This Was Ivor Trent полностью

“Well, and then?” Rendell asked, as she remained silent, staring at the fire as if she had forgotten his presence.

“I stayed at home and read. I was about twenty-one then. I read all sorts of books. I had no method—I just read anything that came my way. I drugged myself with reading. I didn’t want to go out into the world—it reminded me of my failure. I lived for three years in a kind of trance. Then—Paul Vivian turned up.”

She leaned back and closed her eyes. Over a minute passed before she continued.

“My father met him through some business or other. He was years older than I was—nearly forty. He began to come to the house frequently—so kind, so solid, so reliable! But, somehow, you could not believe he had ever been a child. But my people became very fond of him. And then—he fell in love with me.”

She rose slowly, then stood looking down—the firelight kindling her features and dark curly hair.

“He fell in love with me,” she repeated. “Soon, he asked me to marry him. I refused. Then he asked again—and again—and again! Still I refused. He wasn’t fiery, he was—patient. So were my parents. They wanted me to marry him. They were a little worried about me. They thought I was a trifle wayward. That was their word. And here was Safety First—proposing regularly each month.”

She knelt down swiftly and peered into the fire.

“I can see a face!” she exclaimed, with the sudden gaiety of a child. “I’ll show you. No! It’s gone!”

She remained crouched before the fire. It was some moments before she went on.

“So there I was with the three of them. And the three of them were willing the same thing. I could feel their united will closing round me like a contracting iron ring. I began to feel depleted. I spent whole days lying on a sofa. Twice a week Paul came to dinner. Every day he sent flowers. And mother began to say: ‘Don’t you think, darling, you’d be happier if you settled down?’”

She leaned her head back and laughed—a joyous, rippling laugh.

“And I said to her: ‘I don’t love him.’ And she said: ‘That sometimes comes afterwards.’ And I asked: ‘After what?’ But she didn’t answer.”

Again she laughed.

“And then, at last, weary of it all—and not knowing what to do with my life—I said I’d marry him. I told him I didn’t love him, but that didn’t seem to worry him. It would have terrified me. Everyone was radiant. Paul dined with us nearly every night. At the week-ends he took me out in his large car—and told me what a glorious and thrilling thing common sense was.”

After a pause, she said softly: “My God!”

Instantly, however, she raced him:

“And then we bought clothes—such lovely clothes!—and then the wedding. The bride, a little pale and trembling, perhaps, but then—well, you understand—she would be quite different—afterwards. And then, the departure for the honeymoon. Tears. Fluttering good-byes. ‘You will be good to her, Paul?’ A manly hand-shake. And then an invalid old man and a frail woman craning out of the window to see the last of the receding car.”

Then, after an imperceptible pause, she turned to Rendell and asked:

“Would you like some tea?”

“Tea!” he almost shouted.

“Yes, why not? People drink tea in the afternoons. Some take milk, some sugar, some neither—and some take one or the other. Some have China tea, some Indian, some Russian—but tea they all have. It’s one of those things that are definitely done.”

“I could not drink tea to save my life,” Rendell announced emphatically.

“Very well. Well have sherry later. Smoke a cigarette, and let me know when you would like the next instalment of the serial.”

“What an incalculable being you are!” he exclaimed involuntarily.

“Well, don’t worry too much—there won’t be any more like me soon. But that’s an idea of Ivor’s, and he comes—later.”

Neither spoke for some moments. Rendell gazed at her crouching in the firelight. She looked like a child who somehow possessed a woman’s body.

“Now we continue the serial.”

She pretended to pick up an imaginary book, opened it, then spoke as if she were reading aloud.

“The bridal pair, still thrilling with the raptures of first and passionate love, in due course returned to the mother country. Glamorous visions of golden Italy still quivered within them, but life—alas!—is not one long romance. So they settled down in the large commodious London flat—and each day Paul went to his prosperous business in the City. But what of little Rosalie? Ah! what of her?”

“Don’t,” said Rendell suddenly.

“Don’t what?” she demanded.

“Don’t tell it like that.”

“Sorry! Do you want to know what it was really like?”

“Yes.”