"Stephen being the little gentleman quite takes my breath away," murmured Mathilda.
Joseph, standing near enough to overhear this remark, laid a conspiratorial finger across his lips. He saw that Nathaniel had observed this gesture, and made haste to say, in bracing accents: "Now, who says Rummy?"
No one said Rummy; several persons, notably Nathaniel, looked revolted; and after a pause, Joseph, a little crestfallen, said: "Well, well, what shall it be?"
"Mathilda," said Nathaniel, fixing her with a compelling eye, "we want you to make up a fourth at Bridge."
"All right," said Mathilda. "Who's playing?"
"Stephen and Mottisfont. We'll have a table put up in the library, and the rest of you can play any silly - can do anything you like."
Joseph, whose optimism nothing could damp, said: Just the thing! No one will disturb you earnest people, and we frivolous ones can be as foolish as we like!"
"It's no good expecting me to play!" announced Roydon. "I don't know one card from another."
"Oh, you'll soon pick it up!" said Joseph. "Maud, my dear, I suppose we can't lure you into a round game?"
"No, Joseph, I will do a Patience quietly by myself, if someone will be kind enough to draw that table forward," replied Maud.
Valerie, who had not been at all pleased to hear that her betrothed proposed to spend the evening playing Bridge, bestowed a dazzling smile upon Roydon, and said: "I'm simply dying to ask you about this play of yours. I'm utterly thrilled about it! Do come and tell me all about it!"
Since Willoughby, sore from the lack of appreciation shown by Nathaniel, at once moved across to Miss Dean's side, only Paula was left to make up Joseph's round game. He seemed to feel the impossibility of organising anything very successful under such conditions, and with only a faint, quickly suppressed sigh, abandoned the project, and sat down to watch his wife playing Patience.
After continuing to walk about the room for some time, occasionally joining in Roydon's conversation with Valerie, Paula cast herself upon a sofa, and began to flick over the pages of an illustrated paper. Joseph soon moved over to join her, saying in a confidential tone: "Tell your old uncle all about it, my dear! What sort of play is it? Comedy? Tragedy?"
"You can't label it like that," Paula answered. "It's a most subtle character-study. There isn't another part in the world I want to play more. It's written for me! It is me!"
"I know exactly how you feel," nodded Joseph, laying a hand over hers, and pressing it sympathetically. "Ah, how often one has been through that experience! I daresay it seems funny to you to think of your old uncle on the boards, but when I was a young man I shocked all my relations by actually running away from a respectable job in a solicitor's office to join a travelling company!" He laughed richly at the memory. "I was a romantic lad! I expect a lot of people called me an improvident young fool, but I've never regretted it, never!"
"I wish you'd make Uncle Nat listen to reason," said Paula discontentedly.
"I'll try, my dear, but you know what Nat is! Dear old crosspatch! He's the best of good fellows, but he has his prejudices."
"Two thousand pounds wouldn't make any difference to him. I can't see why I shouldn't have it now, when I need it, instead of having to wait till he dies."
"You bad girl! Counting your chickens before they are hatched!"
"I'm not. He told me he'd leave me some money. Besides, he's bound to: I'm his only niece."
It was plain that Joseph could not quite approve of this cool way of putting the matter. He said tut-tut, and squeezed Paula's hand again.
Maud, who had brought the Diplomat to a triumphant conclusion, was inspired to suggest suddenly that Paula should recite something. "I am very fond of a good recitation," she said. "I remember that I used to know a very touching poem about a man who died of thirst on the Llano Estacado. I forget why, but I think he was riding to some place or other. I know it was extremely dramatic, but it is many years since I last did it, and I have forgotten it."
Everyone breathed again. Paula said that she didn't go in for recitations, but that if Uncle Nat had not elected to play Bridge, she would have asked Willoughby to read his play to them.
"That would have been very enjoyable, I expect," said Maud placidly.
It was not Nathaniel's custom to keep late hours, nor was he the kind of host who altered his habits to suit the convenience of his guests. At eleven o'clock, the Bridgeplayers came back into the drawing-room, where a tray of drinks was awaiting them, and Nathaniel said that for his part he was going to bed.
Edgar Mottisfont ventured to say: "I had hoped to have a chat with you, Nat."
Nathaniel darted a look at him from under his bushy brows. "Can't talk business at this hour of night," he said.
