedroom. She had put the children to bed after a wearying tussle with Victoria, for she had tried to persuade them to be good because their mother was unwell and must not be disturbed.

Mr. Pankridge watched Miss Luce cross the roadway to the Shrubbery, black-frocked in the twilight. A rather sweet creature. Now—if—Mr. Pankridge sucked his cigar, and resisted a certain temptation. Wanderings in the dusk might be sentimental and pleasant, but dear Clarissa was not bed-ridden. No, damn her!

A new moon crescented a blue-black sky. Isabella, weary both in spirit and in body, stood in the gateway to the gardens, a shadow shape almost concealed by the black hollies. The lighted windows of the terrace were like notes upon a sheet of music. Yes, some of those houses made music, others—like No. 12A—were tuneless discords. And then she heard actual music drifting to her from the night’s soft, dusky lips. Dance music. It came from the windows of the Assembly Rooms, for these dances began early and ended decorously before midnight. Isabella stood very still, a young woman whose youth vibrated with sudden poignant yearnings. A new moon, a lovely night, and a waltz by Waldteufel.

She passed along the wall of hollies, crossed the road, and saw the white façade of the bow-fronted building brilliant with lights. They spilled haunting music into the sweet air. She could see a swirl of figures within, colour, faces, exquisite movement. She drew near to a long window, looked, yearned, felt her starved self dancing.

Sudden silence, laughter, a flutter of fans. A couple approached her window, arms linked, eyes looking into eyes, the youngest Lardner girl in rose pink, and a very handsome lad with tawny hair.

‘Yes, please open the window wide. It is so very oppressive. I feel quite faint.’

Her beau ogled her gallantly.

‘Faint? Forgive me, you danced like a dream.’

Miss Luce was caught, like a child surprised in some forbidden cupboard. The couple stared at her, the young man’s hand outstretched towards the window.

Isabella turned and hurried into the shadows.

‘Who was that?’

Miss Caroline tittered.

‘Oh, only—a governess.’

The young man frowned. He had been about to say that the governess was a comely creature, but he had thought better of it.

‘Don’t seem to have seen her before.’

‘She is governess to the Pankridge children.’

‘Those horrid little brats!’

Again Miss Caroline tittered and fluttered her fan.