Читать книгу The Woman at the Door - Warwick Deeping - Страница 19

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Coming to the tower Luce saw it sunning itself among the trees. What a peaceful spot was this after Piccadilly and the Mansion House, so separate and serene! He would begin work to-morrow, the work which he had dreamed of doing. With a feeling of satisfaction he unlocked the green door, carried his milk-jug into the living-room, set it down on the table, threw up the lower sash of the window, and took off his coat.

He remembered that little note of hers in his pocket, and feeling for it, was about to crumple the thing up and throw it into the grate, when a sound outside the tower attracted his attention. He stood listening, the slip of paper in his hand. Footsteps? Was some inquisitive person exploring his garden? He was in the act of moving towards the window when a voice broke the silence.

“Hallo, anybody there?”

Luce’s right hand dipped into a trouser pocket. He approached the window, leaned out, and saw—her husband. For the moment he just stared down at the upturned face. Confound it, had the fellow seen him in the sandpit and followed him up through the woods?

“Good evening. Yes,—I’m in.”

“Well, that’s lucky. My name’s Ballard.”

Luce, poised in his shirt sleeves above this human problem, realized that the fellow’s face was friendly. But what the devil did he want?

“I think we have met before, Mr. Ballard.”

“That’s so. You found me—trespassing.”

“We all do that—at times. As a matter of fact I was coming down to see you.”

He was conscious of making inward comments upon the face of the man below, though, had these comments been translated into words, they would have been Erse or double-Dutch to the farmer. The sunlight was shining obliquely across his face. One cheek was in the light, the other in shadow. The teeth seemed to show as a hard white streak below the slit-like eyes. Sinister was the adjective that Luce used to himself.

“It was about my daily supply of milk and eggs. But won’t you come up, Mr. Ballard?”

“I’ve got a suggestion to make, Mr.——”

“Luce is my name.”

“Between neighbours, Mr. Luce.”

What was at the back of that hard, drink-raddled face? Luce had put on gloves of velvet.

“Come up, Mr. Ballard. You might like a drink?”

“That’s an idea, sir.”

Luce watched Ballard limp away round the base of the tower. He realized that he himself was putting on his coat. Why put on a coat? As a symbol of concealment? And he had that note in his trouser pocket. Had Ballard discovered that two quite innocent people had been swapping milk-jugs, and was the fellow playing Agag? If so, what an absurd predicament! Luce felt hot and a little angry. And then, suddenly, he remembered that confounded milk-jug. Supposing Ballard saw it and recognized it? Idiot! Obviously, he was not built for this sort of backstairs business, and feeling ridiculously guilty and resenting the shabbiness of it, he grabbed the jug, and put it away in his cupboard.

Footsteps upon stone, the faint creaking of a hinge, his own voice sounding breezy and swelling, a social service voice.

“Come in, Mr. Ballard.”

Ballard came in with that limping movement and a smirk that seemed to slide obliquely across his face. He pulled off his hat and showed the tenuous hair of a big, flat head that was going bald.

“Funny old place, this.”

“It suits me,” said Luce; “what can I give you? A little whisky? Sit down, Mr. Ballard.”

“Yes, just a spot of whisky, thanks.”

Ballard sat down and put his dirty hat on the table. It was not the sort of hat that a fastidious person would welcome in such a situation, but Luce had nothing to say on the matter. His concern was to find out what the fellow wanted. In opening the cupboard to collect the whisky bottle and two glasses, he exposed that jug to view, but his large body was interposed between it and his visitor.

“Afraid I haven’t any soda-water in stock.”

“Never mind the soda, Mr. Luce.”

Luce pushed the cupboard door to with an elbow, and set glasses and bottle on the table.

“Just back from town—on business.”

He proceeded to pour whisky into a glass, and since Ballard failed to produce any conventional suggestion as to the size of the drink, it was limited by Luce’s discretion. Let the fellow have a large one. He passed Ballard the glass, and reached for the water-jug which happened to live on the mantelpiece.

Ballard added an equal quantity of water to the whisky.

“Here’s to you, sir.—Well, as a matter of fact, I’m here on business.”

“O,” said Luce with a sudden stare, helping himself to whisky.

And what was Ballard’s business? Luce took himself and his glass to the window and balanced himself on the sill. Could there be any possible communion between the owner of that foul hat and the woman with the frightened eyes? He found himself listening to Ballard’s voice, a voice that had made itself glib and genial. And why, when he was not drinking, did Ballard cover the mouth of his glass with a flat right hand, as though someone might take a surreptitious pull at his liquor? But, from Luce’s point of view Ballard’s business was more curious and grotesque than the way he sat sheltering his whisky. Ballard was explaining that he had been obliged to sack one of his men, and the fellow was refusing to relinquish his cottage. Meanwhile, he was engaging another hand, but had no accommodation for him. The man was married, but without children, and would Luce consider letting the labourer occupy the annexe of the tower? It would be a temporary arrangement, but why should it not prove mutually helpful? The man’s wife was a decent body, and Luce might find her useful.

So, that was it! Luce felt both relieved and amused. He smiled at his visitor.

“I’m afraid that’s not feasible, Mr. Ballard.”

“You want the whole place?”

“I’m afraid I do.”

He found himself watching the other man’s eyes. They were eyes that retained an angry look even when he smiled.

“But you can’t need the whole damned place, Mr. Luce?”

“Solitude, Mr. Ballard. That’s why I came here. You see——”

“You won’t help a neighbour.”

“I don’t think you quite understand.”

Ballard put his glass on the table, reached for his hat, and stood up. His face had lost any assumption of friendliness, and to Luce it was the face of a man who was not quite sane, and whose temper was so little under control that it broke loose under the smallest provocation. The skin over his cheekbones looked tight and flushed. He clapped that foul hat on his head. His slits of eyes shot sharp, satirical glances round the room as though searching for some object that would shape with his conclusions.

“Well, that’s that, Mr. Luce! I take it you’ve got your own reasons for wanting to be private.”

Luce, perched on the window-sill, watched Ballard as he might have watched some unpleasant animal.

“Quite so. You can hardly expect me to explain——”

Ballard whipped an insolent smirk at him.

“Cut it out, Mr. Luce. I’m not a bloody fool. I’m not butting in on a petticoat show.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Cut it out, man, cut it out.”

He jerked himself round, limped to the door, and then faced about. His mouth looked crooked as he laughed.

“But if a man won’t meet me—I don’t meet him. You’ll have to go to the village shop for the lady’s milk and eggs.”

Luce sat quite still.

“I think you had better get out, Mr. Ballard.”

“I’m going, sir, don’t you worry.”

Luce stared at the closing door. So, the fellow had assumed that his solitude must be sacred to sex, and that he had a woman tucked away here.

Damned, smutty, malapert brute!