While the Light Lasts. Агата КристиЧитать онлайн книгу.
appear to see—well, to see what was so plainly to be seen. She was a direct young woman in her methods, but directness was lost upon John. He thought her kind, but a little overpowering.
Yet the Fates were stronger than Maisie. They willed that John should see Allegra again.
They met in the park one Sunday afternoon. He had seen her from far off, and his heart thumped against the side of his ribs. Supposing she should have forgotten him—
But she had not forgotten. She stopped and spoke. In a few minutes they were walking side by side, striking out across the grass. He was ridiculously happy.
He said suddenly and unexpectedly:
‘Do you believe in dreams?’
‘I believe in nightmares.’
The harshness of her voice startled him.
‘Nightmares,’ he said stupidly. ‘I didn’t mean nightmares.’
Allegra looked at him.
‘No,’ she said. ‘There have been no nightmares in your life. I can see that.’
Her voice was gentle—different.
He told her then of his dream of the white house, stammering a little. He had had it now six—no, seven times. Always the same. It was beautiful—so beautiful!
He went on.
‘You see—it’s to do with you—in some way. I had it first the night before I met you.’
‘To do with me?’ She laughed—a short bitter laugh. ‘Oh, no, that’s impossible. The house was beautiful.’
‘So are you,’ said John Segrave.
Allegra flushed a little with annoyance.
‘I’m sorry—I was stupid. I seemed to ask for a compliment, didn’t I? But I didn’t really mean that at all. The outside of me is all right, I know.’
‘I haven’t seen the inside of the house yet,’ said John Segrave. ‘When I do I know it will be quite as beautiful as the outside.’
He spoke slowly and gravely, giving the words a meaning that she chose to ignore.
‘There is something more I want to tell you—if you will listen.’
‘I will listen,’ said Allegra.
‘I am chucking up this job of mine. I ought to have done it long ago—I see that now. I have been content to drift along knowing I was an utter failure, without caring much, just living from day to day. A man shouldn’t do that. It’s a man’s business to find something he can do and make a success of it. I’m chucking this, and taking on something else—quite a different sort of thing. It’s a kind of expedition in West Africa—I can’t tell you the details. They’re not supposed to be known; but if it comes off—well, I shall be a rich man.’
‘So you, too, count success in terms of money?’
‘Money,’ said John Segrave, ‘means just one thing to me—you! When I come back—’ he paused.
She bent her head. Her face had grown very pale.
‘I won’t pretend to misunderstand. That’s why I must tell you now, once and for all: I shall never marry.’
He stayed a little while considering, then he said very gently:
‘Can’t you tell me why?’
‘I could, but more than anything in the world I do not want to tell you.’
Again he was silent, then he looked up suddenly and a singularly attractive smile illumined his faun’s face.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘So you won’t let me come inside the House—not even to peep in for a second? The blinds are to stay down.’
Allegra leaned forward and laid her hand on his.
‘I will tell you this much. You dream of your House. But I—don’t dream. My dreams are nightmares!’
And on that she left him, abruptly, disconcertingly.
That night, once more, he dreamed. Of late, he had realized that the House was most certainly tenanted. He had seen a hand draw aside the blinds, had caught glimpses of moving figures within.
Tonight the House seemed fairer than it had ever done before. Its white walls shone in the sunlight. The peace and the beauty of it were complete.
Then, suddenly, he became aware of a fuller ripple of the waves of joy. Someone was coming to the window. He knew it. A hand, the same hand that he had seen before, laid hold of the blind, drawing it back. In a minute he would see …
He was awake—still quivering with the horror, the unutterable loathing of the Thing that had looked out at him from the window of the House.
It was a Thing utterly and wholly horrible, a Thing so vile and loathsome that the mere remembrance of it made him feel sick. And he knew that the most unutterably and horribly vile thing about it was its presence in that House—the House of Beauty.
For where that Thing abode was horror—horror that rose up and slew the peace and the serenity which were the birthright of the House. The beauty, the wonderful immortal beauty of the House was destroyed for ever, for within its holy consecrated walls there dwelt the Shadow of an Unclean Thing!
If ever again he should dream of the House, Segrave knew he would awake at once with a start of terror, lest from its white beauty that Thing might suddenly look out at him.
The following evening, when he left the office, he went straight to the Wettermans’ house. He must see Allegra Kerr. Maisie would tell him where she was to be found.
He never noticed the eager light that flashed into Maisie’s eyes as he was shown in, and she jumped up to greet him. He stammered out his request at once, with her hand still in his.
‘Miss Kerr. I met her yesterday, but I don’t know where she’s staying.’
He did not feel Maisie’s hand grow limp in his as she withdrew it. The sudden coldness of her voice told him nothing.
‘Allegra is here—staying with us. But I’m afraid you can’t see her.’
‘But—’
‘You see, her mother died this morning. We’ve just had the news.’
‘Oh!’ He was taken aback.
‘It is all very sad,’ said Maisie. She hesitated just a minute, then went on. ‘You see, she died in—well, practically an asylum. There’s insanity in the family. The grandfather shot himself, and one of Allegra’s aunts is a hopeless imbecile, and another drowned herself.’
John Segrave made an inarticulate sound.
‘I thought I ought to tell you,’ said Maisie virtuously. ‘We’re such friends, aren’t we? And of course Allegra is very attractive. Lots of people have asked her to marry them, but naturally she won’t marry at all—she couldn’t, could she?’
‘She’s all right,’ said Segrave. ‘There’s nothing wrong with her.’
His voice sounded hoarse and unnatural in his own ears.
‘One never knows, her mother was quite all right when she was young. And she wasn’t just—peculiar, you know. She was quite raving mad. It’s a dreadful thing—insanity.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s a most awful Thing.’
He knew now what it was that had looked at him from the window of the House.
Maisie was still talking on. He interrupted her brusquely.
‘I really came to say goodbye—and to thank you for all your kindness.’
‘You’re not—going