Читать книгу The Dark House - Warwick Deeping - Страница 9

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Mrs. Lancaster was a widow. A year ago she and her daughter had appeared in Southfleet as residents at The Royal George. The dining-room windows of The Royal George Hotel gave upon Queen’s Terrace, and a certain impressionable small boy, whose parents lived at No. 11, had made a practice of trotting along the terrace in the evening to gaze at the exalted beings who sat and dined in state like figures in a tableau vivant. The small boy had been fascinated by the Lancaster table and the two ladies who had sat at it. The elder lady was what used to be described as queenly and well preserved, high-busted and handsome, with a face whose complexion owed something to artifice. The younger lady, her daughter—— Well, the small boy had fallen in love with Lucy Lancaster at first sight. Small boys do fall in love, and fasten their adoration upon ladies of all ages.

To Southfleet, Mrs. Lancaster, like the flavicomous Mrs. Borrowdale, was something of a mystery. Her hair was black, brilliantly and imperiously black. She had a Roman nose, a rather mean little mouth, and large restless black eyes which, to the small boy, had seemed to roll like marbles. Mrs. Lancaster, after spending a month at The Royal George, had so far approved of Southfleet as to take a seven years’ lease of Holly Lodge. On the other hand, Southfleet did not wholly approve of Mrs. Lancaster. It understood that she was partly French, and that one of her Christian names was Josephine, which perhaps explained her dressiness and continental texture. What Mr. Lancaster had been no one knew. As for the daughter, Southfleet thought her a shy and pretty thing who appeared to look at life with watchful and questioning eyes, as from a distance. Southfleet did comment upon the vivid unlikeness of mother and daughter, but could only suppose that Mr. Lancaster had been responsible for that.

When John Richmond walked back up Jessamy Lane he overtook the drunken three making slow progress towards the High Street and Southfleet station. The fellow with the white neckerchief and the brutal face was being supported by his two friends, but the progress of the triune beast was unsteady and wayward. They did not appear to recognize Richmond as he overtook and passed them. All three were cursing in a maudlin, unclean chorus, and their foul language might as well have been applied to their castigator as to life and fate in general. Richmond walked on. He had not lost even his hat in the scuffle, and most certainly he had not lost his head. As for his heart, well, that was another matter.

The East End crowd flowed past him in a dark mass stippled with pale faces as he walked down Pier Hill. Gas lamps in Southfleet were few and feeble. Not only could Richmond see the crowd, but he could smell it, and as though some sudden new fastidiousness had been born in him, he was conscious of qualms of disgust. These unwashed, sweating animals! He was capable of quick scorns. Not yet had life taught him that without compassion nothing can be healed or comprehended.

He went to bed that night, thinking of a certain person. He woke in the morning, to think of the same person. He was aware of an inward voice making suggestive promptings. Surely, he would be justified in calling at Holly Lodge and inquiring as to a certain person’s state of health? Yes, just a courtesy call. He might be asked in and so meet her mother. He could not remember having seen Mrs. Lancaster in the flesh.

He was under the impression that no one in Southfleet had witnessed the romantic rescue, but he was wrong. Miss Gates’s cook had had her head over one of the garden gates, and after watching the battle, had bolted in breathlessly to tell her mistress. Miss Gates was one of the most irrepressible gossips in Southfleet. Also, old Mr. Murrell had witnessed the affair from an upper window, and Mr. Murrell was not without a tongue. In a couple of days the story had spread, with embellishments, far and wide. Dr. Richmond had fought, single-handed, three huge London roughs, floored the three of them, as the champion of beauty in distress. The Davidson ladies heard the story, and were secretly displeased.

“Who was it?”

“Oh, that Lancaster girl!”

Said Caroline, with some acidity: “Well, of course, with hair like that, and a mother—— Some provocations can be justified.”

Richmond was in an absent mood during the surgery hour, so much so that he ordered old Mrs. Trout bromide, when all that she needed was a strong dose of senna. Charlie Byng knew his Mrs. Trout and hated her. Had she been pandered to, Mrs. Trout would have consumed more physic in a year than any three privileged patients. Mr. Byng kept a special stock-bottle for habitual moaners like Mrs. Trout. The stuff was intended to be an active deterrent, and to maintain the patient in a state of occupation for some seven days.

Charlie Byng remonstrated gently with Richmond over the lapse.

“You ordered the old woman Pot. Brom., sir.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. We’ll have her sitting on the doorstep if you give her soothing syrup.”

“There is nothing much wrong with her.”

“Never has been. Her face never got her any attention, so she has to get it in other ways.”

Richmond laughed.

“Well, give her what is usual.”

And then, in his innocence, Richmond asked Mr. Byng a revealing question.

“Oh, by the way, is Mrs. Lancaster a patient of ours?”

