Array Коллектив авторов - 75 лучших рассказов / 75 Best Short Stories

Isabel gently freed herself and laid the work-bag on her embroidery-frame. ‘I have a headache; perhaps that made me stupid. I’m going to bed.’ She turned toward Wrayford and held out her hand. ‘Good night.’

‘Good night,’ he answered, opening the door for her.

When he turned back into the room, his host was pouring himself a third glass of brandy and soda.

‘Here, have a nip, Austin? Gad, I need it badly, after the shaking up you gave me this afternoon.’ Stilling laughed and carried his glass to the hearth, where he took up his usual commanding position. ‘Why the deuce don’t you drink something? You look as glum as Isabel. One would think you were the chap that had been hit by this business.’

Wrayford threw himself into the chair from which Mrs. Stilling had lately risen. It was the one she usually sat in, and to his fancy a faint scent of her clung to it. He leaned back and looked up at Stilling.

‘Want a cigar?’ the latter continued. ‘Shall we go into the den and smoke?’

Wrayford hesitated. ‘If there’s anything more you want to ask me about—’

‘Gad, no! I had full measure and running over this afternoon. The deuce of it is, I don’t see where the money’s all gone to. Luckily I’ve got plenty of nerve; I’m not the kind of man to sit down and snivel because I’ve been touched in Wall Street [558].’

Wrayford got to his feet again. ‘Then, if you don’t want me, I think I’ll go up to my room and put some finishing touches to a brief before I turn in. I must get back to town to-morrow afternoon.’

‘All right, then.’ Stilling set down his empty glass, and held out his hand with a tinge of alacrity. ‘Good night, old man.’

They shook hands, and Wrayford moved toward the door.

‘I say, Austin – stop a minute!’ his host called after him. Wrayford turned, and the two men faced each other across the hearth-rug. Stilling’s eyes shifted uneasily.

‘There’s one thing more you can do for me before you leave. Tell Isabel about that loan; explain to her that she’s got to sign a note for it.’

Wrayford, in his turn, flushed slightly. ‘You want me to tell her?’

‘Hang it! I’m soft-hearted – that’s the worst of me.’

Stilling moved toward the tray, and lifted the brandy decanter. ‘And she’ll take it better from you; she’ll have to take it from you. She’s proud. You can take her out for a row to-morrow morning – look here, take her out in the motor-launch if you like. I meant to have a spin in it myself; but if you’ll tell her—’

Wrayford hesitated. ‘All right, I’ll tell her.’

‘Thanks a lot, my dear fellow. And you’ll make her see it wasn’t my fault, eh? Women are awfully vague about money, and she’ll think it’s all right if you back me up.’

Wrayford nodded. ‘As you please.’

‘And, Austin – there’s just one more thing. You needn’t say anything to Isabel about the other business – I mean about my mother’s securities.’

‘Ah?’ said Wrayford, pausing.

Stilling shifted from one foot to the other. ‘I’d rather put that to the old lady myself. I can make it clear to her. She idolizes me, you know – and, hang it! I’ve got a good record. Up to now, I mean. My mother’s been in clover since I married; I may say she’s been my first thought. And I don’t want her to hear of this beastly business from Isabel. Isabel’s a little harsh at times – and of course this isn’t going to make her any easier to live with.’

‘Very well,’ said Wrayford.

Stilling, with a look of relief, walked toward the window which opened on the terrace. ‘Gad! what a queer night! Hot as the kitchen-range. Shouldn’t wonder if we had a squall before morning. I wonder if that infernal skipper took in the launch’s awnings before he went home.’

Wrayford stopped with his hand on the door. ‘Yes, I saw him do it. She’s shipshape for the night.’

‘Good! That saves me a run down to the shore.’

‘Good night, then,’ said Wrayford.

‘Good night, old man. You’ll tell her?’

‘I’ll tell her.’

‘And mum about my mother!’ his host called after him.

The darkness had thinned a little when Wrayford scrambled down the steep path to the shore. Though the air was heavy the threat of a storm seemed to have vanished, and now and then the moon’s edge showed above a torn slope of cloud.

But in the thick shrubbery about the boat-house the darkness was still dense, and Wrayford had to strike a match before he could find the lock and insert his key. He left the door unlatched, and groped his way in. How often he had crept into this warm pine-scented obscurity, guiding himself by the edge of the bench along the wall, and hearing the soft lap of water through the gaps in the flooring! He knew just where one had to duck one’s head to avoid the two canoes swung from the rafters, and just where to put his hand on the latch of the farther door that led to the broad balcony above the lake.

The boat-house represented one of Stilling’s abandoned whims. He had built it some seven years before, and for a time it had been the scene of incessant nautical exploits. Stilling had rowed, sailed, paddled indefatigably, and all Highfield had been impressed to bear him company, and to admire his versatility. Then motors had come in, and he had forsaken aquatic sports for the flying chariot. The canoes of birch-bark and canvas had been hoisted to the roof, the sail-boat had rotted at her moorings, and the movable floor of the boat-house, ingeniously contrived to slide back on noiseless runners, had lain undisturbed through several seasons. Even the key of the boat-house had been mislaid – by Isabel’s fault, her husband said – and the locksmith had to be called in to make a new one when the purchase of the motor-boat made the lake once more the centre of Stilling’s activity.

As Wrayford entered he noticed that a strange oily odor overpowered the usual scent of dry pine-wood; and at the next step his foot struck an object that rolled noisily across the boards. He lighted another match, and found he had overturned a can of grease which the boatman had no doubt been using to oil the runners of the sliding floor.

Wrayford felt his way down the length of the boathouse, and softly opening the balcony door looked out on the lake. A few yards away, he saw the launch lying at anchor in the veiled moonlight; and just below him, on the black water, was the dim outline of the skiff which the boatman kept to paddle out to her. The silence was so intense that Wrayford fancied he heard a faint rustling in the shrubbery on the high bank behind the boat-house, and the crackle of gravel on the path descending to it.

He closed the door again and turned back into the darkness; and as he did so the other door, on the land-side, swung inward, and he saw a figure in the dim opening. Just enough light entered through the round holes above the respective doors to reveal Mrs. Stilling’s cloaked outline, and to guide her to him as he advanced. But before they met she stumbled and gave a little cry.

‘What is it?’ he exclaimed.

‘My foot caught; the floor seemed to give way under me. Ah, of course—’ she bent down in the darkness – ‘I saw the men oiling it this morning.’

Wrayford caught her by the arm. ‘Do take care! It might be dangerous if it slid too easily. The water’s deep under here.’

‘Yes; the water’s very deep. I sometimes wish—’ She leaned against him without finishing her sentence, and he put both arms about her.

‘Hush!’ he said, his lips on hers.

Suddenly she threw her head back and seemed to listen.

‘What’s the matter? What do you hear?’

‘I don’t know.’ He felt her trembling. ‘I’m not sure this place is as safe as it used to be—’