Джозеф Джефферсон Фарджон – Тринадцать гостей / Thirteen Guests (страница 3)
The man, large and well-built, reminded you pleasantly of cricket, which in fact he played.
“Half-past four,” said the girl, glancing at a clock on her way to the wide staircase.
“Does that mean tea in your room?” inquired the man, pausing to light a cigarette.
“No, I’ll be down,” she replied. “But the bath comes first. These things are sticking to me.”
The settee on which John lay was fitted into a shadowed angle of the wall. The sun was slipping down behind a distant wood, preluding quick gloaming, and a servant entered the lounge-hall and switched on lights. The girl at the foot of the staircase turned her head and saw the patient.
John endured an awkward moment. It occurred to him that perhaps, after all, the routine of Bragley Court had its little flaws. It should have protected him against the necessity of explaining himself. Yet it was unreasonable to expect some one to be in perpetual attendance on him, and even Lord Aveling’s generously-planned staff did not run to a Cook’s guide. So, after enduring the girl’s curious scrutiny for a moment or two, he remarked bluntly:
“I’ve had an accident, and Lord Aveling’s been good enough to give me temporary shelter.”
“Bad luck,” said the man. “Not riding, was it?”
“No—a prosaic train. I jumped out while it was moving, and it tried to take my foot on to the next station.”
The man smiled, and held out his case.
“Have one?” he invited. “We smoke anywhere. Reassure him, Anne.”
The girl advanced with a little nod.
“Of course—quite in order,” she said. “I am Lord Aveling’s daughter. And this is Mr. Harold Taverley.”
“Thanks awfully,” answered John. The momentary awkwardness created by these two had vanished very quickly. “It does help knowing! Mine’s John Foss. And my whole object in life just now is not to be a confounded nuisance. Please don’t delay that bath.”
Anne laughed. Her mouth lost its hardness. She turned and ran upstairs. But her companion lingered.
“Don’t
“Oh, I’ve got a few minutes,” replied Taverley. He had a clear, full voice, but rarely raised it. The retired Pork King could only make his carry when he shouted. “I suppose there’s nothing I can do?”
“Well—yes, there is,” said John impulsively. This was the kind of fellow you could talk to. “I’d like to know something about the people here. One feels such a fool, you know. Rather like a monkey in a zoo.”
“I know,” smiled Taverley. “That is, if monkeys really do feel like that.” He squatted on a stool. “I suppose you’ll be staying a bit?”
“There’s been some talk of rolling me into an ante-room for the night. Everybody’s frightfully decent.”
“The ante-room? That’s where—” He paused. “Well, let’s run over the inventory. Who’ve you seen so far?”
“Lord Aveling.”
“He’s easy. Fifth baron. Hopes to be first marquis or earl. Conservative. I hope politics don’t make you feel suicidal?”
“One has to bear them; but I’m not particularly interested.”
“Just as well. You’ll be able to keep out of arguments. Have you seen Lady Aveling?” John nodded. “She needn’t worry you. She follows her husband’s lead. The daughter you’ve just met. The Honourable Anne. Keen on horses. Hunting people here, you know. And golfing. Private course. Anne can drive two hundred.”
“I like her,” said John.
“She’s O.K.” Taverley paused for an instant, then added: “She liked you.”
“You made up your mind quickly!”
“So did she about that. So did you. Well, let’s finish the family. There’s only one more.”
“The son?”
“No. That’s the disappointment. Lady Aveling’s mother. Mrs. Morris. You’re not the only invalid in the house. But you won’t see Mrs. Morris—she sticks to her room!”
At that moment Mrs. Morris was lying two floors above, propped up on pillows, in an ecstasy of joy. She was almost free from grinding pain. The world was very good....
“Fine old lady,” said Taverley. “Example to the lot of us. Right. Now for the guests. Who have you seen of those?”
“A lady brought me here.”
“Rather large and stout? Impressive glasses?”
“My God, no!”
“Would ‘distracting’ be the adjective?”
“I can’t think of a better,” agreed John, fighting an annoying moment of self-consciousness.
“That sounds like Nadine Leveridge. I heard she was coming on the 3.28. Was that your train? The one that tried to pull you to bits?”
“Yes. And Leveridge was the name.”
“Our attractive widow. Susceptible people need to keep out of her way. She can break hearts while she passes.”
“That almost sounds like advice,” said John.
“Well, if it is, it’s good advice,” parried Taverley unrepentantly. “That kind of woman can put a man through hell. Make pulp of his will-power. And—what’s the use?”
“I see you don’t like her.”
“You’re wrong, Foss. I like her immensely. What’s a woman to do with her beauty? Scrap it? One sticks to oneself. I like her, and I liked her husband. He and I played cricket together. He used to tell me that the only moment he could forget Nadine was when he brought off a leg-glide. There’s something about a leg-glide. Then only he got perfect peace. After he’d passed through a particularly difficult time you could always bowl Leveridge l.b.w.—he
“Did they quarrel, then?” asked John.
“Like hell,” answered Taverley. “And loved like hell. The person who next marries Nadine will know all there is to know. Well, that’s Number One of the guests. Seen any more?”
“Yourself.”
“Sussex. Batting average, 41.66. We won’t talk about the bowling average. Lord Aveling loves a show, and I’m part of it.” He laughed, then frowned at himself. “Don’t get a wrong impression of our host. He’s all right.”
“It seems to me you think everybody’s all right.”
“So they are, if we dig down far enough. But you’ll need to hold on to your faith this week-end—you’ll bump into some odd people.”
“Here come the only others I’ve bumped into,” said John, as the front door opened abruptly and the velvet-coated man and the retired merchant came in. A draught of keen air came in with them.
“Brrh!” exclaimed the retired merchant, rubbing his hands together. “Shut the door, quick!”
“Mistake to admit you’re cold in company,” commented the velvet-coated man. “It stamps you with a hot water-bottle.”
“Well, I love my hot water-bottle, and I don’t care a damn who knows it!”
“You’ll lose respect. Life, being itself hot, only sympathises with a poor circulation.”
“Oh, does it? Well, blood ain’t the only thing that circulates!” The retired merchant tapped his pocket and laughed. “Life respects
“First rate, thanks,” answered John. “I shan’t be on your hands long.”
“Glad to hear it. I mean, glad you’re feeling better. Nasty things, these twisted ankles. I bunged mine up once playing draughts. Ha, ha! Well, come along, Pratt, or we’ll have no tea.”
He strode to the stairs and disappeared, but Pratt paused for a moment before following.
“Described
“No. You’re next on the list,” smiled Taverley. “So you’d better hurry!”
Pratt smiled back and left them, with just enough speed to indicate that he could respond to a jest without losing his dignity. John grinned.
“
“Very much so. That’s why he’s here. Women flock to him to be painted, and Pratt ruthlessly reveals their poor little souls. Queer, isn’t it, how some people will strip themselves for notoriety—and not know they’re doing it?”