i f6c06dd9cf3fe221 by Unknown (the false prince .TXT) 📕

"No more for me, I'm just right. I've had about as much as I can carry," protested Rodney, 'and I've got to drive a car. "

"Here, drink that! You're too sober for my liking."

"All right. But, you see, you are judging me by my legs only." Rodney raised his glass: "The very best in life to both of you. And thank you for all your kindness to me."

Peter looked over his glass, his eyes crinkling with a warmth and affection.

"The boot's on the other foot," he said.

"See you tomorrow, then," said Rodney, as he got into his coat.

For a moment the three stood on top of the house steps; the sky was high and ablaze with stars, the light of a pale moon was reflected in the river below them.

"Look!" cried Peggy, "it's started to snow, just a slightest bit."

"It won't be much," said Peter, sniffing the raw air.

"Good night, then, Rodney."

"Good night. Good night. Happy Christmas."

They watched him drive away; then turned indoors.

"Oh, I could shoot that woman!" cried Peggy.

"It's the second Christmas she's gone off and left him on his own. Her and her house parties and literary dinners! He's so unhappy, isn't he?

Doesn't he say anything?"

"Not a word."

"He looks as if he were burning up inside, and he's working too hard."

"Well, he's got one of the biggest practices on the Tyne, and it's growing every day. He'll soon have to have help."

They stood on the hearth rug shoulder to shoulder, looking down into the fire. A silence held them. The shabby room, with its Christmas tree and paper-chains, was seeped in peace.

"You don't think he knows what they say about him?" asked Peggy quietly.

"Good gracious no!"

"But that's why all the women went daft over him."

"Yes, maybe."

"And you still think there's nothing in it?"

"Certain of it."

"Does he ever speak of her?"

"Kate, you mean? No, never."

"But he does make a fuss of the child, doesn't he?"

"So he does of Michael and Cathleen. So am I to understand you've misbehaved yourself?"

Oh, Peter! "

He laughed, and pulled her to him gently.

"I often wonder, though, how he accounts to himself for his sudden popularity," mused Peggy.

"I don't know," said Peter.

"But it's certainly not because he's suspected of being the father of Annie Hannigan. And I shouldn't like to witness his reactions should he ever hear it. Of course, he never will."

Rodney followed the road of the Don, around by St. Bede's church, then past Bogie Hill, past the fifteen streets and the New Buildings, and along the stretch of the East Jarrow slacks. The tide was high and the lights were dancing on the ships at anchor in the narrow strip of the river Tyne, where it left the docks and meandered 7i

before expanding between Jarrow and Howden. Tram cars, on their way to Jarrow, clanked by him, full to the steps, and stray groups of people, loaded, inside and out, shambled on and off the pavement in their walk, all making their way to Jarrow. One man, with the coal dust of the pits still on him, dung to a lamp-post tor support, a Christmas tree trailing from his hand into the dirt. Going in Rodney's direction were more orderly groups;

Midnight Mass bent to the Borough Road or Tyne Dock church, he thought.

It said a lot for Peter's argument . they had a goal of sorts, something to cleave to; at least it made Christmas mean something.

Conister House loomed up vividly before him. No Christmas tree there, no paper chains, no stockings in the morning. He felt a great reluctance to return, and was tempted to keep to the arrangements of a week ago, before the last row with Stella, and drive straight on to Jesmond; the party would be on until four o'clock at least, and he could drive back tomorrow. But that would mean meeting Herbert Barrington. No, it would be wise to keep away from that gentleman, feeling as he did; and if he were to go, naturally he and Stella would have to share a room . he thought with bitterness of the room she had prepared for herself across the landing. No, he wouldn't go. As long as he could bear it he wouldn't force himself upon her; he had made up his mind on that score, he told himself, adding whimsically that the mind hadn't much say in it at times. She was a devil, he thought, like some evil temptress, a mythological figure, beckoning, then rebuking with disdain. He prayed for strength for the next time she should beckon.

He had almost reached the Tyne Dock arches when he passed a lone figure, walking with a free stride, the skirts of her long coat swinging from the hips. She was walking in the shadow of the dock wall, but as she passed in, then out of the weak rays of a street lamp he knew she was Kate Hannigan.

Kate Hannigan, and Christmas Eve! They seemed to be linked together.

He didn't often see her, but when he did it seemed to be on a Christmas Eve. He would stop and speak to her. Why not? he questioned himself.

Why not? She had not married that fellow, after all. Peter hadn't known why; something had gone wrong, but what? He was curious.

Anyway, he hadn't liked the fellow. Of course he would stop and speak to her 1 Pulling up the car to the kerb, he waited. He swivelled round in his seat and watched her coming towards him. She spoke first, without a trace of embarrassment:

"Happy Christmas, doctor."

"Happy Christmas, Kate."

"Thank you so much for Annie's present. But you really ought not to do it; she is being spoilt."

"Annie being spoilt! Nonsense; you couldn't