Mr. Byng squinted at the measuring-glass he was holding. Yes, Mrs. Trout was going to get it hot and strong.

“Yes—Dr. Burgoyne.”

“I see. Old residents.”

“No, not very.”

Mr. Byng’s laconic replies should have warned Richmond that Holly Lodge might be considered a little equivocal.

He had a patient to visit in Jessamy Lane, and strolling on to the gate of Holly Lodge, he became suddenly conscious of acute shyness. Richmond was not given to gusts of hypersensitive self-doubt, but he did hesitate outside that gate. One or two heads were being craned over other gates. He was being observed. Well, damn the curious! He supposed that he could pay a courtesy call without committing himself to romantic insinuations, but as he walked up the garden path he remembered Sir Humphrey Jolland’s Nestorian wisdom. Ambitious young men should eschew sentimental entanglements, especially marriage.

Marriage? What nonsense!

The veranda contained two garden chairs, but they were unoccupied. Richmond rang the bell, and stood squarely confronting the solid green door. It had a lion’s head in brass for a knocker, and the particular lion appeared to be a supercilious beast.

No, there was no need for him to go in. He would inquire and leave his name.

The door opened, and a stout, pleasant-faced maid in a mauve print frock and cap, smiled upon him.

“My compliments to Mrs. Lancaster.”

“Oh, please come in, Doctor. I’m sure the ladies would like to see you.”

Doctor! So, the woman knew him. She seemed to wear a kind, conspiratorial face. And Richmond succumbed. He took off his hat and entered, and was ushered by Sarah into the drawing-room. It was empty, save for its furniture and garnishings that had a strangeness, an un-English decor, for they were French. The room had a long window opening upon the veranda. Richmond placed his hat upon an occasional table, and sat down on one of the gilded chairs. There were French prints upon the walls, Madame le Brun, Watteau, Greuze. Richmond’s hat shared the table with one of Zola’s early novels. Zola! Richmond had not read him, but he suspected that Southfleet would hardly stomach Zola.

A swishing sound, crepusculations, and Mrs. Lancaster swept into the room. She was in purple, and very much flounced, and somehow suggesting the Tragic Muse.

“My dear Doctor, I am so gratified that you should have called.”

Richmond stood up, and found himself holding the lady’s hand. In fact, she held on to his for nearly half a minute.

“Of course, I want to thank you. So shocking and disgusting. These horrid, drunken trippers. And you behaved with such manliness, and if I may say so, with such nice discretion. My poor child was terribly upset. So sensitive, you know. I put her to bed. Believe me, I am full of gratitude and admiration.”

Richmond tried not to fidget or to appear embarrassed. It reminded him of being presented with a prize, while listening to the eminent prize-giver’s oration.

“I assure you, Mrs. Lancaster, I did very little.”

“My daughter would not agree with that, sir. If you describe fighting three horrid, common men as very little, your modesty is almost immodest.”

Richmond laughed.

“They were very drunk, you know, Mrs. Lancaster. One hit them and they fell over.”

She released his hand, and smiled upon him, and when she smiled her rather too massive face seemed to break up and become old.

“But do sit down, Dr. Richmond. Yes, I am one of the firm’s patients. Dear Dr. Burgoyne has attended me for migraine. Such a charming man.”

Richmond sat down. He was asking himself two things, whether he was to see the daughter, and how it was that he disliked the mother so completely. She was being very gracious to him, but she made him think of some large and artificial object like an iced wedding-cake that had stood too long for show in a confectioner’s window.

She was watching him with those very round, big eyes of hers. They were like camera lenses.

“Yes, Lucy will be down in a moment.”

Lucy! How exactly the name suited her! And how exactly this formidable and decorative lady appeared to have interpreted his thoughts! Richmond, in order to digress, glanced at the pictures on the walls.

“You have a very charming room, Mrs. Lancaster.”

“Relics, Doctor, the salvage of other days. When my dear husband was alive and we lived in Paris, and during the dreadful Commune our house was plundered. Do you admire Greuze? My daughter is said to be—— Why, Lucy, my darling, here you are.”

Richmond rose with one quick yet easy movement, like a hand being drawn out of a glove, as the door and green plush portière swung open, and the girl came in. She had more colour than yesterday, but Richmond realized that this very exquisite pallor was natural to her. Her strangely lovely hair had a lambent smoothness. She smiled at him, and then glanced at her mother, and instantly the expression of her eyes seemed to change. For a moment Richmond was puzzled by the change. A little later he was telling himself that Lucy Lancaster was afraid of her mother.

“Do sit down, Doctor. I know we must not keep you long. You doctors are always so very busy. Do let me give you a glass of sherry.”

Richmond accepted the sherry, and the excuse for lingering.

