Turnstile

W. Mason A. E.

Description

This classic novel from English author A. E. W. Mason combines a number of seemingly disparate plot lines into a seamless, thrilling action-adventure tale. Ranging from the backroom political dealings and high-society conflicts of Edwardian England to a pulse-pounding account of a dangerous expedition to Antarctica, this page-turner deserves a place on your must-read list.

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 septembre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776586776
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE TURNSTILE
* * *
A. E. W. MASON
 
*
The Turnstile First published in 1912 Epub ISBN 978-1-77658-677-6 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77658-678-3 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Chapter I - The Swinging of a Chandelier Chapter II - Of an Earthquake and James Challoner Chapter III - Challoner's Pilgrimage Chapter IV - Cynthia's Birthday Chapter V - The Reaper Chapter VI - A Visitor at the Estancia Chapter VII - Both Sides of the Door Chapter VIII - The Flight Chapter IX - Robert Daventry Explains Chapter X - Mr. Benoliel Chapter XI - A Man on the Make Chapter XII - Lungatine Chapter XIII - The Night Before the Poll Chapter XIV - Colonel Challoner's Memory Chapter XV - The Mayor and the Man Chapter XVI - Words over the Telephone Chapter XVII - A Refusal Chapter XVIII - A Maiden Speech Chapter XIX - And a Proposal Chapter XX - At Culver Chapter XXI - Mr. Benoliel's Warning Chapter XXII - And an Instance to Enforce It Chapter XXIII - Cynthia on the House Chapter XXIV - The Man Who Had Walked in the Road Chapter XXV - Colonel Challoner's Revolt Chapter XXVI - The Picture at Bramling Chapter XXVII - Devenish Replies Chapter XXVIII - Wireless Chapter XXIX - In the Ladies' Gallery Chapter XXX - The Letter Chapter XXXI - M. Poizat Again Chapter XXXII - The Call Chapter XXXIII - A Letter from Abroad Chapter XXXIV - The Convict at the Oar Chapter XXXV - The Little Bit Extra Chapter XXXVI - The Telegram Chapter XXXVII - The Last
Chapter I - The Swinging of a Chandelier
*
At the first glance it looked as if the midnight chimes of a clock inan old city of the Midlands might most fitly ring in this history. Butwe live in a very small island, and its inhabitants have for so longbeen wanderers upon the face of the earth that one can hardly searchamongst them for the beginnings of either people or events withoutslipping unexpectedly over the edge of England. So it is in thisinstance. For, although it was in England that Captain Rames, Mr.Benoliel, Cynthia, the little naturalized Frenchman, and the rest ofthem met and struggled more or less inefficiently to expressthemselves; although, too, Ludsey, the old city, was during a periodthe pivot of their lives; for the beginnings of their relationship onewith another, it is necessary to go further afield, and back by somefew years. One must turn toward a lonely estancia in the south-west ofArgentina, where, on a hot, still night of summer, a heavy chandeliertouched by no human hand swung gently to and fro.
This queer thing happened in the dining-room of the house, and betweenhalf-past ten and eleven o'clock. It was half-way through January, andMr. and Mrs. Daventry were still seated at the table over a latesupper. For Robert Daventry had on that day begun the harvesting ofhis eight leagues of wheat, and there had been little rest for any oneupon the estancia since daybreak. He sat now taking his ease oppositehis wife, with a cup of black coffee in front of him and a cigarbetween his lips, a big, broad, sunburnt man with a beard growing grayand a thick crop of brown hair upon his head; loose-limbed still, andstill getting, when he stood up, the value of every inch of his sixfeet two. As he lounged at the table he debated with his wife in acurious gentle voice a question which, played with once, had begun oflate years to insist upon an answer.
"We are both over fifty, Joan," he said. "And we have made our money."
"We have also made our friends, Robert," replied his wife. She was ashort, stoutish woman, quick with her hands, practical in her speech.Capacity was written broad upon her like a label, and, for all herhusband's bulk, she was the better man of the two, even at the firstcasual glance. There was a noticeable suggestion of softness andamiability in Robert Daventry. It was hardly, perhaps, to be localizedin any feature. Rather he diffused it about him like an atmosphere.One would have wondered how it came about that in a country so sternas Argentina he had prospered so exceedingly had his wife not beenpresent to explain his prosperity. It was so evident that she drovethe cart and that he ran between the shafts—evident, that is, toothers than Robert Daventry. She had been clever enough and fondenough to conceal from him their exact relationship. So now it waswith an air of pleading that she replied to him:
"We have not only made our friends, Robert. We have made them here. Ifwe go, we lose them."
