Джон Пристли - The Doomsday Men

“So do I,” said Malcolm fervently.

“You’ve a funny sort of little crinkle near your right eye. I used to notice it when we were playing in that tournament.”

“Good lord! I never thought you noticed my existence then-let alone little crinkles.” He was genuinely amazed.

“I noticed everything about you,” she said calmly. “Naturally. Why, I wouldn’t have come out to dinner-and-everything-if I hadn’t already decided I liked you a whole lot. And you’ve never told me how you found out who I was.”

So he told her about his mournful last day at the Bristol, after she’d gone, and how that blessed old gossip Bellowby-Sayers had shed light in his darkness in the dining-car of the Paris train.

“It’s hard to believe out here-and up here-that old codgers like Bellowby-Sayers exist, but he did me a marvellously good turn.”

“Me too-though I didn’t think so this morning, when I heard you were here. I didn’t know what to do.”

“But you came straight up to see me.”

“I know. I couldn’t help it. Gosh!-I’m giving myself away,” she cried, not at all mysterious now but a very nice ordinary sort of young woman.

They had finished eating, and were putting the remains together.

“Look here, Andrea, I warn you. I’m going to get to the bottom of all this,” he told her sternly.

For a moment she looked frightened and said nothing but busied herself finishing the clearing up. Had he spoken too soon, he asked himself anxiously, watching her.

“Malcolm,” she began, looking at him with wide dark eyes.

What was coming now? “Yes, Andrea?”

“You can kiss me, if you like.”

He did like, and, mystery or no mystery, the next ten minutes went flashing by like those blue birds. At the end of them they were disturbed by the sound of a stone clattering down somewhere below, but not very far away.

“Oh phooey!” cried the dark goddess, annoyed. She peeped over, then whispered. “Yes, I thought so. It’s the man with a beard-Mr. Mitchell. He must have noticed the horses. But perhaps he won’t stay long.”

“Well, don’t encourage him to,” he told her severely.

“I will if I want,” she retorted, but then made a little face at him. She was becoming more ordinarily but deliciously human every minute, he decided.

“Hello, young lady, you’ve got company this time. Well, I’ll just smoke a pipe with you,” said Mr. Mitchell, arriving somewhat breathless. He wore a wreck of a hat, a tattered tropical coat, and torn trousers, and yet contrived to have an air almost of distinction. His face was darkly tanned, as if he had been out in the open like this for years; he wore a short pointed beard, streaked with grey; his hair was nearly white but he had thick dark eyebrows; and he had a fine twinkling eye, which seemed to Malcolm to rest on Andrea with surprising interest and affection. After being introduced to Malcolm, he proceeded to ask that young man several sharp questions about himself that he ought to have resented from a total stranger, even here in the free-and-easy West, but somehow didn’t. He and Andrea appeared to be on the friendliest terms and spent some time chaffing each other, after which Mr. Mitchell, slowly pulling at his pipe, produced some queer specimens of rock from his bulging tattered pocket and explained their significance. After he had been with them about half an hour, Andrea, perhaps in the hope of breaking up the party, said she must take a look at the horses and left the two men together.

“That’s a fine girl,” Mr. Mitchell remarked, as soon as they were alone. He looked curiously across at Malcolm, as the latter warmly assented.

“Is she happy, d’you think?”

This took Malcolm by surprise. “Well-I don’t know really-in a way, I don’t know an awful lot about her-” he stammered.

“You looked to me,” said Mr. Mitchell coolly, “as if you were deeply interested in each other. All right, you needn’t reply. And please don’t take offence either. I’m genuinely interested too-as I hope you can see.”

“Yes, I can see that. But why?”

“Well-she’s a fine girl-and we’ve had several little chats up here. She listens to my geological yarning, and doesn’t tell me I’m an old bore.”

Malcolm looked hard at him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mitchell. But you started this.” He lowered his voice. “And that won’t do. I mean, there’s more in it than that.”

“Think so?” He lowered his voice too.

“I’m sure. You might tell me.”

The older man took his pipe out of his mouth, slowly blew out a shaft of smoke, stared sombrely into the distance, and said quietly: “She doesn’t know this. But I-well, I knew her mother-long ago-before she married MacMichael-when I was about the same age and in the same state of mind, I guess, as you are now. I’m a mining engineer-or was. Been out of the country for years and years.” He lowered his voice yet again. “One of the reasons why I came here was-well, just to have a look at this-daughter of-somebody I once knew very well. Now listen, young man, that girl isn’t happy-oh!-she’s happy to-day sitting up here with you, I could see the difference in a minute-but she isn’t happy-and you know it.”

“Yes, I do,” Malcolm admitted.

The other leaned across and tapped him on the arm. “She’ll be back in a moment,” he whispered sharply and with great earnestness. “Don’t you mind me talking like this. You look a fine fellow and you’ve got a good profession. If you feel it’s the real thing between you, marry her, quick as you can, and take her out of this, right away. There’s something wrong here.”

“I know there is,” said Malcolm. “And I’m here to find out what it is.”

They could hear her returning now.

“Good luck to you!” whispered Mitchell, giving him another tap, then scrambling to his feet.

“The horses say they want to go,” Andrea announced.

“Did they say they wanted me to go first,” said Mitchell smiling, “because I’m just off.” He looked hard at Andrea, who seemed slightly confused standing there before him. “Good-bye, young woman. And good luck, young man.”

They watched him slowly descend and saw him turn and wave once, a small friendly figure. “I’m afraid he guessed we didn’t want him,” said Andrea. “And I like him really, though I don’t quite make him out.”

“I do,” said Malcolm promptly, then went and sat down with his back against the rock.

“I’ll bet you don’t. What do you mean?”

He beckoned. “If you’ll come here and be quiet,” he said softly, “I’ll tell you.”

“Why should I come there? Besides, it’s time to go.”

“It isn’t, and you ought to come here because then you’d make me very happy, and I’ve brought myself a long, long way, after much misery, and I deserve to be made happy.”

“Old Mrs. Larrigan warned me against you,” she told him, as she stretched herself by his side and allowed herself to be kept there.

“Old Maw Larrigan was quite right, because she’s a kind of old witch, one of the gang of witches and wizards here, and she knows I’m going to break the spell.”

“You’re cheating now. You see, you don’t know anything about Mr. Mitchell-do you?”

“Yes,” replied Malcolm softly and slowly, “because he told me while you were away. He comes here to have a look at you and to talk to you and see what sort of a girl you are, because he used to know your mother. I think-in fact, I’m pretty sure-he was once in love with her. Yes, that’s what he meant, of course, when he said he’d been in the same state of mind.”

“My mother,” repeated Andrea, at once astonished and troubled. “She died years ago. I hardly remember her. And Father won’t talk about her. I think he was terribly in love with her-and it was all horrible, I believe, the way she died. I heard my uncle, John it was