A Voice Like Velvet. Martin Edwards

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ She was taught by strange governesses, none seeming to have the maternal touch, and she lived through one or two little country schools in a lost and dreamlike fashion. She needed individual attention, and somehow never got it. It was probably her own fault, she often thought. As for her father, he was a queerly impersonal man, busy at the life of village squire, without managing to impress very much. When the new bull trod on the spaniel and got her father against the wall, he was ill for quite a long time with his fractured pelvis. Then, certainly, he did seem to become aware of his daughter, and he died wondering why he hadn’t married again, if only to give her some brothers and sisters, and a set of uncles and aunts.

      Not a month after his funeral, Marjorie rather desperately lost her head and married the only possible man within range. He was called, ridiculously, Captain Bud. To her secret shame, she was to be called Mrs Bud. But she expected to lose herself in motherhood. Captain Bud hadn’t a penny, but he proceeded to get through most of hers in no time. He was a dreadful little man, and she knew it, but she was terrified of being homeless after being so safe. Her home had had to go to some unknown cousin under the entailed will, and to escape to London with Captain Bud, and to be secretly married there, seemed the only reasonable solution to her problem, and it passed for romance.

      Captain Bud had lived down the lane in a council cottage. He had a certain way with him, and he had dandruff on his coat collar. He was short, and people cattily said he would need a pair of stilts to marry Marjorie in. He was in an insurance house and didn’t say much about his title of captain. He was fifty-two. Marjorie had the notion that young men were bores, lots of girls didn’t like men of their own age, and she met Captain Bud at a hunt ball in Maidstone. Captain Bud, though quite properly introduced through suitable friends, had arrived without his white gloves, if, indeed, he possessed any, and she often felt that she married him solely because of this and the crumpled look of his tails. Everyone present treated him like dirt, and pointed to his dandruff in a Countyish manner, and although she wanted to treat him like dirt, something seemingly pathetic in his pasty face made her feel fatally sorry for him. She defied everybody by dancing with him, and afterwards lost her party and let him motor her to Tonbridge to a teabarn, where there was cream and night dancing. To her astonishment she noticed herself seeing him to his council cottage, which was an inverted procedure for a man and a woman, surely, and she heard herself agreeing to do it again on the morrow. When he kissed her, she was quite surprised to find he was good at it and his lips were quite intriguing. In about a fortnight she was telling herself she could ‘change him’, and at any rate she could brush his coat collar for him and stop people talking about his dandruff. He was decidedly a bit short for her, but it was all right, and she suddenly thought they were made for each other, it was perfect nonsense saying you had to marry somebody of your own age and your own class. She asked many of her Kent friends what they thought, but when they seemed rather quiet she put it down to envy. Captain Bud moved out of his council cottage and they rented a thin, tall house in Belgrave Square. The captain declared it was the grandest day of his pretty variable life, and he proceeded to hit the high spots in no uncertain manner.

      Thinking of him now, when she had to—for memories chose the queerest times to thrust themselves upon one—she often thought what a contrast there was between Mr Bisham and Captain Bud.

      Ernest always inspired her and made her feel conscious of her increasing position in society. Bud had always made her feel conscious of having married beneath her, which was a horrible thing to think, let alone feel. She would think: ‘Now I know I’m a born snob,’ and she would turn from Bud in disgust. He was called Fred.

      Fred Bud liked pubs. He liked to totter out of one and into another, and he liked to know the Christian names of the owners. He liked to know the Christian names of most of the customers too, and he liked saying, ‘What’ll y’have?’ to all and sundry, though, if any of them failed to return in kind he was singularly quick on the uptake.

      In a few short months Marjorie was filled with a kind of horror at herself for having even contemplated him.

      And she fled.

      And she very soon found that the position of a young girl who is stupid enough to flee even from Satan himself, unless it is legal, is a very acute one. As her solicitor told her, she should have come to him first. She should have come to him on the quiet, and together they would have set a trap to catch Captain Bud when he was up to one of his larks, which were inevitably a neat fusion of alcohol and other women. As things were, the captain, now on the alert, was also now the innocent party, in the eyes of the world, and he could rush round to all his friends and say his wife had run out on him after only a few months, and that he could but conclude there was a man involved somewhere. This he did, adding that he had spoilt her from the word Go, and been sorry for her, but that now he had no option but to divorce her for desertion whether he managed to catch the co-respondent or not. He proceeded to write her two carefully worded letters asking her to return to him. But, as she knew, and her solicitor friend knew, Bud knew quite well she would be too proud to do this even if she wanted to. Marjorie made another mistake in being too thoroughly embarrassed to tell her solicitor everything, but she just couldn’t, he was an old family friend of her father’s. Had she done so, she might have got a divorce from Bud, with a bit of luck and a bit of added scandal. But she dodged this and the next proceeding was to wait three years until Bud brought his desertion case. As she heard from various sources, Bud spent the interim using such of her money as he controlled, and in telling his friends: ‘Damn nuisance this three years wait, old man, but it’s useless to expect any new evidence. I thought there was a man, but I doubt it now. Dear old Marjorie had absolutely no sex appeal, absolutely none at all.’

      Marjorie’s solicitor had side whiskers. He was of the old school of thought, as the saying went, and although his stern countenance had been shocked out of its composure by one or two tasty cases, his mind had never really entered the wild arena which made up the present decade. Even when the blitz shattered his famous office chandelier, under which, it was said, Oscar Wilde had once passed—though on his way to a more go-ahead solicitor—the dignity of the premises remained. Pictures of other side-whiskered solicitors still lined the cracked walls, and the frosted glass on the doors still bore the names of the titled partners. Marjorie’s solicitor still sat in his accustomed swivel chair with the grey stuffing coming out of it, surrounded by the dust of centuries, jewels from the chandelier, bits of glass and a shattered book-shelf. And he sounded very pained to have to tell Marjorie that her case was ‘over yesterday. You’re a divorced woman, my dear,’ he said throatily. He still thought it was a dreadful thing to be, even though she was entirely innocent and had never done anything in her life more abandoned than have three brown sherries. To Marjorie, however, the news came like the announcement of a school whole holiday. She thought at once and, in fact, exclaimed: ‘I’m a free woman again, then! It’s all over and I’m free! It’s all been a sordid and dreadful dream!’ Her strange and immediate impulse was to dash to the nearest Lyons and have a cup of tea in the friendly din there. But she had to be polite and stay until her solicitor had made a pained and stately speech.

      ‘My dear child, you mustn’t mind my offering you a little advice. I’m sure this unhappy business will be an object lesson to you. Men are very unscrupulous, and this little … amateur gentleman belongs to a very common kind. I do most sincerely hope you will treat me as a friend, more of a friend, after this … distressing incident—if you can call a thing that has gone on for four years an incident? Please don’t go hotheadedly into a marriage again without asking my advice, my dear! I’m old enough to be your grandfather, and I was a friend of your father’s. And remember, you must marry some money next time. This man Bud has cost you most of your inheritance.’

      This part of the sorry business pained him even more than the other part, and Marjorie noticed he could hardly bring himself to speak of it. But in the end it was just no good speaking of it, he said; they must speak of the present, and of course the future, not the past. The past was dead. When she thought of the past, she must think only of the happier memories, as we all had to. It was awful thinking about our mistakes. There was her father СКАЧАТЬ