"Yes," he answered. "But it wouldn't be as if we had to start quitefresh again. I have old ties with Warwickshire. Thirty years won'thave broken them all."
Joan Daventry answered slowly:
"Thirty years. That's a long time, Robert."
"And yet," said Robert Daventry with a wistfulness in his voice whichalmost weakened her into a consent against which her judgment no lessthan her inclinations fought. "And yet there's a house on the Londonroad which I might have passed yesterday—it's so vivid to me now. Awhite house set back from the highway behind a great wall of old redbrick. Above the coping of the wall you can see the rows of levelwindows and the roof of a wing a story lower than the rest of thehouse. And if the gates are open you catch a glimpse of great cedartrees on a wide lawn—a lawn of fine grass like emeralds."
His eyes turned back upon his boyhood, and the thought of his countyset his heart aching. Long white roads, rising and dipping betweenhigh elms, with a yard or two of turf on either side for a horse tocanter on; cottages, real cottages, not shapeless buildings ofcorrugated iron standing gauntly up against the sky-line at the edgeof a round of burnt, bare plain, but cottages rich with phlox and deepin trees—the pictures were flung before his eyes by the lantern ofhis memories as if upon a white sheet. But, above all, it was thethought of the greenery of Warwickshire which caught at his throat;the woods flecked with sunlight, the lawns like emeralds.
He glanced at a thermometer which hung against the wall. Here, even ateleven o'clock of the night, it marked this January ninety-sevendegrees of heat. The mosquitoes trumpeted and drummed against thegauze curtains which covered the open windows; and outside the windowsthe night was black and hot like velvet.
Robert Daventry drew his handkerchief across his forehead and with hiselbow on the table leaned his face upon his hand. His wife looked athim quickly and with solicitude.
"You are tired to-night, Robert," she said gently. "That's why youwant to give the estancia up."
Robert Daventry shook his head and corrected her.
"No, Joan. But I am more tired to-night and very likely that's theexplanation." Then he laughed at a recollection. "Do you remember whenthe squadron came to Montevideo two years ago? There was a dinner atthe legation at Buenos Ayres. I sat next to the commodore, and heasked me how old I was. When I told him that I was just fifty, hereplied: 'Ah, now you will begin to find life very interesting. Foryou will notice every year that you are able to do a little less thanyou did the year before.' Well, I am beginning, my dear, to find lifeinteresting from the commodore's point of view."
Joan did not answer him at once, and the couple sat for awhile insilence, with their thoughts estranged.
For Joan Daventry shrank, with all her soul, from that coveted whitehouse on the London road. Old ties could be resumed, was Robert'sthought. He was forgetful that the ties were his, and his alone. Shehad no share in them and she had come to a time of life when themaking of new friends is a weariness and a labor. With infinite toiland self-denial they had carved out their niche here in the ArgentineRepublic. They spent the winter in their house in Buenos Ayres, thesummer upon the Daventry estancia. Their life was an ordered,comfortable progression of the months. For both of them, to herthinking, the time for new adventures had long gone by. They had hadtheir full proportion of them in their youth. And so while RobertDaventry dreamed of a green future Joan was busily remembering.
"When we first came here to settle," she said slowly, as she countedup all that had been done in these twenty-seven years, "we drove fortwo days. If the house on the London road is vivid to you, that driveis as clear to me. Our heaviest luggage was our hopes;" and RobertDaventry smiled across the table.
"I have not forgotten that either," he said; and there was a wholeworld of love in his voice.
"When we reached here we found a tin house with three rooms andnothing else, not a tree, hardly a track. Now there's an avenue half amile long, there are plantations, there's a real brick house for theplantations to shelter. There are wells, there's a garden, there's avillage at the end of the avenue, there's even a railway stationto-day. These things are our doing, Robert;" and her voice was liftedup with pride.
"I know," replied her husband. "But I ask myself whether the time hasnot come to hand them on."
Once more the look of solicitude shone in his wife's eyes.
"I could leave the estancia," she said doubtfully, "though it wouldalmost break my heart to do it. But suppose we did. What would becomeof you in England? I have a fear," and she leaned forward across thetable.
"Why a fear?" he asked.
"Because I think that people who have lived hard, like you and me, runa great risk if they retire just when they feel that they arebeginning to grow old. A real risk of life, I m