South Wind(Fiscle Part-3) by Norman Douglas (novels for students TXT) 📕

Him To Come,  But He Couldn't Manage It,  That Evening.

"I Shall Have To Console Her About The Burglary," Continued The Bishop.

"What Burglary?"

Mr. Heard Explained That The Premises Had Been Entered While The

Duchess Was Dining At Madame Steynlin's On The Previous Evening,  The

Night Of The Water-Party. Evidently The Work Of A Man Who Knew His

Business. A Man Familiar With The Ins And Outs Of The House. And A Man

Of Taste,  Into The Bargain. All The Sham Articles Had Been Left

Untouched; He Had Gone Off With Nothing But Genuine Things--A Few

Precious Crucifixes And Bonbonnieres. No One Had The Faintest Idea Who

The Thief Was. Most Mysterious! The Disaster Could Hardly Have Occurred

But For The Fact That The Young Girl Angelina,  Who Was Supposed To

Sleep On The Premises,  Had Been Called Away Late At Night To Look After

A Suffering Aunt. The Old Woman,  It Appeared,  Was Liable To Sudden

Heart-Attacks. She Had Been Round To See The Duchess Early In The

Morning With Endless Apologies,  And Had Fortunately Been Able To

Corroborate Her Niece's Story.

"I Am Glad Of It," Concluded The Bishop. "Because That Maid,  When I Saw

Her,  Struck Me As Rather A Flighty Young Person--The Sort Of Girl Who

Would Take Advantage Of Her Mistress's Absence To Have A Little

Flirtation With A Policeman Round The Corner. I Am Glad The Aunt Could

Explain Things So Satisfactorily. I Was Wrong About That Girl. Shows

How Careful One Must Be In Judging Of Other People,  Doesn't It? I Must

Say She Looked To Me Like A Regular Little Coquette."

Denis Had So Little Sympathetic Comment To Make On This Painful Story

That Mr. Heard Was Quite Surprised At His Indifference. He Always

Understood The Young Man To Be A Particular Friend Of The Duchess.

"These Artistic People!" He Thought. "They Have Quite Another Way Of

Looking At Things. Dear Me. I Shall Never Live To Understand Them."

The Two Separated At The Market-Place Without Much Reluctance On Either

Side.

During Dinner,  The Duchess Was Calm About Her Misfortune. She Bore It

Well. She Had Been Vigorously Consoled By Don Francesco,  Who Pointed

Out That Such Little Things Are Trials Of Faith And That She Ought To

Be Thankful For This Opportunity Of Proving How Little She Cared For

Earthly Riches. While Not Exactly Thankful,  She Was Certainly As

Resigned As Anybody Could Have Been. Angelina Had Already Been Taken

Into Grace Again,  At The Charitable Suggestion Of The Priest. Every One

Was Puzzling Who The Thief Could Be (It Happened To Be Mr. Richards);

The Police Had Not Discovered The Faintest Clue.

"It Does Not Much Matter If They Do," Said Don Francesco. "I Don't

Think,  My Dear Lady,  That You Will Get The Judge To Take Up Your Case

Very Actively. You Know How He Hates The Clericals. In Fact,  I Fear He

Will Not Move A Finger Unless The Culprit Also Happens To Be A Good

Believer. In That Case,  He Might Lock Him Up. He Is So Fond Of

Imprisoning Catholics!"

"A Bad State Of The Law," Commented The Bishop.

"It Is," Replied Don Francesco,  "And Perhaps You Do Not Know," He

Added,  Turning To The Company,  "That There Has Been Another Robbery As

Well,  Doubtless By The Same Hand. Yes! I Only Heard Of It An Hour Ago.

Poor Miss Wilberforce Is The Victim. She Is Terribly Upset. A Number Of

Valuables Have Disappeared From Her House; They Must Have Been

Ransacked,  She Thinks,  At The Time Of Mr. Keith's Party. I Understand

She Was Rather Overcome On That Occasion. The Thief Seems To Have Been

Aware Of Her Condition,  And To Have Profited By It."

"Poor Miss Wilberforce!" Said Everybody. They Were All Sorry For Poor

Miss Wilberforce.

It Was A Rather Full Dinner-Party On The Whole. Mr. Heard Left At

Half-Past Eleven.

Passing The Club On His Way Home,  He Remembered His Intention Of

Looking In There And Perhaps Doing Good To A Few Of Those Fellows.

