The Coward Behind the Curtain
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 8: Mr Frazer Goes Shopping
The morning was bright and clear; the air was sweet and buoyant; the food was good, the man and the girl were hungry, they both made an excellent meal. And, while they ate and drank, and, between whiles, talked, each, more or less furtively, took stock of the other. Dorothy found that the hazy impression she had formed of the stranger overnight was not in the least bit like him. He was younger than she had thought. She was not much of a judge of men’s years; since her experience of them was so extremely limited, it was hardly likely that she would be. In the darkness she had set him down as somewhere in the forties; now, in the bright sunshine, which ages some of us, she supposed him to be somewhere in the early thirties. There was about him an appearance of vigour--the vigour which goes with youth--for which she was unprepared. Then, too, he was so much better-looking than she had taken him to be--perhaps in thinking so she was influenced by the accident that she was dark and he was fair. His eyes were very blue, and very bright; the skin of his face and neck, though slightly tanned, was delicate as any girl’s; his hair and beard were flaxen. He was taller, too, than she had imagined--when he stood up she saw that he must be at least six feet; his shoulders were so broad, he held himself so straight, there was about him such a glow of health and strength, that it did her good to look at him. And his attire suited him well; or she thought it did--certainly there could scarcely have been less of it. He wore no cap or coat or waistcoat; his canvas shirt was open at the neck; his grey flannel trousers had as belt a handkerchief of scarlet silk; he was shod with stout brown shoes. It was a costume suited to fine weather out-of-doors; and, free and easy as it was, both it and the wearer pleased the lady’s undoubtedly inexperienced eyes.
What impression she made on him it was not easy to determine; not impossibly the morning light had brought a surprise also to him. One felt, not only that she puzzled him, but that the puzzle continually grew. In his speech he owned as much. When the dish and the plates were empty he regarded her with a whimsical smile.
“It’s good to eat when you’re hungry.”
“Yes,” she agreed; “it is.”
“Do you know that it’s past eleven o’clock; and that when I’m abroad in this house of mine I make it a rule to have all signs of breakfast cleared away before the clock strikes eight.”
She began to stammer.
“I beg your pardon; I am so sorry; it’s all my fault; but I--I did sleep so late. Now I--I won’t hinder you any longer; I’ll go.” She stood up. “I--don’t quite know where; I--I don’t know this part of the country very well--I am very much obliged for all you’ve done for me; you--you’ve been very kind. I have no money; but when I have I’ll--I’ll pay you for what you’ve done, if you’ll let me know to what address to send.”
“I think you’re very stupid.”
She crimsoned.
“Good-bye.”
“I also think that you’re ill-mannered.”
She had turned to go; but there was something in the quiet finality of his tone which caused her to turn to him again.
“Why?”
“I think you’re the first because you speak of paying for what, you ought to know, I’m only too glad to give; as if I were the sort of person to accept money from a lady who has been my guest!”
“I beg your pardon; I--I’m so stupid.”
“I said you were. I think that you’re the second because, no sooner are you through your own meal than you rush off, before your host has finished.”
“I thought you had; I did not mean to be ill-mannered; I thought you wanted me to go.”
“You are mistaken. It is another rule of mine--and this is a rule which I don’t propose to break--when I am done with the actual eating and drinking, to smoke a pipe; I regard that pipe as an integral part of my breakfast. I don’t know why you should wish to deprive me of it.”
“I don’t; I didn’t know you wanted another; I saw you smoking one just now, before we began.”
“That was because breakfast was unwontedly delayed; also that is no reason why now I shouldn’t have another. When I am enjoying my breakfast pipe I like, when opportunity offers, to have a chat. You spoke of payment. I suggest that your payment takes the form of sitting down and talking to me till I have smoked my pipe right out. Have you any particular objection?”
“I don’t mind staying, if you want me to, till you--you’ve done your pipe.”
“Thank you; then will you have the goodness to resume your seat while I load up? One can’t talk to a person who will persist in standing.”
She sank down again upon the turf. As he crammed the tobacco into the bowl of his briar she regarded the tablecloth with doubtful eyes.
