Guilty: The Lost Classic Novel Read Online Free Page B

more secure position before I inhaled, closing my eyes as I did so the better to appreciate the mysterious bitterscent. Perhaps I hadn’t recovered entirely from the aftereffects of my illness, for, as I remember that peculiar odour, it seemed to contain an indescribable heavy languor, some fever quality of these interminable sultry days, of summer drowsiness turned ominous by the unfulfilled threat of thunder.
    To the observer, of whose approach I wasn’t as yet aware, I must have looked a queer little image, perched up on the bank with my hands full of headache plant and my eyes shut tight. A slight sound made me open them hurriedly, and there, to my surprise, was a great black car bearing down upon me, rolling downhill almost silently, filling almost the whole width of the lane.
    I knew the car at once, for it was often to be seen outside our front door. But it didn’t occur to me to wave to the occupant or to make any sign of recognition – not because I was surly or shy, but simply because I’d got so accustomed to being alone and unnoticed that I felt rather as though I were invisible. I was quite unprepared for the great black beetle of a thing to stop just below me and for the driver to put his head out of the window and invite me to jump in. It was more a command than an invitation, I thought, having long ago classified him as one of the order-givers of the world, pre-destined to command the obedience of his fellow men.
    He was an old friend of my father’s, this Mr Spector – the only one, I heard later, to brave public opinion by openly declaring the fact at this time, in spite of his own dis-approval of pacifist ideals. He often said that what he called ‘the ‘ologies’ had nothing to do with friendship, politics and philosophy and the rest belonging to the intellect, whereas friendship came, or should come, from the heart – one’s heart always told one to stand by a friend, especially if he happened to be down on his luck, and that was all there wasto it. When I was a little older and heard how my father had begged him not to endanger his career by coming to see us, and how he had replied by coming rather more often, I was filled with admiration for such selfless nobility. But, at the time of this meeting, all I knew of him was that he seldom took any notice of me, from which I assumed that he disliked children, and I kept out of his way, slightly intimidated by his dignified, stern appearance and authoritative manner.
    I wondered now what he could possibly want of me, as I scrambled down, obediently but rather reluctantly, and squeezed my skinny frame into the car, automatically taking care not to open the door beyond the very few inches it was possible to open it without touching the bank. I don’t know whether this consideration was the result of training or some inherited feeling for orderliness and respect for inanimate things. Anyhow, it was useful to me now, for I found out, years afterwards, that this door situation was the first of a long series of character tests devised by Mr Spector for gauging my tendencies and development, and that his real interest in me originated in my ability to pass it with flying colours at such a tender age.
    However, if he looked at me approvingly, I didn’t notice it. I was far from comfortable sitting beside him, being secretly worried about what would happen if we met another car coming the opposite way, as well as uneasily conscious that I was untidy and dirty, and that the scraps of leaves and twigs I’d collected upon my person showed an embarrassing tendency to transfer themselves to the upholstery. My awkward attempts to remove them resulting only in more dust being deposited there, I glanced apprehensively at my companion, who said kindly, ‘Never mind that’, smiling in a much friendlier way than I’d ever expected.
    From that moment all my worries were over, for he begantalking to me so easily and naturally that we might have been equals and old