"Well, I want a word with you, too," said Paula.
"You won't get it," Nathaniel replied, with a short laugh.
Maud was gathering up her cards. "Dear me, eleven already? I think I shall go up too."
Valerie looked rather appalled at this prospect of having to retire at such an unaccustomed hour, but was relieved to hear Joseph say cheerfully: "Well, I hope no one else means to run off yet! The night's young, eh, Valerie? What do you say to going into the billiard-room, and turning on the wireless?"
"You'd be a great deal better in bed," said Nathaniel, on whom Joseph's high spirits seemed to exercise a baleful influence.
"Not I!" Joseph declared. "I'll tell you what, Nat: you'd be much better enjoying yourself with us!"
His evil genius prompted him to clap his brother on the back as he said this. It was plain to everyone that the playful blow fell between Nat's shoulders, but Nathaniel, who hated to be touched, at once groaned, and jaculated: "My lumbago!"
He left the room withh the gait of a cripple, holding his hand to the small of his back, in a gesture which his relatives knew well, but which made Valerie open her lovely eyes very wide, and say: "I'd no idea lumbago was as bad as that!"
"It isn't. That's just my dear Uncle Nat playing up," said Stephen, handing a whisky-and-soda to Mathilda.
"No, no, that isn't quite fair!" protested Joseph. "Why, I've known poor old Nat to be set fast with it! I'm a stupid fellow: I daresay I did jar him. I wonder if I had better go after him?"
"No, Joe," said Mathilda kindly. "You mean well, but you'll only annoy him. Why is our little Paula looking like the Tragic Muse?"
"This awful house!" ejaculated Paula. "How any of you can spend an hour in it and not feel the atmosphere - !"
"Pray silence for Mrs. Siddons!" said Stephen, regarding her with a sardonic eye.
"Oh, you can scoff!" she flung at him. "But even you must feel the tension!"
"Well, do you know, it's an awfully funny thing, because I'm not a bit psychic, or anything like that, but I do see what Paula means," said Valerie. "It's a kind of an atmosphere." She turned to Roydon. "You could write a marvellous play about it, couldn't you?"
"I don't know that it would be quite in my line," he replied.
"Oh, I have an absolute conviction that you're the sort of person who could write a marvellous play about simply anything!" said Valerie, raising admiring eyes to his face.
"Even guinea-pigs?" asked Stephen, introducing a discordant note.
The playwright flushed. "Very funny!"
Mathilda perceived that Mr. Roydon was unused to being laughed at. "Let me advise you to pay little if any heed to my cousin Stephen!" she said.
Stephen never minded what Mathilda said to him; he only grinned; but Joseph, at no time remarkable for tact, brought the saturnine look back to his face by saying: "Oh, we all know what an old bear Stephen likes to pretend to be!"
"God!" said Stephen, very distinctly.
Paula sprang up, thrusting the hair back from her brow with one of her hasty gestures. "That's what I mean! You're all of you behaving like this because the house has got you! It's the tension: something stretching and stretching until it snaps! Stephen's always worse when he's here; I'
m on edge; Valerie flirts with Willoughby to make Stephen jealous; Uncle Joe's nervous, saying the wrong thing: not wanting to, but impelled to!"
"Well, really!" exclaimed Valerie. "I must say!"
"Let no one think I'm not enjoying myself!" begged Mathilda. "Yule-tide, children, and all that! These old fashioned Christmases!"
Roydon said thoughtfully: "I know what you mean, of course. Personally, I believe profoundly in the influence of environment."
"'After which short speech,"' quoted Stephen, "'they all cheered."'
Joseph clapped his hands. "Now, now, now, that's quite enough! Who says radio?"
"Yes, let's!" begged Valerie. "The dance music will be on. Mr. Roydon, I just know you're a dancer!"
Willoughby disclaimed, but was borne off, not entirely unwillingly. He was a little dazzled by Valerie's beauty, and although a sane voice within him told him that her flattery was inane, he did not find it unpleasant. Paula was a more stimulating companion, but although she admired him, and had an intelligent appreciation of his work, she was apt to be exhausting, and (he sometimes thought) distinctly over-critical. So he went off with Valerie and Joseph, reflecting that even geniuses must have their moments of relaxation.
"I must say, I don't blame Uncle Nat for barring your intended, Stephen," said Paula fairly.
