Saturday's Child. Бетти Нилс

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      Abigail rotated slowly, trying to see everything at once. ‘How absolutely beautiful—it’s quite perfect,’ she said, and was instantly sorry she had spoken, because when she looked at her companion he was looking down his long nose at her as though she had been guilty of some offending vulgarity. She went a faint, angry pink, which turned even brighter when he remarked austerely:

      ‘I feel sure, from the ferocious expression upon your face, that you are on the point of bidding me not to be like that, or some such similar phrase, Miss Trent. May I beg you not to do so—I am easily irritated.’

      ‘So I’ve noticed,’ Abigail told him tartly. ‘The smallest thing … And now, Professor, if I might meet this person.’ Her eyes swept round the empty hall; the house was very quiet, she allowed her thoughtful gaze to rest upon the man beside her and was on the point of speaking when he interrupted her:

      ‘No, Miss Trent, I can assure you that there is nothing of sinister intent in my request to you to accompany me here.’ He smiled thinly. ‘You surely could not have seriously supposed that?’

      It was annoying to have her thoughts read so accurately. Abigail said crossly, because that was exactly what she had been thinking, ‘No, of course not. I’m not such a fool—you have to be joking.’

      He said nothing to this but opened a door and said: ‘Perhaps you would like to wait in here?’

      She went past him into a small panelled room, warm and snug in the light of the fire burning in the steel grate. It was furnished in the utmost comfort with a number of easy chairs, leather-covered; a charmingly inlaid pier table against one wall, I small round table, inlaid with coloured mosaic work, conveniently close to the hearth, a revolving bookcase filled with books and a small Regency work-table. The professor pressed a switch and a number of table lamps bathed their surroundings in a delicate pink, highlighting the walls, which she could see were covered with red embossed paper, almost hidden along two sides of the room by the pictures hung upon it, and completely hidden on its third side by shelves of books. The room called for comment, but this time she held her tongue, walking to the centre of the room and standing quietly, waiting for him to speak first.

      He didn’t speak at all, but went out of the room, shutting the door behind him, and Abigail for one split second fought an urge to rush to the door and try the handle. Instead, she turned her back on it and went to examine the paintings on the walls. Mostly portraits of bygone van Wijkelens, she decided, who had undoubtedly passed on their good looks with an almost monotonous regularity. She was peering at a despotic-looking old gentleman in a tie-wig, when the door opened behind her and she turned round to see who it was.

      Bollinger stood there. She cried on a happy, startled breath: ‘Bolly—oh, Bolly!’ and burst into tears. He crossed the room and patted her on the shoulder and said: ‘There, there, Miss Abby—I gave you a shock, eh? Thought you’d be pleased and all.’

      ‘Oh, Bolly, I am! I’m so happy to see you, that’s why I’m crying—aren’t I a fool? But how did you get here?’ A sudden thought struck her. ‘In the professor’s house?’ She whisked the spotless handkerchief he always carried out of his pocket and blew her nose and wiped her eyes. ‘Does he know?’

      ‘Course he knows, love. It’s him as thought to do it. You see, he comes along one night and gives me your letter and the money, and I asks him to have a cuppa, seeing as it’s a cold night, and we gets talking and I tells him a bit about us, and he says to me, ‘’Well, Bollinger, seeing as how Miss Trent’s going to be in Amsterdam for a week or two yet, why don’t you get yourself a little job and be near her?’”

      ‘”Well,” I says, ‘’that’s easier said than done,” and he says: ‘’I’m looking for a gardener and odd job man for a week or two while my man has his bunions done—how about it?” So here I am, Miss Abby, came yesterday. He paid me fare and I’m to get my wages, so I’m in clover, as they say—no need for you to give me any more money.’

      ‘It’s fantastic,’ declared Abigail. ‘I simply can’t believe it—do you like him, Bolly?’

      ‘Yes, that I do, Miss Abby—a bit of a toff, you might say, but a gent all right.’

      Abigail blew her nose again to prevent herself from bursting into another bout of tears. ‘Oh, Bolly, it’s like being home again. And of course I shall go on paying you your money—have you any idea how much it is we owe you? Don’t you see, Bolly, I must pay you back now that I know about it and can afford to do so?’

      ‘Well, if it makes you happy, Miss Abby. How long do you think you’ll be here?’

      ‘I’m not sure. Another two weeks, perhaps three. What have you done about your room?’

      ‘I give it up, it wasn’t all that hot. This professor, he says he knows someone in London lets rooms, very nice—a bit more than I got, but if I save me wages …’

      ‘And I pay you each week while you’re here, and by the time I get back to London and you’re running a bit low, I’ll be in another job and be able to send you something each week.’ She hugged him. ‘Oh, Bolly, it’s all so wonderful, I can’t believe it. Are you happy here? Where do you live?’

      ‘Here, of course, Miss Abby. I got a room at the top of the house—very snug and warm it is too.’

      ‘You don’t have to work too hard?’

      ‘Lord love you, no, Miss Abby—nice little bit of garden behind, and I does the odd job—and I’m to go to his other house in the country once a week and see to the garden there.’

      Abigail stood silent, digesting this new aspect of Professor van Wijkelen. ‘Well …’ she began, and was interrupted by the door opening to admit a small round dumpling of a woman with a pleasant face. She shook Abigail by the hand and said in very tolerable English, ‘The housekeeper, Mevrouw Boot,’ and Abigail, mindful of her Dutch manners, replied: ‘Miss Abigail Trent.’

      Mevrouw Boot eyed her with kindly curiosity as she spoke. ‘The professor begs that Miss will return to hospital when she must. There is a car at the door in five minutes. He excuses himself.’

      She smiled again and went quietly out of the room, and Abigail looked at Bollinger and said with unconscious sadness, ‘He doesn’t like me, you know,’ and had this statement instantly repudiated by Bolly who exclaimed in a shocked voice:

      ‘That I can’t believe, begging your pardon, Miss Abby—a nice young lady like you …’

      ‘Well, it doesn’t matter in the least,’ said Abigail with such firmness that she almost believed what she was saying—but not quite, because it mattered out of all proportion to everything else. ‘I’d better go, I suppose it’s a taxi and I oughtn’t to keep it waiting. Come to the door with me, Bolly.’

      They crossed the hall, lingering a little. ‘The professor says you’re to come whenever ye’re inclined,’ Bolly explained, ‘but not the days I go to the country.’

      She nodded and stopped. ‘All right, Bolly, I’ll remember. I’m very grateful to him. Do you suppose I should write him a letter?’

      He looked astonished. ‘You see him, don’t you, can’t you do it then?’

      She shook her head. ‘I told you he doesn’t like me,’ and as if to underline her words one of the doors opened and Mevrouw СКАЧАТЬ