He Climbed Up The Stairs. There Was A Fearful Row Going On. The Place

Was Crammed With Members Of Various Nationalities,  Drinking And Arguing

Amid Clouds Of Tobacco Smoke. They Seemed All To Be At Loggerheads With

One Another And On The Verge Of Breaking Out Into Violence,  The South

Wind Having Been Particularly Objectionable All Day Long. A Good Deal

Of Filthy And Profane Language Was Being Used--It Was Worse Than Those

Hot Places He Had Known In Africa. That Pink-Faced Old Drunkard Known

As Charlie Was The Only Person Who Made Any Signs Of Recognizing Him.

He Half Rose From His Chair With A Genial: "Hello,  Bishop--" And

Instantly Collapsed Again. Mr. Muhlen Was There; He Bowed Rather

Distantly. A Tremulous Pale-Faced Youngster Invited Him Pressingly To A

Drink,  And Just As The Bishop Was On The Verge Of Accepting With A View

To Getting The Victim Out Of That Den Of Vice,  The Lad Suddenly

Remarked: "Excuse Me,  Won't You?" And Tottered Out Of The Door. They

Were Too Far Gone To Be Spoken To With Any Prospects Of Success. Things

Might Have Been Different If The Restraining Influence Of Mr. Freddy

Parker Could Have Made Itself Felt,  But That Gentleman Was At Home,  His

Lady Being Not Very Well. In The Commissioner's Absence,  Mr. Richards,

The Respectable Vice-President,  Was Making His Voice Heard. Sober Or

Not,  He Was Certainly Articulate And Delighted With Himself As,

Stroking His Beard Placidly,  He Roared Out Above The Crowd:

"I've No Use For Makeshifts. Honesty Is A Makeshift. A Makeshift For

Saving Time. Whoever Wants To Save Time Is Not Fit For The Society Of

Gentlemen."

"Hear,  Hear!"

"Call Yourself A Gentleman?" Enquired Another.

"Just A Makeshift. You Won't Hear Honesty Talked About In The Great

Periods Of The World's History. It's The Small Tradesman's Invention,

Is Honesty. He Hasn't The The Brains To Earn Anything More Than Three

And A Half Per Cent. That's Why He Is Always In Such A Hurry To Finish

His First Little Deal And Get On With The Next One. Else He'd Starve.

Hence Honesty. Three And A Half Per Cent! Who's Going To Pick That Up?

People Who Earn Three Hundred Don't Cackle About Honesty."

"Call Yourself A Gentleman? Outside!"

"I've No Use For Honesty. It's The Small Man's Flapdoodle,  Is Honesty.

This World Isn't Made For Small Men! I Am Talking To You Over There--The

Funny Little Bounder Who Made The Offensive Remark Just Now."

"Are You? Well,  Take That!"

A Glass Tumbler,  Which Mr. Richards Dodged In Quite A Professional

Manner,  Came Hurtling Through The Air And Missed The Bishop's Forehead

By About Four Inches.

That Crowd Was Past His Aid. He Turned To Go. As He Did So,  A Curious

Idea Flitted Through His Brain. This Mr. Richards--Was He,  Perhaps,  The

Burglar? He Was; But Mr. Heard Dashed Aside The Horrible Suspicion,

Mindful Of The Mistake He Had Made About Angelina's Character And How

Careful One Must Be In Judging Of Other People. The Voice,  Meanwhile,

Pursued Him Down The Stairs.

"No,  Gentlemen! I've No Use For An Honest Man. He Always Lets You Down.

Fortunately,  He Is Rather Rare--"

Mr. Heard Slept Badly That Night,  For The First Time Since His Arrival

On Nepenthe. It Was Unbearably Hot. And That Visit To Mrs. Meadows Had

Also Troubled Him A Little.

The Old Town Looked Different On This Occasion. A Sullen Death-Like

Stillness,  A Menacing Stagnation,  Hung About Those Pink Houses. Not A

Leaf Was Astir Under The Burning Sirocco Sky. Even Old Caterina,  When

He Saw Her,  Seemed To Be Afflicted,  Somehow.

"Soffre,  La Signora," She Said. The Lady Was Suffering.

The Bishop Would Not Have Recognized His Cousin After All Those Years;

Not If He Had Met Her In The Street At Least. She Greeted Him

Affectionately And They Talked For A Long Time Of Family Matters. It

Was True,  Then. Her Husband's Leave Had Been Again Postponed. Perhaps

She Would Travel Back To England With Him,  And There Await The Arrival

Of Meadows. She Would Let Him Know Definitely In A Day Or Two.

He Watched Her Carefully While She Conversed,  Trying To Reconstruct,

Out Of That Woman's Face,  The Childish Features He Dimly Remembered.