Stephen did not seem to mind this candid opinion of his taste. He strolled over to the fire, and lowered his long limbs into an armchair. "The perfect anodyne," he said. "By the way, I don't think your latest pick-up so bloody hot."
"Willoughby? Oh, I know, but he's got genius! I don't care about anything else. Besides, I'm not in love with him. But what you can see in that brainless doll beats me!"
"My good girl, what I see in her must be abundantly plain to everyone," said Stephen. "This playwriting wen of yours sees it too, not to mention Joe, whose tongue is fairly hanging out."
"Close-up of the Herriards," said Mathilda, lying back in her chair, and lazily regarding brother and sister. "Cads, both. Carry on: don't mind me."
"Well, I believe in being honest," said Paula. "You are a fool, Stephen! She wouldn't have got engaged to you if she hadn't thought you'd come in for all Uncle Nat's money."
"I know," said Stephen blandly.
"And if you ask me she came down here with you on purpose to mash Uncle Nat."
"I know," said Stephen again.
Their eyes met; Stephen's lips twitched suddenly, and, while Mathilda lay and watched them, he and Paula went off into fits of helpless laughter."
"You and your Willoughby, and me and my Val!" gasped Stephen. "Oh, lord!"
Paula dried her eyes, instantly sobered by the mention of her play wright. "Yes, I know it's funny, but I'm serious about that, because he really has written a great play, and I'm going to act the lead in it, if it's the last thing I do. I shall get him to read it aloud to you all tomorrow -"
"What? Oh, God, be good to me! Not to Uncle as well? Don't, Paula, it hurts!"
"When you've quite finished," said Mathilda, "will you explain the exact nature of this treat you have in store for us, Paula? Are you going to read your own part, or is it to be a one-man show?"
"I shall let Willoughby read nearly all himself. He does it very well. I might do my big scene, perhaps."
"And you actually think, my poor, besotted wench, that this intellectual feast is going to soften your Uncle Nat's heart? Now it's my turn to enjoy a laugh!"
"He's got to back it!" Paula said fiercely. "It's the only thing I've ever wanted, and it would be too wickedly cruel not to do it for me!"
"I will lay you odds you're in for a disappointment, ducky. I don't wish to throw a damper on your girlish enthusiasm, but the moment doesn't seem to me propitious."
"It's all Stephen's fault for bringing that sickening blonde here!" Paula said. "Anyway, I've got Uncle Joe to put in a word for me."
"That'll help a lot," mocked Stephen. Just fancy!"
"Lay off Joe!" commanded Mathilda. "He may be God's own ass, but he's the only decent member of your family I've ever been privileged to meet. Besides, he likes you."
"Well, I don't like being liked," said Stephen.
Chapter Three
There was a light covering of snow on the ground on Christmas Eve. Mathilda, sipping her early tea, reflected with a wry smile that Joseph would talk of a white Christmas all day, perhaps hunt for a pair of skates. He was a tiresome old man, she thought, but disarmingly pathetic. No one was trying to make his party a success, least of all Nathaniel. Yet how could he have expected such an ill-assorted gathering of people to mix well? Pondering this, she was forced to admit that such imperceptive optimism was part and parcel of his guileless nature. She suspected that he saw himself as the beloved uncle, everybody's confidant.
She began slowly to eat one of the thin slices of bread and-butter which had been brought up with the tea. What on earth had made Stephen come to Lexham? Generally he came when he wanted something: money, of course, which Nathaniel nearly always gave him. This time it was Paula who wanted money, not, apparently, Stephen. From what she had heard, Stephen had had rather a serious quarrel with Nathaniel not so many weeks since. It hadn't been their first quarrel, of course: they were always quarrelling; but the cause of it - Valerie - still existed. Extraordinary that Joseph should have prevailed upon Nat to receive Valerie! Or did Nathaniel believe that Stephen's infatuation would burn itself out? Recalling his behaviour on the previous evening, she had to admit that this seemed very likely to happen, if it had not already happened.
Valerie, of course, saw herself as the mistress of Lexham: a horrible prospect! And, thought Mathilda, that was odd too, when you came to think of it. Odd that Stephen should have risked bringing his Valerie into close contact with Nathaniel. Enough to ruin all his chances of inheriting Nathaniel's fortune, you would suppose. Stephen looked upon himself as Nathaniel's heir; sometimes Mathilda wondered whether Nat had made his will after all, overcoming that unreasoning dislike he had of naming his successor. Like Queen Elizabeth. Strange, in a man usually so hard-headed! But they were strange, these Herriards: one never got to the bottom of them.
