Читать книгу Smith - Warwick Deeping - Страница 11

Table of Contents

That was the beginning of it, Keir’s first straggling on the line of march, his surrender to a situation that could not be sustained by mere enlightened selfishness.

Sybil was an orphan like himself, and her childhood had not been of the happiest. She was a sensitive and a lovable thing, quick in her colour and her movements and quite unable to resist the appeal of a dog or a flower. She had moments of utter absent-mindedness and was always getting into trouble with the domestic world of Darvels because of it. She would go off into dreams and leave dusters about and suddenly forget such things as early morning tea and the proper place for a chair or an ornament. She had broken one of Mr. Lugard’s famille rose bowls, and had wept over it and had pleaded to be allowed to pay for the damage.

No one ever succeeded in being seriously angry with Sybil. The quality of her gaze was so transparent, her emotional quality so generous. Animals were devoted to her. Mr. Lugard, reflecting upon the girl’s forgetfulness and omissions, forgave her for them and was wise.

“Not quite responsible? Oh, yes, she is—when things matter.”

For Mrs. Lugard herself was a sensitive, and a semi-invalid, and when she was in pain she was glad to have Sybil to do things for her. The girl could be kind and gentle and full of understanding. She never came noisily into a room or stayed too long in it. She was at her best when you were feeling sorry for yourself.

For two creatures who belonged to the mundane workaday world, their coming together was gradual and almost secret. Keir remained late each evening, and for two evenings he saw nothing of Sybil. She was like a timid bird hiding in a hedgerow.

It was the cook who suggested that Mr. Smith might not quarrel with a cup of tea. The cook was beyond adventure, and the housemaid had a friend of her own, so obviously the adventure was Sybil’s.

“Go and ask him, Syb.”

“No—I couldn’t.”

“Don’t be silly. He won’t eat you.”

Sybil went. She found Keir at work with mallet and chisel.

“Cook wonders whether you would like a cup of tea.”

Keir looked at the girl’s short-sighted brown eyes. What the devil had she to be afraid of? But almost his shyness equalled hers.

“Very kind of her. Yes—I should, if I can have it here.”

She disappeared and returned with a large blue and white breakfast cup, and in the saucer a slice of plum cake.

“Shall I put it on the bench?”

“Please.”

“Oh—I’ve slopped some into the saucer.”

Her hand was shaking, and her trembling had a strange effect on Keir. Perhaps he fell in love with that which trembled in her and with the gentle poignancy of her mouth and eyes.

“No harm done.”

“But—the cake!”

“It won’t be any the worse. How’s the dog?”

For she was on the edge of flight and he did not want her to go. She had become part of the Darvels garden, and more than that.

“Poor Mac. He hasn’t been very well.”

“Bad luck. You’re fond of dogs, aren’t you?”

“Oh, very.”

“Same here. But I haven’t got one.”

“Haven’t you?”

“Well—I live in lodgings. And I don’t get much time to give to a dog. Wouldn’t be fair, would it?”

He found an odd piece of clean floor-board and, putting the cake on it, used it as a plate. And she remarked on her lack of foresight.

“How silly! I ought to have brought you a plate. I’ve got such a head.”

He looked at her with sudden intentness.

“Have you?—Well—I don’t see anything to quarrel with.”

“How?”

But she understood him. She coloured up. She became confused.

“I’ll just wait and take the cup back. You know—I’ve—I’ve not thanked you—”

“What for?”

“About the other evening.”

She was looking at his lip.

“Oh—that! You needn’t worry. The young blighter isn’t coming here again.”

She leaned against the bench, and the fingers of her right hand played with some chips that littered it.

“You must be stronger—”

“Than I look!”

His smile had a tinge of irony, and she winced.

“Oh, no—I didn’t mean that.”

“I can box a bit.”

“You—were—angry.”

“Did I look it?”

“Yes.”

He had finished the tea, and he put the cup down on the bench. He saw her hand move towards it, and his inspiration came to him.

“I say, you are shy of me.”

“Am I?”

“Almost as shy of me—as I am of you.”

That seemed to surprise her. Also, it seemed to please her.

“But isn’t that funny? Why—are you shy?”

“I can’t quite say.—Well, I had better get on with the job.”

“Yes, of course.”

And he noticed that same trembling of her hand as she picked up the cup.

But in a week she had ceased to tremble, or she trembled differently. Her tremor was towards him—not away. Each evening she brought him out a cup and a plate. She perched, and sat on the bench, and she let him come quite near her. The cook and the housemaid—good creatures—spying from an upper window—saw that the affair was going admirably.

The cook was just a little troubled.

“Do you think he’s the chap for her? Seems to me she wants one of the big—easy sort.”

The housemaid had social ambitions.

“He’s quite the gent. She wouldn’t mix well with the rough kind. Besides, you couldn’t be unkind to the kid.”

“I don’t know. The thin, dark, busy chaps grow irritable. And he’s got a temper.”

The housemaid asserted that she wouldn’t look twice at a man who hadn’t some of the hot stuff in him. And that was that.