Beyond The Blue Mountains - Plaidy Jean (бесплатные онлайн книги читаем полные .TXT) 📗

Carolan came in from the yard. She looked like a sleepwalker, with all the life taken out of her.

“Now, lovey,” said Margery, ‘it don’t do to take these things to heart, and all this keeping a man waiting never did pay, to my mind.”

But she had walked through the kitchen as though Margery was not there.

“Draw the curtains, Carolan. I think I will have a rest for a while.”

“I will leave you, M’am; you will rest better without me.” Her voice was hard, determined. She could not stay in this room; she could not bear it. She would scream, be rude to the woman, would cry out: “Oh, stop talking of your silly ailments! What do you think I am suffering … I have lost Marcus! First Everard Then Marcus!”

“I wish to turn out one of the cupboards in the toilet-room. If you need me, you can knock on the wall.”

Docilely Lucille Masterman nodded, and Carolan went out.

She looked at herself in the long mirror. How strange she looked! If that selfish woman in there had been the least bit interested in anything but herself and her silly medicines she would have noticed. There was no one to condole with Carolan. Margery was laughing up her sleeve. Esther could weep till she could not see, but she was weeping for herself and her predicament. Esther! The virtuous Esther whom she had looked upon as something near a saint, creeping out to him like a servant girl. Esther! Her friend no longer. She wished she had never seen her, never listened to her whining voice. Esther and Marcus. Marcus and Esther. Together. Making love.

“I hope you said your prayers, Esther, before you began!” The words had made the girl flinch, and serve her right. Sly, deceitful little hypocrite! And Marcus, the beast! She was well rid of him. Had she married him, what would her life have been? He would not have been true to her for a week. I hate them both. I hate them. She had said: “Mr. Masterman will be furious when he hears. He will want to know how it happened, who the man is. He will want to know how you came to be entertaining convicts in his house. I would not be in your shoes, Esther.” She had had the satisfaction of hearing Esther’s strangled words “I wish I were .dead.”

Weak, snivelling Esther. What will become of her now? What will Mr. Masterman say? Momentarily she tore herself away from her sorrow to visualize the man. Cold profile, eyes that could glow warm enough for her; but his sort, when they knew what it meant to feel desire, were harsher to those who gave way to it.

I would not be in your shoes, Esther! But she would, of course. She, who loved Marcus, would have given a good deal to be in Esther’s shoes, bearing Marcus’s child, having been loved by Marcus.

Why does everything go wrong with me? she asked her, reflection. First Everard, now Marcus. Why, why?

The answer was there in the headstrong line of her jaw, in the tilt of her head, in the shine of her eyes. She herself was the answer, and the losing of Marcus was more her own fault than anything that had happened to her.

She wanted Marcus, She loved Marcus. Only now did she know how much. Only now when it was too late; for it was too late. She must face that. She could never marry Marcus now. How could she? When Esther was to have his child.

Let Esther have the child; what did it matter? Queer thoughts darted into her mind. There was a doctor, an ex-convict; he had helped Mrs. Masterman why should he not help Esther?

No! Let Esther find her own way out of her difficulties. She would not help her. She imagined Esther, standing before Mr. Masterman, explaining her guilt What would happen to Esther! Who cared what happened to Esther! Esther had acted without thought of the morrow. Let the morrow take care of itself. All right, let it!

And meanwhile, what of herself? Lonely and sad, loving Marcus who did not love her whatever he might say. she sank down on a pile of clothes she had turned out of one of the cupboards. All her pride left her. and she sobbed brokenheartedly.

Quite suddenly she was aware of not being alone. She turned slowly, saw first his shapely legs in well-cut riding breeches, his good though sober coat, his fair face pale like a statue she had seen carved in stone at Vauxhall Gardens.

He did not move; he was embarrassed. He said: “I am afraid you are very unhappy. If there is anything I can do to help…” She smiled sadly and shook her head.

“There is nothing, thank you.”

“Oh, but surely there is?”

He knelt down on the pile of clothes beside her.

“You are very kind.” she said, and she thought, for seven years I shall stay here working in this house, for him and the woman in there. There will be no hope of escape now. And she realized how, even while she tossed her head and refused to be friends with him she had been longing for reunion with Marcus, for the life he had talked of, on the station. The thought of her blind folly set the tears gushing out of her eyes again.

“Oh, come,” he said, “you must not be so upset. Will you not tell me your trouble?”

She saw the pulse hammer in his temple, and she knew that his general serenity was disturbed by close contact with her.

“It is nothing…”

He was still kneeling. He put out a hand to touch her shoulder.

“My poor child,” he said.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen!”

“It is very young.”

“It feels old,” she told him, and her mouth quivered.

“Just over a year ago I was young. Now I am old.”

“You must tell me about it. Oh … not now, when you are feeling better. It is a momentary depression, I believe. Yesterday I thought you were the gayest person I had ever seen in my life.”

There was great satisfaction in such solicitude. She began comparing him with Marcus. There was the same eager burning light in his pale eyes as there had been in Marcus’s blue ones, but there any resemblance between them ended. Here was an upright man, kindly though cold. He seemed very youthful in his eagerness, although he was probably older than Marcus, but not old in experience; in experience, just a boy.

She put out her hand and he took it.

She said: “I cannot think why you are so good to me.” Which was untrue, for she knew full well.

He gripped her hand more tightly, and said: “It grieves me very much that you should be unhappy here. You are homesick perhaps.”

“Nor she said.

“No!” Defiance returned to her eyes; they glittered behind the tears.

“I do not feel homesick.” do not care if I never see England again. Why should I want to? What are trees and grass? Are they England? There are trees and grass here. No. England is Newgate, cruelty, injustice. I do not care if I never see it again.”

“How badly they have hurt you.” he said.

She nodded. He drew her towards him.

“I am so sorry. I have wanted to tell you so before.”

She lifted her, face to his, until their lips were very close. She thought, Marcus is finished now; I will remember nothing of him except his rogue’s philosophy. I will never love anyone again as long as I live.

He was staring at her. In a moment he would kiss her unless she moved away. She only had to repulse him once, and he would keep right out of her way for evermore; he was that sort of man. Now he was fighting with himself; he was thinking, I must not; I must get rid of this mad infatuation for one of out servants, a convict of whom I know nothing except that she is beautiful and more than beautiful.

Let him escape, and he would disappear for days; he would go to church and hold his head high and thank his God to have been delivered from temptation. Like Esther! Waves of anger swept over her. The cowards! They wanted what others wanted, and hadn’t the courage to take it. They did not do these things naturally, gloriously; they did them because the temptation had been too strong for them to resist. Weaklings, all of them!