Read Online Mr. Campion's Lucky Day & Other Stories by Margery Allingham - Free Book Online
Authors: Margery Allingham
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news and moved heaven and earth to get himself introduced to Vickers immediately. When he saw him he seemed relieved but surprised—almost wondering. He exchanged one or two words with him, congratulated them both and then went offsighing and smiling to himself—a poet and a hunchback.
More than probably, Elfrida did not notice him.
She was in love. Her great shapely body seemed on fire with it; her mouth and eyes, always proud, were prouder still. She positively seemed to grow under its influence, finally to unfold her last petals and show herself the perfect flower in its full pride. All the time he stood at her side, wondering at her, glorying in her while lesser men, his one-time rivals, stood round them envying and admiring.
The chapel was crammed at the wedding. When they came down the aisle after the ceremony those tears which are born of the sudden sight of great beauty started to many eyes. A man and his wife, the perfect match.
It was a wonderful idea to dress her in a white medieval gown with her tightly braided hair wound about her sleek head, for as she strode along at his side, her head held very high and her eyes alight with an almost haughty joy, she seemed, as Fyshe had said, a Northern Queen, a queen beside her king.
In full uniform and without a trace of nervousness he dominated her all the time—not too much so that any of her dignity or beauty was lost but just enough to make one realize she was the captive, he the captor.
“God let it happen to restore man’s faith in the world as a world,” said Fyshe.
When they came back from the honeymoon they took a house just off Portman Square. They seemed to fascinate Fyshe, perhaps because they were so different from himself. Anyway, he used to haunt the place and whenever one dropped in he was sure to be there, squatting in some corner, peering out at the two of them with his bright bird’s eyes.
They had a wonderful place there. It suited them and that meant something. Great wide rooms with mighty fireplaces, oak walls and fine pictures. Several Brangwyns, a John and a great battle-piece by an unknown. The furniture was extraordinary; they must have had it made for them. Great heavy oak pieces beautifully carved but weird and barbaric. When you saw her sweeping down the room in one of those plain tight-fitting gowns she affected, you had a curious feeling that you were visiting a twelfth century Danish queen at home.
It was Meyer who first pointed out that something was wrong between the two, although Fyshe must have noticed it long before and kept silent.
Meyer said she was not happy, and furthermore, he said that Vickers was to blame. How, he did not say, because he knew no more than anyone else. Fyshe told the truth of it long after. He knew because he loved her and he used to sit and watch her struggling with herself and every pang she felt was echoed in him.
The crookback should have been a woman, the intuition he had.
Fyshe said she found him out three months after the honeymoon but that she managed to blind herself to it for a year after that
Vickers was weak—horribly weak.
He had no special vices. He drank little, did not gamble, took no great interest in women. Yet there was no special virtue in him on that score; none of these things amused him. There was no greatness, no friendliness, no strength in the man; no warmth, no mental or spiritual life. He was small, weak, pitifully blind and narrow.
His body was the one really noble thing about him and that was magnificent. It would almost seem that his mind had been sacrificed to produce that body with its beauty, its strength, its utter largeness and perfection. In that alone he fitted her. As far as the rest went she might have married almost anyone else and fared better.
It broke Fyshe’s heart to see her for she loved her husband. Loved him with a love which matched the rest of her. A mighty love, a whirling torrential sea of love which she poured out upon him with all the
More than probably, Elfrida did not notice him.
She was in love. Her great shapely body seemed on fire with it; her mouth and eyes, always proud, were prouder still. She positively seemed to grow under its influence, finally to unfold her last petals and show herself the perfect flower in its full pride. All the time he stood at her side, wondering at her, glorying in her while lesser men, his one-time rivals, stood round them envying and admiring.
The chapel was crammed at the wedding. When they came down the aisle after the ceremony those tears which are born of the sudden sight of great beauty started to many eyes. A man and his wife, the perfect match.
It was a wonderful idea to dress her in a white medieval gown with her tightly braided hair wound about her sleek head, for as she strode along at his side, her head held very high and her eyes alight with an almost haughty joy, she seemed, as Fyshe had said, a Northern Queen, a queen beside her king.
In full uniform and without a trace of nervousness he dominated her all the time—not too much so that any of her dignity or beauty was lost but just enough to make one realize she was the captive, he the captor.
“God let it happen to restore man’s faith in the world as a world,” said Fyshe.
When they came back from the honeymoon they took a house just off Portman Square. They seemed to fascinate Fyshe, perhaps because they were so different from himself. Anyway, he used to haunt the place and whenever one dropped in he was sure to be there, squatting in some corner, peering out at the two of them with his bright bird’s eyes.
They had a wonderful place there. It suited them and that meant something. Great wide rooms with mighty fireplaces, oak walls and fine pictures. Several Brangwyns, a John and a great battle-piece by an unknown. The furniture was extraordinary; they must have had it made for them. Great heavy oak pieces beautifully carved but weird and barbaric. When you saw her sweeping down the room in one of those plain tight-fitting gowns she affected, you had a curious feeling that you were visiting a twelfth century Danish queen at home.
It was Meyer who first pointed out that something was wrong between the two, although Fyshe must have noticed it long before and kept silent.
Meyer said she was not happy, and furthermore, he said that Vickers was to blame. How, he did not say, because he knew no more than anyone else. Fyshe told the truth of it long after. He knew because he loved her and he used to sit and watch her struggling with herself and every pang she felt was echoed in him.
The crookback should have been a woman, the intuition he had.
Fyshe said she found him out three months after the honeymoon but that she managed to blind herself to it for a year after that
Vickers was weak—horribly weak.
He had no special vices. He drank little, did not gamble, took no great interest in women. Yet there was no special virtue in him on that score; none of these things amused him. There was no greatness, no friendliness, no strength in the man; no warmth, no mental or spiritual life. He was small, weak, pitifully blind and narrow.
His body was the one really noble thing about him and that was magnificent. It would almost seem that his mind had been sacrificed to produce that body with its beauty, its strength, its utter largeness and perfection. In that alone he fitted her. As far as the rest went she might have married almost anyone else and fared better.
It broke Fyshe’s heart to see her for she loved her husband. Loved him with a love which matched the rest of her. A mighty love, a whirling torrential sea of love which she poured out upon him with all the
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