The Great Miss Driver. Anthony Hope
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Название: The Great Miss Driver
Автор: Anthony Hope
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4064066174057
isbn:
I noticed that her black dress was far from new. It was, in fact, rather rusty. Her black straw hat, however, appeared to be new. It was a large spreading sort of hat.
"Yes, Mr. Austin, the hat's new," she remarked.
The girl seemed to have a knack of noticing where one's eyes happened to be.
"I can give you lots of money," Cartmell assured her. "And—er—'Chat' was governess at the Simpsons', was she?"
"Yes, she's been there for years, but she's very fond of me, and agreed to come and be my companion. She taught me all I know. I'm sure you'll like Chat."
"You can only try her," said he, rather doubtfully. I think that he would have preferred, Miss Driver, to cut loose from the old days altogether. "But, you know, we can't call her just 'Chat.' It must be short for something?"
"Short for Chatters—Miss Chatters. And she says Chatters is really—or was really—Charteris. That's pronounced Charters, isn't it?" She addressed the last question to me, and I said that I believed she was right. "I shall get on very well by myself till she comes." She questioned me again. "Do you live in the house?"
"No, I live down at the Old Priory. But I have my office in the house."
"Oh, yes. Now, if Mr. Cartmell must go, will you take me up?"
She stopped a moment, though, to look at the pictures—old Mr. Driver had bought some good ones—and so gave me one word with Cartmell.
"Depend upon it," he whispered. "Chat's a fool. People who keep telling you their names ought to be spelt like better names, when they aren't, are always fools. Why don't they spell 'em that way, or else let it alone?"
There seemed to be a good deal in that.
Cartmell gone, we went together up the broad staircase which sprang from the center of the hall. As we passed a chair, she took off her hat and flung it down. The rich masses old brown hair, coiled about her head, caught the sun of a bright spring afternoon; she ran swiftly and lightly up the stairs. "Nice, soft, thick, carpet!" she remarked. I began to perceive that she would enjoy the incidental luxuries of her new position—and that she did enjoy the one great luxury—life. I fancied that she enjoyed it enormously.
We trod another "nice, soft, thick, carpet" for the length of a long passage and came to his door. I opened it, let her pass in, and was about to close it after her. But as we reached his room, a sudden shadow of trouble or of fear had fallen upon her—grief it could hardly be.
"No," she said. "Come in, too. Remember—he's a stranger."
To be in the room with the dead seems to be itself a partaking of death; it is at least, for a moment, a suspension of life. Yet the still welcome is not unfriendly.
She walked toward the bed alone, but in an instant beckoned to me to follow her. She bent down and moved the covering. His broad strong face looked resolute and brave as ever. It looked—to speak truth—as hard as ever also.
Her eyes were set on him; suddenly she caught hold of my hand; "Don't go." I pressed her hand, for I heard her breathing quickly. I just caught her next words: "He might have given me a chance!"
He might have given me a chance!"
"I believe he was sorry about that at the end." She shook her head. "He's given you a big chance now."
She nodded, but absently. "How strange to—to be his doing—and he there! And then—all this!" She let go my hand, took a step forward, bent and kissed his brow quickly. "How cold!" she murmured and grasped my hand tightly again. To my fancy she seemed surprised—and relieved—that the sleeper did not stir.
We were—as I say—out of the world; we were just two creatures, living for a little while, by the side of a third who lived no more.
"You shouldn't kiss him unless you forgive," I said.
She kissed him again and drew the sheet over his face.
"He must have been a fine man. I forgive. Come, let's go."
Outside, the world was with us—and I wondering whether that was what I had really said.
At least she seemed to bear me no ill-will. "Are you free to come for a walk?" she asked. "I should like some fresh air."
"Would you like to see the gardens?"
"No—that means pottering. Take me for a good spin."
By a happy thought I remembered Tor Hill and took her there. The hill lies at the extremity of the Priory park, looking down on the road which separates our dominions from the Fillingford country; beyond the road the Manor itself can be seen by glimpses through the woods which surround it. Catsford lies in the valley to the left; away to the right, but not in sight, lay Oxley Lodge, and Overington Grange, the seat of Sir John Aspenick. Here she could take a bird's-eye view of her position and that of her nearest neighbors.
"I'm glad to see Fillingford," she remarked. "My father mentioned it—in the earlier part of that letter. He said that he had wanted to buy it, but Lord Fillingford couldn't or wouldn't sell."
"His son's consent was necessary—that's the present man—and he wouldn't give it. Indeed the story runs that he hated Mr. Driver for trying to buy."
She seemed to take as careful a view of Fillingford Manor as the distance and the trees allowed.
"My father seems to have been sorry he couldn't buy it. He seemed to think it might still be sold."
"Surely you've got enough! And, for my part, I should much prefer the Priory. It's muggy down there in the valley—though I believe it's a very fine house."
"You've not been there?"
"No. We of the Priory have had small dealings with Fillingford lately. We've kept up the forms of civility—but it's been very distant. Underneath, there's been a kind of silent feud—well, more or less silent; but I daresay that'll be all over now."
"My father wrote 'Possibly you in your way may succeed better than I in mine.'"
"Fillingford wouldn't sell. He's hard up, but he can get along. And there's always the chance of a rich marriage for his son—or even for himself."
I really spoke without any thought of a personal reference, but I perceived, directly afterward, that I might well seem to have made one; a marriage with Miss Driver would be undoubtedly rich. She gave no sign, however, of taking my remark in that sense, unless any inference can be drawn from her saying, "Oh, he's a widower?"
"He's a widower of forty, or a year or two more—and he's got a son of about seventeen—a very good-looking lad. His sister, Lady Sarah Lacey, keeps house for him, and according to local gossip is a bit of a shrew."
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