Читать книгу Seven Men Came Back - Warwick Deeping - Страница 19

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Archie Steel arrived at the gate of “Clovelly.” This gate was a gate of moods and of white paint, and far less innocent than it appeared, for it had been assembled in its raw state by a firm of local builders. It shrank in dry weather, and swelled when the air was humid. It refused to be properly and decently latched, or it jammed itself so securely that some force was required to overcome its contumacy.

Archie Steel was not happy, nor was he in a temper to suffer the gate’s misplaced fooling. The day had been wet, and the night equally wet so far as Steel was concerned, two double whiskies in the “snuggery” of the Royal George. Inspired by those drinks he had attempted to ring up Dr. Pitt at St. John’s Wood. A rather desperate occasion! The voice of Woodhill had informed him that Dr. Pitt was out. Would the gentleman leave a message? Steel, his blue eyes set in a stare, had returned to the snuggery and ordered yet another whisky-and-soda. How could a fellow leave a message to the effect that he was financially embarrassed, yes, and disastrously so?

He gave a push to the gate, and the gate remained closed. He got hold of the iron ring of the latch, and twisted it, and so savagely that the flimsy fitting came off in his hand. He flung it into the front garden, said “Blast you,” and swarmed over the top.

But this attacking spirit faded away in front of “Clovelly’s” door. Steel found his latchkey and fumbled his way in with surreptitious carefulness. He closed the front door very gently, and as he did so he realized that the drawing-room door was open, and the room illuminated. Irene was sitting up.

A voice challenged him.

“That you, Archie?”

Of course it was Archie. Why did women indulge in the obvious?

“Yes, old thing.”

He put his hat and coat away in the hall cupboard, and confronted that open door. Irene had been sitting up for him; Irene would say things to him. He eased his collar with a rotatory movement of the head and entered the domestic orderly-room. His wife was sitting in front of the fire, with a book in her lap. She was a little woman, a brunette with an arched nose, patches of high colour on her cheeks and small, bright eyes. The daughter of a prosperous tradesman in a south-coast watering place she had brought into the partnership a hot temper and three hundred a year.

She said—“Where have you been?”

Steel saw his wife in profile, and her nose was a little, angry beak. He was afraid of Irene. It was ridiculous but true. She dominated him. She was as sharp as a razor. Blandishments had ceased to have any effect on her.

Steel came round from behind her chair, and bent down to poke a depressed fire.

“Oh—I met old Gregson. He wanted a game of pills.”

“I suppose you forgot?—Leave the fire alone.—It’s nearly eleven o’clock.”

“Forgot!”

“The Humphreys were coming in for bridge.”

“Good lord, so they were!”

He replaced the poker in the fender.

“Awfully sorry, old thing.”

He was aware of a foot in a black satin shoe jigging up and down.

“You were at the Gregsons, were you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s rather funny. I rang up the Gregsons.”

Steel felt an ass, and he looked it.

“Well, that’s a spoof. Fact is——”

But he was not to be allowed explanations. The offensive was Irene’s.

“You’ve been out—with a girl.”

He assured her that he had done nothing of the kind.

“Yes, you have. I’m fed up with you. And you’ve been drinking again.”

He could not deny that accusation. His blue eyes looked resentful and a little fuddled.

“Oh—all right, all right!—I suppose a fellow——”

“The Royal George—I suppose?”

“Yes, if you must know——”

She got up and shut the door. It was a prophetic gesture. She was not the sort of girl who dissolved into tears. She became like an angry bird, chattering and flapping her wings.

“It’s—simply—disgusting. It’s—it’s—impossible! What’s the use of my telling you—? What’s the matter with you?”

He looked at her sulkily.

“We don’t seem to agree very well, old thing.”

“Whose fault is that?—I’ve tried to make a social position here.—I tell you what it is, the war spoilt you.—You can’t live decently.—You’re simply mad for sensation. O, yes, that’s what it is. You’re a fool—always after women and excitement and horses. You’re bored with me and this house. And—I tell you—my lad—I’m pretty bored with you. I’m through with the show. I’m going back to my people.”

He sat down in the other armchair. He looked scared.

“I say, kid, don’t be so—quick with me—I know I’ve been a bit of an ass. Fact is——”

She got up and gave the chair a push.

“You’ve said all that before. I’m sick of it.—O, go to hell. You can sleep in the spare room.”

“Irene!”

But she was out of the room and had banged the door. He heard her run up the stairs, and the quick, angry passing of her feet overhead. He put his hands in his trouser pockets. His face looked swollen and glum. His blue eyes stared.

So—that was that! He was in a nice mess, yes—pretty completely so. It was quite true what she had said of him. After six months of marriage and civic responsibility he had begun to lust after the larger liberties. He was an expansive person, a genial sensationalist, and “Clovelly” had proved itself so limited. The sex in Irene had ceased to pique him, perhaps because she was rather over-sexed. His wife was a snob. She had a small car of her own, and gave little dinners at “Clovelly,” and treated her friends to the two shilling fauteils at the local picture-house. She had made Archie join the Narbiton Tennis Club. She had even taken him to church. She smoked a great number of cigarettes, and talked vivaciously in a high-pitched voice, and was determined to be considered smart. She would try and talk “books and theatres.”

Bored? Yes, he had been profoundly bored, and not a little rebellious. She was so bossy, and she had objected to some of his friends.

“Have a drink, old lad.”

He was always ready to stand a fellow a drink, and even to lend him a quid. He had a high colour. He liked to swagger, and swagger can be expensive.

But what about the present mess? He had been out with girls. He had been betting. He had been drinking and playing billiards. One particular girl was in trouble and beginning to make trouble.

He had borrowed money from his wife.

“Lend me a fiver, darling.”

Later, Irene had refused to lend him money.

He had borrowed money from——.

“O, damn!”

Yes, he was in a devil of a hole. He had thought of the various people who could extricate him, some of the old crowd. He had written to Sherring, and the letter had been returned to him—“Address unknown.” Confoundedly awkward that! Some blighter in the Post Office had read that appeal for help. He had written to old Crabbie, and Crabbie had sent him a candid and friendly refusal. “I’m sorry, Archie, but I’m not a capitalist. Everything I have is in the farm.” Lastly, it had occurred to him to ring up Dr. Pitt. Pitt was a prosperous fellow and a good sort.

But what about Irene? Yes, obviously Irene had her suspicions. She had been repulsing him lately, and refusing to be intimate in bed. There was a resentful rigidity about Irene.

Was she in earnest about going to her people?

If so, what was to become of him?

The thing was absurd.

He rose, went to the door, turned out the light, climbed the stairs and paused outside their bedroom. He tried the door. It was locked.

He began to feel very full of emotion. He was sorry for himself, and sorry for Irene.

“I say—Kid.”

“What d’you want?”

“I say—I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit of a bloody fool. I wish you’d let me——”

Her voice was refined and caustic.

“Why—bloody?—Why be—vulgar? I want to go to sleep, please, if possible.”

He slunk away to the spare bedroom.

Well, really, this was the ruddy limit! Things seemed to have conked out rather badly. He would get up bright and early, and see if the dawn could produce less hopelessness. If Irene would let him into her bed—their bed—he might be able to thaw her.