Short Fiction, Arthur Machen [books suggested by bill gates TXT] 📗

for a moment, blushing slightly; and then began to recapitulate the misdeeds of the range, and the outrageous outlay of coal in the preparation of the cottage pie.

“Oh, I recollect now. That was the night I thought I heard the nightingale (people say there are nightingales in Bedford Park), and the sky was such a wonderful deep blue.”

He remembered how he had walked from Uxbridge Road Station, where the green bus stopped, and in spite of the fuming kilns under Acton, a delicate odour of the woods and summer fields was mysteriously in the air, and he had fancied that he smelt the red wild roses, drooping from the hedge. As he came to his gate he saw his wife standing in the doorway, with a light in her hand, and he threw his arms violently about her as she welcomed him, and whispered something in her ear, kissing her scented hair. He had felt quite abashed a moment afterwards, and he was afraid that he had frightened her by his nonsense; she seemed trembling and confused. And then she had told him how they had weighed the coal.

“Yes, I remember now,” he said. “It is a great nuisance, isn’t it? I hate to throw away money like that.”

“Well, what do you think? Suppose we bought a really good range with aunt’s money? It would save us a lot, and I expect the things would taste much nicer.”

Darnell passed the marmalade, and confessed that the idea was brilliant.

“It’s much better than mine, Mary,” he said quite frankly. “I am so glad you thought of it. But we must talk it over; it doesn’t do to buy in a hurry. There are so many makes.”

Each had seen ranges which looked miraculous inventions; he in the neighbourhood of the City; she in Oxford Street and Regent Street, on visits to the dentist. They discussed the matter at tea, and afterwards they discussed it walking round and round the garden, in the sweet cool of the evening.

“They say the Newcastle will burn anything, coke even,” said Mary.

“But the Glow got the gold medal at the Paris Exhibition,” said Edward.

“But what about the Eutopia Kitchener? Have you seen it at work in Oxford Street?” said Mary. “They say their plan of ventilating the oven is quite unique.”

“I was in Fleet Street the other day,” answered Edward, “and I was looking at the Bliss Patent Stoves. They burn less fuel than any in the market⁠—so the makers declare.”

He put his arm gently round her waist. She did not repel him; she whispered quite softly⁠—

“I think Mrs. Parker is at her window,” and he drew his arm back slowly.

“But we will talk it over,” he said. “There is no hurry. I might call at some of the places near the City, and you might do the same thing in Oxford Street and Regent Street and Piccadilly, and we could compare notes.”

Mary was quite pleased with her husband’s good temper. It was so nice of him not to find fault with her plan; “He’s so good to me,” she thought, and that was what she often said to her brother, who did not care much for Darnell. They sat down on the seat under the mulberry, close together, and she let Darnell take her hand, and as she felt his shy, hesitating fingers touch her in the shadow, she pressed them ever so softly, and as he fondled her hand, his breath was on her neck, and she heard his passionate, hesitating voice whisper, “My dear, my dear,” as his lips touched her cheek. She trembled a little, and waited. Darnell kissed her gently on the cheek and drew away his hand, and when he spoke he was almost breathless.

“We had better go in now,” he said. “There is a heavy dew, and you might catch cold.”

A warm, scented gale came to them from beyond the walls. He longed to ask her to stay out with him all night beneath the tree, that they might whisper to one another, that the scent of her hair might inebriate him, that he might feel her dress still brushing against his ankles. But he could not find the words, and it was absurd, and she was so gentle that she would do whatever he asked, however foolish it might be, just because he asked her. He was not worthy to kiss her lips; he bent down and kissed her silk bodice, and again he felt that she trembled, and he was ashamed, fearing that he had frightened her.

They went slowly into the house, side by side, and Darnell lit the gas in the drawing-room, where they always sat on Sunday evenings. Mrs. Darnell felt a little tired and lay down on the sofa, and Darnell took the armchair opposite. For a while they were silent, and then Darnell said suddenly⁠—

“What’s wrong with the Sayces? You seemed to think there was something a little strange about them. Their maid looks quite quiet.”

“Oh, I don’t know that one ought to pay any attention to servants’ gossip. They’re not always very truthful.”

“It was Alice told you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. She was speaking to me the other day, when I was in the kitchen in the afternoon.”

“But what was it?”

“Oh, I’d rather not tell you, Edward. It’s not pleasant. I scolded Alice for repeating it to me.”

Darnell got up and took a small, frail chair near the sofa.

“Tell me,” he said again, with an odd perversity. He did not really care to hear about the household next door, but he remembered how his wife’s cheeks flushed in the afternoon, and now he was looking at her eyes.

“Oh, I really couldn’t tell you, dear. I should feel ashamed.”

“But you’re my wife.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t make any difference. A woman doesn’t like to talk about such things.”

Darnell bent his head down. His heart was beating; he put his ear to her mouth and said, “Whisper.”

Mary drew his head down still lower with her gentle hand, and her cheeks burned