LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

You go down to the City — but there’s nothing there — what I mean to say — you want a pal — and even then — well’— he drawled the word —‘we-ell, it’s merely escaping from yourself — killing time.’

      ‘Oh, don’t say that!’ exclaimed Beatrice. ‘You want to enjoy life.’

      ‘Just so! Ah, just so!’ exclaimed Mr Allport. ‘But all the same — it’s like this — you only get up to the same thing tomorrow. What I mean to say — what’s the good, after all? It’s merely living because you’ve got to.’

      ‘You are too pessimistic altogether for a young man. I look at it differently myself; yet I’ll be bound I have more cause for grumbling. What’s the trouble now?’

      ‘We-ell — you can’t lay your finger on a thing like that! What I mean to say — it’s nothing very definite. But, after all — what is there to do but to hop out of life as quickly as possible? That’s the best way.’

      Beatrice became suddenly grave.

      ‘You talk in that way, Mr. Allport,’ she said. ‘You don’t think of the others.’

      ‘I don’t know,’ he drawled. ‘What does it matter? Look here — who’d care? What I mean to say — for long?’

      ‘That’s all very easy, but it’s cowardly,’ replied Beatrice gravely.

      ‘Nevertheless,’ said Mr. Allport, ‘it’s true — isn’t it?’

      ‘It is not — and I should know,’ replied Beatrice, drawing a cloak of reserve ostentatiously over her face. Mr. Allport looked at her and waited. Beatrice relaxed toward the pessimistic young man.

      ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I call it very cowardly to want to get out of your difficulties in that way. Think what you inflict on other people. You men, you’re all selfish. The burden is always left for the women.’

      ‘Ah, but then,’ said Mr. Allport very softly and sympathetically, looking at Beatrice’s black dress, ‘I’ve no one depending on me.’

      ‘No — you haven’t — but you’ve a mother and sister. The women always have to bear the brunt.’

      Mr. Allport looked at Beatrice, and found her very pathetic.

      ‘Yes, they do rather,’ he replied sadly, tentatively waiting.

      ‘My husband —’ began Beatrice. The young man waited. ‘My husband was one of your sort: he ran after trouble, and when he’d found it — he couldn’t carry it off — and left it — to me.’

      Mr. Allport looked at her very sympathetically.

      ‘You don’t mean it!’ he exclaimed softly. ‘Surely he didn’t —?’

      Beatrice nodded, and turned aside her face.

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know what it is to bear that kind of thing — and it’s no light thing, I can assure you.’

      There was a suspicion of tears in her voice.

      ‘And when was this, then — that he —?’ asked Mr. Allport, almost with reverence.

      ‘Only last year,’ replied Beatrice.

      Mr. Allport made a sound expressing astonishment and dismay. Little by little Beatrice told him so much: ‘Her husband had got entangled with another woman. She herself had put up with it for a long time. At last she had brought matters to a crisis, declaring what she should do. He had killed himself — hanged himself — and left her penniless. Her people, who were very wealthy, had done for her as much as she would allow them. She and Frank and Vera had done the rest. She did not mind for herself; it was for Frank and Vera, who should be now enjoying their careless youth, that her heart was heavy.’

      There was silence for a while. Mr. Allport murmured his sympathy, and sat overwhelmed with respect for this little woman who was unbroken by tragedy. The bell rang in the kitchen. Vera entered.

      ‘Oh, what a nice smell! Sitting in the dark, Mother?’

      ‘I was just trying to cheer up Mr. Allport; he is very despondent.’

      ‘Pray do not overlook me,’ said Mr. Allport, rising and bowing.

      ‘Well! I did not see you! Fancy your sitting in the twilight chatting with the mater. You must have been an unscrupulous bore, maman.’

      ‘On the contrary,’ replied Mr. Allport, ‘Mrs. MacNair has been so good as to bear with me making a fool of myself.’

      ‘In what way?’ asked Vera sharply.

      ‘Mr. Allport is so despondent. I think he must be in love,’ said Beatrice playfully.

      ‘Unfortunately, I am not — or at least I am not yet aware of it,’ said Mr. Allport, bowing slightly to Vera.

      She advanced and stood in the bay of the window, her skirt touching the young man’s knees. She was tall and graceful. With her hands clasped behind her back she stood looking up at the moon, now white upon the richly darkening sky.

      ‘Don’t look at the moon, Miss MacNair, it’s all rind,’ said Mr Allport in melancholy mockery. ‘Somebody’s bitten all the meat out of our slice of moon, and left us nothing but peel.’

      ‘It certainly does look like a piece of melon-shell — one portion,’ replied Vera.

      ‘Never mind, Miss MacNair,’ he said, ‘Whoever got the slice found it raw, I think.’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But isn’t it a beautiful evening? I will just go and see if I can catch the primroses opening.’

      ‘What primroses?’ he exclaimed.

      ‘Evening primroses — there are some.’

      ‘Are there?’ he said in surprise. Vera smiled to herself.

      ‘Yes, come and look,’ she said.

      The young man rose with alacrity.

      Mr Holiday came into the dining-room whilst they were down the garden.

      ‘What, nobody in!’ they heard him exclaim.

      ‘There is Holiday,’ murmured Mr Allport resentfully.

      Vera did not answer. Holiday came to the open window, attracted by the fragrance.

      ‘Ho! that’s where you are!’ he cried in his nasal tenor, which annoyed Vera’s trained ear. She wished she had not been wearing a white dress to betray herself.

      ‘What have you got?’ he asked.

      ‘Nothing in particular,’ replied Mr Allport.

      Mr Holiday sniggered.

      ‘Oh, well, if it’s nothing particular and private —’ said Mr Holiday, and with that he leaped over the window-sill and went to join them.

      ‘Curst fool!’ muttered Mr Allport. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he added swiftly to Vera.

      ‘Have you ever noticed, Mr Holiday,’ asked Vera, as if very friendly, ‘how awfully tantalizing these flowers are? They won’t open while you’re looking.’

      ‘No,’ sniggered he, I don’t blame ’em. Why should they give themselves away any more than you do? You won’t open while you’re watched.’ He nudged Allport facetiously with his elbow.

      After supper, which was late and badly served, the young men were in poor spirits. Mr MacWhirter retired to read. Mr Holiday sat picking his teeth; Mr. Allport begged Vera to play the piano.

      ‘Oh, the piano is not my instrument; mine was the violin, but I do not play now,’ she replied.

      ‘But you will begin again,’ pleaded Mr. Allport.

      ‘No, never!’ she said

Скачать книгу