Lord of the Far Island, Victoria Holt [world of reading TXT] 📗

different when it is finished. I mounted the stairs. I was getting used to the place. I couldn't think what had possessed me to have the fancies I had. Was it really misgiving about the house or was it apprehension for the future and the life we would lead, Philip and I, in these four walls?

Did I want to marry Philip? Of course I did. I thought of the alternative. During the last few weeks I had forgotten how humiliating my position had been. I had ceased to think of Mrs. Oman Lemming waiting for her governess. What had the future held out for me before Philip had asked me to marry him? I had forgotten all that just because I had seen Philip's brother and realized suddenly that one does not necessarily want an old playmate—whatever the affection you have for him—for a husband.

I was marrying Philip to escape—and that was not really a good reason for marriage, I knew, yet how was it possible to back out now? But it's not too late. It was almost as though the house was telling me that. You could stop it now, negotiations are not complete and there has been no signing on the dotted line. You could escape now.

Escape? Where to? To Mrs. Oman Lemming?

Maybe. But to escape from her is no reason for marriage.

Then, I reproached myself, why didn't you think of this before? Why do you have to start plaguing yourself with it now?

It was just because I was afraid of the future. Mrs. Oman Lemming was looming up before me and there seemed no escape from the dreary life which I knew I was going to hate. And then Philip's proposal had been so unexpected and promised such fun; it was only at this eleventh hour that I realized I was plunging into marriage without much experience of life.

What nonsense! What experience of life do girls have? What has Esmeralda had? What does she know of life? She was once lost in a market. That was the nearest she came to knowing there was a world outside her tight little circle.

Yet there was this strange feeling creeping over me. The house was rejecting me. We don't want you here, it seemed to be saying.

These rooms are not for you. We will never accept you. That was the message of the house.

I clenched my fists. Metaphorically I shook them at the house. If I want to live here, I will. It is my life and how could I possibly be a governess to that old tyrant and her loathsome brood now? Philip would never allow it.

It was comforting to think of Philip, his gaiety, his comradeship, his kindness. I did love him—in a way.

Then I heard it—or perhaps sensed it—the sudden awareness that I was not alone in the house.

The house was so quiet. One could imagine anything else. Then it was there again. The step on the stairs. The creak of feet on wood. Now it was distinct. Footsteps were coming up the stairs. I immediately thought of that other occasion when Rollo had come into the house. It's Rollo again, I reassured myself. As he is making the arrangements, he has naturally come to have another look at it.

The door opened slowly. I almost cried out: "Rollo!" Then my flesh started to creep, for it was not Rollo. It was a man who stood there smiling at me in an odd sort of way. I put my hands behind my back for fear he should see that they were trembling.

I knew this man. He was the tall dark one who had spoken to me at the Chopin recital.

I stammered: "How . . . how did you get in?"

He held up a door key.

"Where did you get it?" I demanded.

He laughed and answered: "The house is for sale, I believe."

"No, it's sold. I can't understand. I suppose the agent gave it to you. He shouldn't have done so. The house is sold ... or all but sold."

"Oh, they can never be sure until everything is signed and sealed. They must go on trying to sell it."

As he spoke he kept his eyes fixed on me and I felt an uneasiness creeping over me. The fact that the house was empty and I was alone in it with this man struck me forcibly.

"So," I went on, feeling the need to say something even though it was obvious, "you came to look at the house."

He nodded and advanced into the room. I desperately wanted to get out through the door but I did not see how I could without passing him.

"This house is definitely off the market," I added.

"That's a pity because I quite like it."

"So you are wasting your time."

His hooded eyes regarded me intently. I wished I knew what he was thinking because I was sure there was something more in this than what he would have it appear.

"Perhaps," he said. "But while I am here I shall look round. You never know ... if the sale fell through and I liked it particularly well, I could then jump into the breach."

I was nearly at the door but he had taken a step towards me. I said hurriedly: "I'll leave you to look round."

"Couldn't we look together? I know so little about houses. I should welcome your comments."

"I must remind you again that it is sold."

I thought cunningly that I would pretend to go round with him and when I reached the ground floor I would remember an appointment and before he had time to stop me I would open the front door and walk out.

"All the same," I went on, "if you want to look round, do. Let's start at the bottom."

"You are kind." He stood aside for me to pass and as I started to walk downstairs I was aware of him very close behind me. Why did I feel so scared? What was it about him? He seemed so large, so powerfully built that