“Lucy, dear, please fetch the sherry decanter. And two glasses.”

Miss Lancaster went for the wine, and her mother, assuming an expression of dark appeal, fixed her gaze upon Richmond.

“My girl is very pale, Doctor, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps it is natural to her.”

“I always hope so. That is why I left London. This sea air, you know. Dr. Burgoyne has examined her, and assures me that she is a very healthy young woman. Of course, with that Venetian hair of hers, a certain pallor is natural.”

Richmond nodded. Mrs. Lancaster might speak of certain things being natural, but Richmond found it difficult to feel at ease in her presence. He was glad when Miss Lancaster re-entered with the sherry decanter and two glasses on a silver salver. She placed the tray on the table beside the copy of Zola, and Richmond, deciding that his hat was trespassing, leaned forward to remove it.

“Lucy, my darling, take the doctor’s hat and hang it up for him. Perhaps, you will pour out the sherry, Doctor.”

Miss Lancaster took his hat, and Richmond, filling the two glasses, carried one of them to the lady.

“What a steady hand you have, Doctor.”

Richmond smiled.

“Yes, nature, not virtue.”

She ogled him.

“Steady hand, steady head. As to the heart, it is one’s private affair! Yes, that is your glass. Lucy does not take wine.”

The daughter returned, and sitting down in a corner, seemed to watch her mother. Richmond had to move his chair so that he could face both ladies. He was quick to gather the impression that Lucy Lancaster was mute in the maternal presence, rather like a bird in a cage that may be scolded either for singing or for not singing. There was a piano in the room, and to help the conversation Richmond glanced at it.

“Do you play?”

He put the question to the girl, and was struck by the way she answered it, not looking at him but at Mrs. Lancaster.

“Yes, but not like my mother.”

“Dear child, she flatters me. But at one time in my life I was almost a professional.”

Something in Richmond winced at the word. Professional! Professional what? But, confound it, he was being absurdly receptive and diagnostic about these two women. Almost, Mrs. Lancaster was a case, a case to be felt and divined. But the conversation had to be continued.

“Classical.”

Mrs. Lancaster made a dramatic gesture with her glass, and so gracefully that she spilled no sherry.

“The passionate Pole, Doctor, dear Chopin. And Liszt. No, though Gounod is half my countryman, I cannot interpret Gounod. Too much sugar, too obviously sugar. And you, Doctor, do those strong fists of yours also strike the piano?”

“Oh, I strum a little.”

“Dear Dr. Burgoyne is very musical. He sings the English ballads perfectly. Does Southfleet ever indulge in drama?”

“Drama?”

“Theatricals.”

“I really don’t know. I believe there is a choral society.”

Mrs. Lancaster laughed, and her laughter was harsh.

“All the dear unmarried ladies standing in a row and singing The Messiah. The Messiah, Doctor, who never appeared on earth to them! But that is rather vulgar of me!”

Richmond smiled, finished his sherry, replaced the glass on the salver, and stood up.

“Yes, I expect it is rather like that. But I’m afraid——”

“Of course we must not detain you. So many patients must be waiting for your skill. Lucy, my dear, do please accompany the doctor to the door. And perhaps, some evening, sir, you will join us in a little music?”

“I shall be very pleased.”

Mrs. Lancaster bent to him as he bowed over her hand. Her corsage creaked, almost suborningly, like that French voice of hers that went up and down like a wood-pigeon’s. Her daughter was watching them with a face frozen into youthful austerity. She turned and hurried out into the passage, and opening the front door, stood rigid, pressed to the wall.

Richmond paused there, hand outstretched, but her hand did not come out to his, and her glance remained fixed upon his collar.

“Good-bye, Miss Lancaster.”

“Good-bye.”

He was puzzled, a little huffed. Why this almost sulky reserve, this unfriendliness that hugged the wall, and would neither smile nor look?

“May I hear you play some day?”

She answered him curtly, farouchely.

“My mother is much more musical than I am.”

He gave that pale, aloof little face one questioning glance, walked out and put on his hat. He heard the door close behind him. Well, well, why this thusness? Was she jealous of her mother? Good God, how could one be jealous of such a mass of insincerity and throaty artifice, the professional charmer, the creaking operatic star?

Something with yellow wheels stopped outside the gate of Holly Lodge as Richmond reached it, Burgoyne’s dog-cart and his spanking grey mare. Burgoyne descended, also operatic, the jovial, throaty tenor.

“Ha, my lad and hero paying respects, what? Yes, Oh gallant fellow, I have heard the story.”

He twinkled and winked at Richmond, and Richmond wanted to kick somebody, Burgoyne, himself, anything.

“Oh, just a courtesy call, sir. I’m not poaching.”

“And why not, my lad, why not? Beauty blooms in the spring, tra-la.”