Mysterious Mr. Quin - Agatha Christie [85]
‘I–didn’t know,’ he said clumsily.
‘Of course you couldn’t. And it’s not–the actual thing–I’m not happy yet–but I’m going to be.’ She leaned forward. ‘Do you know what it’s like to stand in a wood–a big wood with dark shadows and trees very close all round you–a wood you might never get out of–and then, suddenly–just in front of you, you see the country of your dreams–shining and beautiful–you’ve only got to step out from the trees and the darkness and you’ve found it…’
‘So many things look beautiful,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, ‘before we’ve reached them. Some of the ugliest things in the world look the most beautiful…’
There was a step on the floor. Mr Satterthwaite turned his head. A fair man with a stupid, rather wooden face, stood there. He was the man Mr Satterthwaite had hardly noticed at the dinner-table.
‘They’re waiting for you, Mabelle,’ he said.
She got up, the expression had gone out of her face, her voice was flat and calm.
‘I’m coming, Gerard,’ she said. ‘I’ve been talking to Mr Satterthwaite.’
She went out of the room, Mr Satterthwaite following. He turned his head over his shoulder as he went and caught the expression on her husband’s face. A hungry, despairing look.
‘Enchantment,’ thought Mr Satterthwaite. ‘He feels it right enough. Poor fellow–poor fellow.’
The drawing-room was well lighted. Madge and Doris Coles were vociferous in reproaches.
‘Mabelle, you little beast–you’ve been ages.’
She sat on a low stool, tuned the ukelele and sang. They all joined in.
‘Is it possible,’ thought Mr Satterthwaite, ‘that so many idiotic songs could have been written about My Baby.’
But he had to admit that the syncopated wailing tunes were stirring. Though, of course, they weren’t a patch on the old-fashioned waltz.
The air got very smoky. The syncopated rhythm went on.
‘No conversation,’ thought Mr Satterthwaite. ‘No good music. No peace.’ He wished the world had not become definitely so noisy.
Suddenly Mabelle Annesley broke off, smiled across the room at him, and began to sing a song of Grieg’s.
‘My swan–my fair one…’
It was a favourite of Mr Satterthwaite’s. He liked the note of ingenuous surprise at the end.
‘Wert only a swan then? A swan then? ’
After that, the party broke up. Madge offered drinks whilst her father picked up the discarded ukelele and began twanging it absent-mindedly. The party exchanged goodnights, drifted nearer and nearer to the door. Everyone talked at once. Gerard Annesley slipped away unostentatiously, leaving the others.
Outside the drawing-room door, Mr Satterthwaite bade Mrs Graham a ceremonious goodnight. There were two staircases, one close at hand, the other at the end of a long corridor. It was by the latter that Mr Satterthwaite reached his room. Mrs Graham and her son passed by the stairs near at hand whence the quiet Gerard Annesley had already preceded them.
‘You’d better get your ukelele, Mabelle,’ said Madge. ‘You’ll forget it in the morning if you don’t. You’ve got to make such an early start.’
‘Come on, Mr Satterthwaite,’ said Doris Coles, seizing him boisterously by one arm. ‘Early to bed–etcetera.’
Madge took him by the other arm and all three ran down the corridor to peals of Doris’s laughter. They paused at the end to wait for David Keeley, who was following at a much more sedate pace, turning out electric lights as he came. The four of them went upstairs together.
II
Mr Satterthwaite was just preparing to descend to the dining-room for breakfast on the following morning, when there was a light tap on the door and Madge Keeley entered. Her face was dead white, and she was shivering all over.
‘Oh, Mr Satterthwaite.’
‘My dear child, what’s happened?’ He took her hand.
‘Mabelle–Mabelle Annesley…’
‘Yes?’
What had happened? What? Something terrible–he knew that. Madge could hardly get the words out.
‘She–she hanged herself last night…On the back of her door. Oh! it’s too horrible.’ She