“Can I--can I clear away the things, and wash up for you?”
“No, you can’t; all you can do is sit still, and talk. Let me begin by introducing myself; my name is Frazer--Eric Frazer. You were so kind as to tell me last night that yours was Dorothy. As it is unusual for a man to address a woman by her Christian name after such a short acquaintance as ours hath been, may I ask you to tell me what your surname is, so that we can start fair?”
She hesitated; then told him a falsehood; she herself could not have said why.
“My name is Greenwood.”
Somehow, the instant she had spoken, she felt he doubted. He looked at her, over the lighted match which he was holding to the bowl of his pipe; and, though she did not try to meet his glance, she knew that in it there was something sceptical.
“Greenwood?--your name is Greenwood? Dorothy Greenwood--Miss Greenwood. Thank you; I am flattered by the confidence in me which your telling me your name implies.” Having completed the operation of lighting his pipe, folding his arms across his chest, he observed her with a steady attention which made her feel curiously uncomfortable. She began to wish that, ill-mannered or not, she had gone when she said she would. Nor were matters improved when he began to ask her questions; which he did in a cool, level voice which, for some cause, jarred upon her nerves. “You were so good as to inform me, also last night, when I inquired how it was that I was so fortunate as to be favoured with your society, that you came from the road. Now the road runs both ways; which one did you come from?”
Summoning her courage she looked at him with what she meant to be defiance.
“I would rather not tell you, if you don’t mind.”
“That’s better; much better.” What he meant she did not know; yet she felt that it was something which she would rather he did not mean. He went on: “Do I understand that, not knowing this country very well, you are journeying you don’t know where--without money, without luggage, without even a hat on your head?”
Again she tried to defy him.
“I can’t help your asking questions; but I’m not forced to answer them if I’d rather not; and I would rather not.”
His manner, if anything, was blander than ever; her attitude did not seem to wound his sensibilities one bit.
“Quite right; you are perfectly right; if you don’t want to answer, don’t; never be coerced into answering a question which you don’t want to answer. Impertinent curiosity is not to be encouraged. There is so much interest taken in our goings and our comings, merely because some people deem them peculiar, that the liberty of the subject threatens to become seriously abridged. I know what I am speaking of; I have suffered from that kind of thing myself. By the way, this morning, while you were still fast asleep in bed I--went shopping.”
He laid a stress on the last two words which caused her to prick up her ears; she herself did not know why.
“Shopping? Where?”
She looked about her, as if she expected to find a shop, or shops, in sight. He shook his head.
“No, not here; there are no shops upon the heath that I am aware of; and I know it pretty well. I ought to. Where I went shopping was to a town called Newcaster. Have you ever heard of it?” Newcaster was the town from which she had fled the night before. So soon as he spoke of it a dreadful feeling began to come over her that she knew what was the point which he was approaching. She tried to shake the feeling off; but it would not be shaken. With beating pulses she sat and watched him drawing closer and closer. “Newcaster,” he explained, speaking with what seemed to her to be hideous deliberation, “is a town not far from here; an old town; a racing town; it is to horse racing that, in all human probability, it owes its continued flourishing condition--for it continues to flourish. One of its numerous meetings is taking place now; there is to be racing on this heath to-day. You hear that humming and buzzing sound which comes and goes, so that now it fills all the air, and now seems completely to die away.” She had heard it, and had vaguely wondered what it was. “If you were to go to the top of that bank you would understand--it is the noise made by the people who are going to the races; on foot, in motor cars, in vehicles of all sorts and kinds, and by the people who are already there. The race-course is over yonder, about two miles from where we are. A great crowd will be there to-day; and, though it’s early, probably thousands are there already. It’s all open country between it and us; and, on a day like this, with what breeze there is blowing from it towards us, sound travels. You’ll know when a race begins by the noise the people make; and when it ends, by the comparative silence which follows.” He paused to puff at his pipe. As he did so the humming and buzzing sound of which he had spoken grew distinctly louder. He pointed upwards with the stem of his pipe. “You hear?”
“Yes,” she said; “I hear.”
He stayed still a little longer, as if to listen.
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