Read Online The Woman Who Had Imagination by H.E. Bates - Free Book Online Page B

muttered querulously. ‘Who’s that young man?’
    In one swift movement she turned from the old man to Henry and then back to the old man again, smiling at the youth with half-grave, half-vivacious eyes. And there was the same mischievous solemnity in her voice.
    â€˜He’s the new gardener,’ she said.
    â€˜Eh?’
    â€˜The new gardener. Here, take the book. Read a little till I come back. From the top of the page there. You see?’
    â€˜What? I’d like some tea.’
    â€˜All right.’
    â€˜It’s not so frightfully warm in here either,’ he said pettishly.
    â€˜Keep your dressing-gown buttoned. You’re not likely to be warm. See, button it up.’
    She fingered the buttons of his dressing-gown, quickly, impatiently. And then, while he still protestedand complained, she walked swiftly across the room, opened the far door and vanished into the passage outside. In bewilderment Henry followed her. She shut the door quickly behind him.
    â€˜Well, now I’ll see you out,’ she said.
    She began to walk away along the passage and he followed her, a step or two behind. She walked quickly with long, impatient steps, so that he had difficulty in keeping up.
    They walked along in silence except for the sound of her dress swishing along the carpet until he recognised the window at which he had stood and looked down in the choir.
    â€˜I’m all right now,’ he said. He began to utter dim thanks and apologies.
    â€˜Go and enjoy yourself,’ she said. ‘Have you seen the lake?’
    â€˜No,’
    â€˜Go and see it. Across the park and through the rhododendron plantation. You’ll find it. It’s lovely.’
    Before he could speak again she had turned away. There was a brief flash of maroon in the passage, the sound of her feet running quickly after she had vanished. He waited a moment. But nothing happened, there was only a curious, almost audible hush everywhere. Outside the singing had ceased. He moved towards the stairs in a state of dejected and tense astonishment.
III
    The singing was over for the afternoon. There was nothing to do but wander about the lawns and terraces or take tea in the large flagged tea-tent. Privileged ladies were playing croquet on a small lawn under the main terrace, giggling nervously as they struck the bright-coloured balls. Gentlemen in straw boaters and pin-striped cream flannel trousers with wide silk waist-bands applauded their shots delicately. There was an oppressive feeling of summer languor, a parade of gay hats and parasols and sweeping dresses. Henry went into the tea-tent for a cup of tea to escape the boredom of it all. Coming out again he met the fishmonger.
    â€˜Cheer up,’ said the fishmonger.
    â€˜Oh! I’m all right.’ He put on a casual air. ‘I was wondering which was the way to the lake.’
    â€˜The lake?’ said the fishmonger. His eyes began to dance like little bubbling peas as soon as he heard the word. The lake? What did he want with the lake? Becoming quite excited, he took hold of Henry’s coat-sleeve confidentially and led him across the lawn. So he wanted to know the way to the lake? Well! Very strange. He wondered what he wanted with the lake? Not for fish by any chance? Oh! no, not for fish. Perhaps he didn’t even know there were fish in the lake? Henry protested. He cut him short:
    â€˜Ah, you’re dark, you’re dark.’
    Finally, losing a little of his excitement, he began to tell him of the days when, as a young man, he had fished in the lake. Fish! They hadn’t breathing room. They were the days. But now there hadn’t been fish, not a solitary fish, not a stickleback, pulled out of that lake for twenty years. ‘Not since old Antonio came.’ It was a shame, wickedness. He began to talk with lugubrious regret. Who was Antonio? Henry asked. The fishmonger echoed the words with tenor astonishment, his voice squeaking.