Read Online Contango (Ill Wind) by James Hilton - Free Book Online Page B

mismanaged things, and were scarcely mollified when they observed her poring
over a bulky paper-backed volume at every available moment. But Miss Faulkner
was past caring for things like that. Her mind was roaming like molten metal
into the vast ramifying moulds of human injustice, and the very loveliness of
lake and mountain only served to throw her visions into more dazzling focus.
It was terrible, and lovely, and nearly unendurable. Her body and spirit felt
like a single raw nerve; she was in pain with pity, with an aching
tenderness, with this love of hers. All over the earth the endless panorama
of suffering humanity called her, and she yearned towards it, and in yearning
saw the face of a man. Her man; the only man who was “yes” to all
her eagerness and “no” to all her fears. If only she could make
him respond a little! Had he not already, however unsusceptible at first,
begun to interest himself in her? His questioning the porter about her seemed
a good sign. And it was really unlikely that they could have progressed much
faster, he with his natural shyness and she with that dawdling cavalcade
always at her heels. But they had had that day together at the Jungfraujoch
and he must have realised then how much they shared in common. Miss
Faulkner’s heart beat more hopefully when she reckoned up all this; no,
it was not at all impossible; indeed, if fate but yielded an opportunity of
overcoming the first impediments, the rest might almost be considered
probable. Nor, quite honestly, could she imagine a more satisfactory match
for either of them. He probably had money—not very much, but enough to
let her give up her job and devote herself wholeheartedly to “the
cause”; in fact, as the wife of Gathergood (“You know, my dear, the man
who—“) her chances and prospects would be greatly enhanced. And
he too, reinforced by her capabilities, might go very far. She pictured the
two of them, working together in perfect community of ideas and ideals,
sitting perhaps for adjacent constituencies (she for Chester-le-Street, say,
and he for Houghton-le-Spring), and living in some mellow Georgian house in
Chelsea, with a big workroom full of white-painted bookshelves and a
tradition of Sunday tea-parties for the intelligentsia. A sort of Sidney and
Beatrice Webb business, but with moments during which even the Fabian
bloodstream might race. And at this, the mere possibility of it, Miss
Faulkner felt herself deliciously flushing. Absurd, of course, to let herself
dream in such a way. And yet… and yet… there WAS the chance, the minute,
incalculable chance that she had to seize if she could…. “Oh yes, the
tickets—I have them, of course,” she stammered, in confusion as
the collector approached. But there was another hitch about that; she had
thirty-three in her party and had bought tickets for only thirty-one. After
complicated countings and reckonings she paid the difference; but it was
another thing that had never happened before.
    That evening she watched the terrace at intervals from eight o’clock
till eleven; then she went across, trembling with almost physical
apprehension, and began to chat with the porter. Mr. Brown had gone away that
afternoon, he said, and at that she had a queer sensation as though she were
on a Channel steamer and about to be sick. Before leaving, the porter
continued, Mr. Brown had asked him for the name of a good hotel in Mürren,
and he had recommended the “Edelweiss.”
    “You see, miss, Mürren is a better centre for climbing. Mr. Brown
seemed to get very keen on it these last few days—I think his trip to
the Jungfraujoch impressed him.”
    “Did he say so?”
    “Yes, miss. He said he would always remember it as one of the most
marvellous days of his life.”
    “He DID? REALLY?”
    Miss Faulkner spent an excited and nearly sleepless night, and came down
in the morning to the perfect sunshine and blue sky that she had