The Man in the Brown Suit by Agatha Christie (dar e dil novel online reading .txt) 📕

I shivered.

“Once you are completely restored to health, you can journey quietly on to Beira and get a boat to take you back to England.”

“That would be very tame,” I objected scornfully.

“There speaks a foolish schoolgirl.”

“I’m not a foolish schoolgirl,” I cried indignantly. “I’m a woman.”

He looked at me with an expression I could not fathom as I sat up flushed and excited.

“God help me, so you are,” he muttered, and went abruptly out.

My recovery was rapid. The two injuries I had sustained were a knock on the head and a badly wrenched arm. The latter was the most serious and, to begin with, my rescuer had believed it to be actually broken. A careful examination, however, convinced him that it was not so, and although it was very painful I was recovering the use of it quite quickly.

It was a strange time. We were cut off from the world, alone together as Adam and Eve might have been⁠—but with what a difference! Old Batani hovered about counting no more than a dog might have done. I insisted on doing the cooking, or as much of it as I could manage with one arm. Harry was out a good part of the time, but we spent long hours together lying out in the shade of the palms, talking and quarrelling⁠—discussing everything under high heaven, quarrelling and making it up again. We bickered a good deal, but there grew up between us a real and lasting comradeship such as I could never have believed possible. That⁠—and something else.

The time was drawing near, I knew it, when I should be well enough to leave and I realized it with a heavy heart. Was he going to let me go? Without a word? Without a sign? He had fits of silence, long moody intervals, moments when he would spring up and tramp off by himself. One evening the crisis came. We had finished our simple meal and were sitting in the doorway of the hut. The sun was sinking.

Hairpins were necessities of life with which Harry had not been able to provide me, and my hair, straight and black, hung to my knees. I sat, my chin on my hands, lost in meditation. I felt rather than saw Harry looking at me.

“You look like a witch, Anne,” he said at last, and there was something in his voice that had never been there before.

He reached out his hand and just touched my hair. I shivered. Suddenly he sprang up with an oath.

“You must leave here tomorrow, do you hear?” he cried. “I⁠—I can’t bear any more. I’m only a man after all. You must go, Anne. You must. You’re not a fool. You know yourself that this can’t go on.”

“I suppose not,” I said slowly. “But⁠—it’s been happy, hasn’t it?”

“Happy? It’s been hell!”

“As bad as that!”

“What do you torment me for? Why are you mocking at me? Why do you say that⁠—laughing into your hair?”

“I wasn’t laughing. And I’m not mocking. If you want me to go, I’ll go. But if you want me to stay⁠—I’ll stay.”

“Not that!” he cried vehemently. “Not that. Don’t tempt me, Anne. Do you realize what I am? A criminal twice over. A man hunted down. They know me here as Harry Parker⁠—they think I’ve been away on a trek up country, but any day they may put two and two together⁠—and then the blow will fall. You’re so young, Anne, and so beautiful⁠—with the kind of beauty that sends men mad. All the world’s before you⁠—love, life, everything. Mine’s behind me⁠—scorched, spoiled, with a taste of bitter ashes.”

“If you don’t want me⁠—”

“You know I want you. You know that I’d give my soul to pick you up in my arms and keep you here, hidden away from the world, forever and ever. And you’re tempting me, Anne. You, with your long witch’s hair, and your eyes that are golden and brown and green and never stop laughing even when your mouth is grave. But I’ll save you from yourself and from me. You shall go tonight. You shall go to Beira⁠—”

“I’m not going to Beira,” I interrupted.

“You are. You shall go to Beira if I have to take you there myself and throw you on to the boat. What do you think I’m made of? Do you think I’ll wake up night after night, fearing they’ve got you? One can’t go on counting on miracles happening. You must go back to England, Anne⁠—and⁠—and marry and be happy.”

“With a steady man who’ll give me a good home!”

“Better that than⁠—utter disaster.”

“And what of you?”

His face grew grim and set.

“I’ve got my work ready to hand. Don’t ask what it is. You can guess, I dare say. But I’ll tell you this⁠—I’ll clear my name, or die in the attempt, and I’ll choke the life out of the damned scoundrel who did his best to murder you the other night.”

“We must be fair,” I said. “He didn’t actually push me over.”

“He’d no need to. His plan was cleverer than that. I went up to the path afterwards. Everything looked all right, but by the marks on the ground I saw that the stones which outline the path had been taken up and put down again in a slightly different place. There are tall bushes growing just over the edge. He’d balanced the outside stones on them, so that you’d think you were still on the path when in reality you were stepping into nothingness. God help him if I lay my hands upon him!”

He paused a minute and then said in a totally different tone:

“We’ve never spoken of these things, Anne, have we? But the time’s come. I want you to hear the whole story⁠—from the beginning.”

“If it hurts you to go over the past, don’t tell me,” I said in a low voice.

“But I want you to know. I never thought I should speak of that part of my life to