They Were Effaced. He Could See What Keith Had Meant When He Described

Her As "Tailor-Made." There Was Something Clear-Cut About Her,

Something Not Exactly Harsh,  But Savouring Of Decision. She Was Plainly

A Personality--Not An Ordinary Type. The Lines Of Her Face Told Their

Story. They Had Been Hammered Into A Kind Of Hard Efficiency. But Over

That Exterior Of Tranquil Self-Possession Was Super-Imposed Something

Else--Certain Marks Of Recent Trouble. Her Eyes Looked Almost As If She

Had Been Weeping. She Made A Tremendous Show Of Cheeriness,  However,

Calling Him Tommy As In Olden Days.

Just A Little Headache. This Sirocco. It Was Bad Enough When It Blew In

The Ordinary Fashion. But Quite Intolerable When It Hung Breathlessly

About The Air Like This. Mr. Eames--He Once Called It Plumbeus Auster.

That Meant Leaden,  Didn't It? Everybody Had Headaches,  More Or Less.

Was She Speaking The Truth? The Bishop Decided That She Had An Headache

And That This South Wind Was Certainly Unendurable. None The Less,  He

Suspected That She Was Employing The Common Subterfuge--Telling The

Truth,  But Not The Whole Truth; Perhaps Not Even The Main Part Of It.

She Was Holding Back Something.

"You Haven't Attended To These Roses Lately," He Said,  Observing That

The Flowers Had Not Been Changed And That Their Fallen Petals Strewed

The Tables. "They Looked So Fresh When I Was Here Alone The Other Day."

"What A Dreadful Person You Are,  Tommy,  For Noticing Things. First You

Discover My Headache,  And Now Those Flowers! I See I Shall Have To Be

Careful With You. Perhaps You Would Like To Look At My Precipice And

Tell Me If There Is Anything Wrong With That Too? You Have Heard Of The

Old French Lady,  I Daresay. She Ended,  You Know,  In Not Approving Of It

At All. We Can Have Tea When We Come Back. And After That Perhaps You

Will Let Me Know What Is Wrong With Baby?"

"I Can Tell You That Without Looking At Him. He Is Teething."

"Clever Boy! As A Matter Of Fact,  He Isn't. But I Had To Make Some

Excuse To The Dear Duchess."

They Climbed Up The Short Slope And Found Themselves Looking Towards

The Sea Over The Face Of A Dizzy Cliff. A Falcon,  On Their Approach,

Started With Rustle Of Wings From Its Ledge And Then Swayed Crazily

Over The Abyss. Watching This Bird,  The Bishop Felt A Sudden Voice In

His Stomach. A Sensation Of Blackness Came Before His Eyes--Sky And Sea

Were Merged Together--His Feet Were Treading On Air. He Promptly Sat

Down.

"Not An Inch Nearer!" He Declared. "Not For A Thousand Pounds. If You

Go Along That Edge Again,  I Shall Have To Look The Other Way. It Makes

Me Feel Empty Inside."

"I'm Not In The Least Giddy," She Laughed. "There Was An English Boy

Who Threw Himself Over This Cliff For A Bet--You Have Heard The Story?

They Never Found His Body. It's A Good Place For Throwing Oneself Down,

Isn't It?"

She Seemed To Consider The Idea Quite Seriously.

"Well?" She Pursued. "Have You Any Fault To Find With My Precipice?"

"I Have. It Ought To Be Railed In. It Is Dangerous. What A Temptation

This Cliff Must Be To Anyone Who Has An Enemy To Dispose Of! It Would

Be So Simple," He Added,  Laughing.

"That Advantage Has Never Struck Me Before. . . ."

These And Other Things Passed Through Mr. Heard's Mind As He Lay In Bed

That Evening. He Came To The Conclusion That He Could Not Quite Make

His Cousin Out. Had Something Upset Her? And What Did She Mean By That

Sudden Conundrum:

"Do You Know Anything,  Tommy,  About Our Laws Of Illegitimacy?"

"Nothing," He Had Replied,  "Except That They Are A Disgrace To A

Civilized Country. Everybody Knows That."

She Seemed To Be Disappointed. Perhaps She Mistrusted Him. The Thought

Gave Him A Little Pain. He Had Done Nothing To Merit Mistrust. He Was

Frank And Open Himself; He Liked Others To Be The Same.

What Was The Use Of Thinking About It? He Knew Tantalizingly Little

About His Cousin--Nothing But Scraps Of Information Gathered From His

Mother's Letters To Him. He Would Call Again In A Day Or Two And Make

Some Definite Arrangements About Their Journey To England. Perhaps He

Had Talked More Dully Than Usual. . . . Or Could It Be The South Wind?

Neither Of These Explanations Was Wholly Convincing.