Part 27 (1/2)
”Oh, just a beastly chill. Elizabeth would make me take too many wraps.
Everyone knows you oughtn't to get overheated walking.”
”Do you want to stay on here longer?”
”Not I! What do I care about glaciers and mountains and that sort of stuff if I can't hunt? But Elizabeth's got at the doctor somehow, and he won't let me go for three or four days unless I kick over the traces. I daresay I shall.”
”No you won't--for your sister's sake. I'll see all arrangements are made.”
Philip made no direct reply. He lay staring at the ceiling--till at last he said--
”Delaine's going. He's going to-morrow. He gets on Elizabeth's nerves.”
”Did he say anything to you about me?” said Anderson.
Philip flushed.
”Well, I daresay he did.”
”Make your mind easy, Gaddesden. A man with my story is not going to ask your sister to marry him.”
Philip looked up. Anderson sat composedly erect, the traces of his nights of sleeplessness and revolt marked on every feature, but as much master of himself and his life--so Gaddesden intuitively felt--as he had ever been. A movement of remorse and affection stirred in the young man mingled with the strength of other inherited things.
”Awfully sorry, you know,” he said clumsily, but this time sincerely. ”I don't suppose it makes any difference to you that your father--well, I'd better not talk about it. But you see--Elizabeth might marry anybody.
She might have married heaps of times since Merton died, if she hadn't been such an icicle. She's got lots of money, and--well, I don't want to be sn.o.bbish--but at home--we--our family--”
”I understand,” said Anderson, perhaps a little impatiently--”you are great people. I understood that all along.”
Family pride cried out in Philip. ”Then why the deuce--” But he said aloud in some confusion, ”I suppose that sounded disgusting”--then floundering deeper--”but you see--well, I'm very fond of Elizabeth!”
Anderson rose and walked to the window which commanded a view of the railway line.
”I see the car outside. I'll go and have a few words with Yerkes.”
The boy let him go in silence--conscious on the one hand that he had himself played a mean part in their conversation, and on the other that Anderson, under this onset of sordid misfortune, was somehow more of a hero in his eyes, and no doubt in other people's, than ever.
On his way downstairs Anderson ran into Delaine, who was ascending with an armful of books and pamphlets.
”Oh, how do you do? Had only just heard you were here. May I have a word with you?”
Anderson remounted the stairs in silence, and the two men paused, seeing no one in sight, in the corridor beyond.
”I have just read the report of the inquest, and should like to offer you my sincere sympathy and congratulations on your very straightforward behaviour--” Anderson made a movement. Delaine went on hurriedly--
”I should like also to thank you for having kept my name out of it.”
”There was no need to bring it in,” said Anderson coldly.
”No of course not--of course not! I have also seen the news of your appointment. I trust nothing will interfere with that.”
Anderson turned towards the stairs again. He was conscious of a keen antipathy--the antipathy of tired nerves--to the speaker's mere aspect, his long hair, his too picturesque dress, the antique on his little finger, the effeminate stammer in his voice.