Nightfall

Nightfall

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Nightfall, by Anthony Pryde
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Title: Nightfall
Author: Anthony Pryde

Release Date: June 30, 2005 [eBook #14489]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK
NIGHTFALL***
E-text prepared by Harry Graham Liston

NIGHTFALL
by
ANTHONY PRYDE

CHAPTER I
"Tea is ready, Bernard," said Laura Clowes, coming in from the garden.
It was five o'clock on a June afternoon, but the hall was so dark that she
had to grope her way. Wanhope was a large, old-fashioned
manor-house, a plain brick front unbroken except in the middle, where
its corniced roof was carried down by steps to an immense gateway of
weathered stone, carved with the escutcheon of the family and their

Motto: FORTIS ET FIDELIS. Wistarias rambled over both sides,
wreathing the stone window-frames in their grape-like clusters of lilac
bloom, and flagstones running from end to end, shallow, and so worn
that a delicate growth of stonecrop fringed them, shelved down to a
lawn.
Indoors in the great hall it was dark because floor and staircase and
wall and ceiling were all lined with Spanish chestnut-wood, while the
windows were full of Flemish glass in purple and sepia and blue. There
was nothing to reflect a glint of light except a collection of weapons of
all ages which occupied the wall behind a bare stone hearth; suits of
inlaid armour, coats of chainmail as flexible as silk, assegais and
blowpipes, Bornean parangs and Gurkha kukris, Abyssinian shotels
with their double blades, Mexican knives in chert and chalcedony,
damascened swords and automatic pistols, a Chinese bronze drum, a
Persian mace of the date of Rustum, and an Austrian cavalry helmet
marked with a bullet-hole and a stain.
Gradually, as her eyes grew used to the gloom Laura found her way to
her husband's couch. She would have liked to kiss him, but dared not:
the narrow mocking smile, habitual on his lips, showed no disposition
to respond to advances. Dressed in an ordinary suit of Irish tweed,
Bernard Clowes lay at full length in an easy attitude, his hands in his
pockets and his legs decently extended as Barry, his male nurse, had
left them twenty minutes ago: a big, powerful man, well over six feet in
height, permanently bronze and darkly handsome, his immense
shoulders still held back so flat that his coat fitted without a
wrinkle--but a cripple since the war.
Laura Clowes too was tall and slightly sunburnt, but thin for her height,
and rather plain except for her sweet eyes, her silky brown hair,
and--rarer gift!--the vague elegance which was a prerogative of
Selincourt women. She rarely wore expensive clothes, her maid
Catherine made most of her indoor dresses, and yet she could still hold
her own, as in old days, among women who shopped in the Rue de la
Paix. This afternoon, in her silk muslin of the same shade as the trail of
wistaria tucked in where the frills crossed over her breast, she might

have gone astray out of the seventeenth century.
"Tea is in the parlour," said Mrs. Clowes. "Shall I wheel you round
through the garden? It's a lovely day and the roses are in their
perfection, I counted eighty blooms on the old Frau Karl. I should like
you to see her."
"I shouldn't. But you can drag me into the parlour if you like," said
Bernard Clowes--a grudging concession: more often than not he ate his
food in the hall. His wife pushed his couch, which ran on cycle wheels
and so lightly that a child could propel it, into her sitting-room and as
near as she dared to the French windows that opened without step or
ledge on the terrace flagstones and the verdure of the lawn. Out of
doors, for some obscure reason, he refused to go, though the garden
was sweet with the scent of clover and the gold sunlight was screened
by the milky branches of a great acacia. Still he was in the fresh air, and
Laura hastily busied herself with her flowered Dresden teacups,
pretending unconsciousness because if she had shown the slightest
satisfaction he would probably have demanded to be taken back. Her
mild duplicity was of course mere make believe: the two understood
each other only too well: but it was wiser to keep a veil drawn in case
Bernard Clowes should suddenly return to his senses. For this reason
Laura always spoke as if his choice of a coffined life were only a day