Paula: now, what had she meant by all that nonsense about the evil influence of the house? Did she really mean it, or was she trying to instil a distaste for the place in Valerie's feather-brain. She would be quite capable of that, Mathilda thought. If there were something wrong, it wasn't the house, but the people in it. There was an uneasiness, but what on earth possessed Paula to try to make it worse? Queer, flame-like creature! She lived at such high pressure, wanted things so desperately, gave such rein to her uncurbed emotions that you could never be sure when you were seeing the real Paula, and when the unconscious actress.
The playwright: Mathilda, no sentimentalist, felt sorry for him. Probably he'd never been given a fair chance; never would be given one. Quite likely his play would be found to be a clever piece of work, possibly morbid, almost certainly lacking in box-office appeal. He was obviously hard-up: his dinner jacket was badly cut, and had worn very shiny, poor kid! There was a frightened look behind the belligerence in his eyes, as though he saw some bleak future lying before him. He had tried to interest Nathaniel, falling between his dread of seeming obsequious and his desperate need of enlisting support. He wouldn't get a penny out of Nathaniel, of course. What a cruel little fool Paula was, to have bolstered him up with false hopes!
Stephen: Mathilda stirred restlessly as her thoughts drifted towards Stephen. Cross-grained, like his Uncle Nathaniel. Yes, but he was no fool, and yet had got himself engaged to a pretty nit-wit. You couldn't ascribe all Stephen's vagaries to his boyhood's sick disillusionment. Or could you? Mathilda put down her empty teacup. She supposed adolescent boys were kittle-cattle: people said they were. Stephen had adored another feather-brain, his mother, unlike Paula, who had never cherished illusions about Kitten.
Kitten! Even her children had called her that. What a name for a mother! thought Mathilda. Poor little Kitten, in the
widow's weeds which had suited her so well! Lovely little Kitten, who had to be protected from the buffets of this cruel world! Clever little Kitten, who had married, not once, but three times, and who was now Mrs. Cyrus P. Thanet, indulging her nerves and her extravagant tastes in Chicago! Yes, perhaps Stephen, who had seen through her so reluctantly, and had taken it so hard, had been soured by his discovery. But what the devil possessed him, then, to get engaged to Valerie, surely a second Kitten? He was regretting it, too, if his indecent laughter last night were anything to go by.
Valerie herself? Resolutely stifling an impulse to write her off as a gold-digger, Mathilda supposed she might have been attracted by those very peculiarities in Stephen which would most quickly disgust her: his careless rudeness, his roughness, the indifferent, sardonic gleam in his deep-set grey eyes.
Mathilda found herself wondering what Maud thought about it all, if she thought anything: a question as yet undecided. Maud, with her eternal games of Patience, the chatty biographies of royal personages which she wallowed in! Mathilda felt that there must be more to Maud than Maud chose to reveal. No mind could be quite so static, surely! She herself had sometimes suspected that Maud's placidity masked a good deal of intelligence; but when, idly curious, she had probed Maud to discover it, she had been foiled by the armour of futility in which Maud so securely encased herself. No one, Mathilda was ready to swear, knew what Maud really thought about her preposterous husband, about her brusque brother-in-law, about the quarrels that flared up between Herriard and Herriard. She did not seem to resent, or even to notice, Nathaniel's contempt of Joseph; apparently she had acquiesced in the arrangement which made her a guest on sufferance in her brother-in-law's house.
That Joseph found nothing to irk him in his position as hanger-on could not surprise anyone who knew him. Joseph, thought Mathilda, had a genius for twisting unpalatable truth to pleasing fiction. Just as Joseph saw Stephen as a shy young man with a heart of gold, so he would, without much difficulty, see Nathaniel as a fond brother, devoted (in spite of every evidence to the contrary) to himself. From the day of his first foisting himself and his wife on Nathaniel's generosity, he had begun to build up a comforting fantasy about himself and Nat. Nat, he said, was a lonely man, ageing fast; Nat did not like to admit it, but in reality he leaned much on his younger brother; Nat would, in fact, be lost without Joe.
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