The Tale of Triona. William John Locke

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      She showed him into the drawing-room, thanked goodness there was a showy wood-fire burning, and went out after Myra.

      “I thought the house wasn’t to be let,” said the latter after receiving many instructions.

      “The letting of the house has nothing to do with two cold and hungry men who have motored here on a raw November morning for hundreds of miles on false pretences.”

      She re-entered the drawing-room with a tray bearing whisky decanter, siphon, and glass, which she set on a side table.

      “I’m alone in the world now, Major Olifant,” she said, “but I’ve lived nearly all my life with men—my father and two brothers——” She felt that the explanation was essential. “Please help yourself.”

      He met her eyes, which, though defiant, held the menace of tears. He made the vaguest, most delicate of gestures with his right hand—his empty sleeve, the air. She moved an assenting head; then swiftly she grasped the decanter.

      “Say when.”

      “Just that.”

      She squirted the siphon.

      “So?”

      “Perfect. A thousand thanks.”

      He took the glass from her and deferentially awaited her next movement. Tricksy memory flashed across her mind the picture of the Anglo-Indian colonel of her mother’s pathetic little confidence. For a moment or two she stood confused, flushed, self-conscious, suddenly hating herself for not knowing instinctly what to do. In desperation she cried.

      “Oh, please drink it! You must want it awfully.”

      He laughed, made a little bow, and drank.

      “Now do sit down near the fire. I’m dreadfully sorry,” she continued when they were settled. “Dreadfully sorry you should have had all this journey for nothing. As a matter of fact, I wanted to let the house and only changed my mind an hour ago.”

      “You have lived here all your life?” he asked.

      “Yes.”

      “Please say no more about it,” said he courteously.

      She burst at once into explanations. Father, brothers, mother—all the dear ghosts, at the last moment, had held out their barring hands. He smiled at her pretty dark-eyed earnestness.

      “There are few houses nowadays without ghosts. But there might be a stranger now and then who would have the tact and understanding to win their confidence.”

      This was at the end of a talk which had lasted she knew not how long. The little silence which ensued was broken by the shrill clang of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece striking one. She sprang to her feet.

      “One o’clock. Why, you must be famished. Seven o’clock breakfast at latest. There’ll be something to eat, whatever it is.”

      “But, my dear Miss Gale,” cried Major Olifant, rising in protest, “I couldn’t dream of it—there must be an hotel——”

      “There isn’t,” cried Olivia unveraciously, and vanished.

      Major Olifant, too late to open the door for her, retraced his steps and stood, back to fire, idly evoking, as a man does, the human purposes that had gone to the making of the room, and he was puzzled. Some delicate spirit had chosen the old gold curtains which harmonized with the cushions on the plain upholstered settee and with the early Chippendale armchairs and with the Chippendale bookcase filled with odds and ends of good china, old Chelsea, Coalport, a bit or two of Sèvres and Dresden. Some green chrysanthemums bowed, in dainty raggedness, over the edge of a fine cut crystal vase. An exquisite water-colour over the piano attracted his attention. He crossed the room to examine it and drew a little breath of surprise to read the signature of Bonington—a thing beyond price. On a table by the French window, which led into a conservatory and thence into the little garden, stood a box of Persian lacquer. But there, throwing into confusion the charm of all this, a great Victorian mirror in a heavy florid gold frame blared like a German band from over the mantelpiece, and on the opposite wall two huge companion pictures representing in violent colours scenes of smug domestic life, also in gold frames, with a slip of wood let in bearing the legend “Exhibited at the Royal Academy, 1888,” screamed like an orchestrion.

      He was looking round for further evidence of obvious conflict of individualities, when Myra appeared to take him to get rid of the dust of the journey. When he returned to the drawing-room he found Olivia.

      “I can’t help feeling an inconscionable intruder,” said he.

      “My only concern is that I’ll be able to give you something fit to eat.”

      He laughed. “The man who has come out of France and Mesopotamia finikin in his food is a fraud.”

      “Still,” she objected, “I don’t want to send you back to Mrs. Olifant racked with indigestion.”

      “Mrs. Olifant?” He wore a look of humorous puzzlement.

      “I suppose you have a wife and family?”

      “Good heavens, no!” he cried, with an air of horror. “I’m a bachelor.”

      She regarded him for a few seconds, as though from an entirely fresh point of view.

      “But what on earth does a bachelor want with a great big house—with ten bedrooms?”

      “Has it got ten bedrooms?”

      “I presume Mr. Trivett sent you the particulars: ‘Desirable Residence, standing in own grounds, three acres. Ten bedrooms, three reception rooms. Bath H. and C.,’ and so forth?”

      “The Bath H. and C. was all I worried about.”

      They both laughed. Myra announced luncheon. They went into the dining-room. By the side of Major Olifant’s plate was a leather case. He flashed on her a look of enquiry, at which the blood rose into her pale cheeks.

      “I’ve been interviewing your man,” she said rather defiantly. “He produced that from the pocket of the car.”

      “You overwhelm me with your kindness, Miss Gale,” said he. “I should never have had the courage to ask for it.”

      The case contained the one-armed man’s patent combination knife and fork.

      “Courage is such a funny thing,” said Olivia. “A man will walk up to a machine-gun in action and knock the gunner out with the butt end of a rifle; but if he’s sitting in a draught in a woman’s drawing-room and catching his death of cold, he daren’t get up and shut the window. These are real eggs, although they’re camouflaged in a Chinese scramble. One faithful hen is still doing her one minute day. The others are on strike.”

      She felt curiously exhilarated on this first actual occasion of asserting her independence. Only once before had she entertained guests at her own table, and these were her uncle and aunt from Clapham, the Edward Gales, who came to her mother’s funeral. They were colourless СКАЧАТЬ