‘Well, they are hatched!’ said Paula crossly. ‘Uncle told me he was leaving me quite a lot of money, ages ago. It isn’t as though I wanted it all now: I don’t. A couple of thousand would be ample, and after all, what are a couple of thousand pounds to Uncle Nat?’
Roydon, who presumably found this open discussion embarrassing, turned a dull red, and pretended to be busy fitting candles into their holders.
But nothing could stop Paula. She went on striding about the room, and maintaining a singularly boring monologue, which only Joseph listened to. He, trying to pour oil on troubled waters, said that he knew just how she felt, and well recalled his own sensations on a somewhat similar occasion, when he was billed to appear as Macbeth, in Melbourne.
‘Go on, Joe! You never played Macbeth!’ said Mathilda.
Joseph took this in very good part, but insisted that he had played all the great tragic rôles. It was a pity that he had not observed his wife’s entry into the room before he made this boast, because Mathilda at once called upon her to deny so palpable a lie.
‘I don’t remember his ever appearing as Macbeth,’ said Maud, in her placid way. ‘But he was very good in characterparts, very good indeed.’
Everyone immediately saw Joseph as the First Gravedigger, and even Paula’s lips quivered. Maud, quite unconscious of the impression she was making, began to recall the various minor rôles in which Joseph had appeared to advantage, and threw out a vague promise of looking out a book of presscuttings, which she had put away somewhere.
‘That’ll be another book to be filched from her, and disposed of,’ remarked Stephen in Mathilda’s ear, rather too audibly.
She started, for she had not heard him come into the room. He was standing just behind her, with his hands in his pockets, and his pipe between his teeth. He looked sardonically pleased; life had quickened in his eyes; and there was a suspicion of a smile playing about his mouth. Knowing him, Mathilda guessed that he had been enjoying a quarrel, probably with his uncle. ‘You’re a fool,’ she said abruptly.
He looked down at her, eyebrows a trifle raised. ‘Why?’
‘You’ve been quarrelling with your uncle.’
‘Oh, that! I usually do.’
‘You’re almost certainly his heir.’
‘So I understand.’
‘Did Nat actually tell you so?’ she asked, surprised.
‘No. Improving homily from dear Uncle Joe.’
‘When?’
‘Last night, after you’d gone to bed.’
‘Stephen, did Joe say that? That Nat had made you his heir?’
He shrugged. ‘Not as tersely as that. Arch hints, winks, and nudges.’
‘I expect he knows. You’d better watch your step. I wouldn’t put it beyond Nat to change his mind.’
‘I daresay you’re right,’ he said indifferently.
She felt a sudden stab of exasperation. ‘Then why annoy him?’
His pipe had gone out, and he began to relight it. Over the bowl his eyes glinted at her. ‘Bless your heart, I don’t annoy him! He doesn’t like my intended.’
‘Do you?’ she demanded, before she could stop herself.
He looked at her, evidently enjoying her unaccustomed discomfiture. ‘Obviously.’
‘Sorry!’ she said briefly, and turned away.
She began, somewhat viciously, to straighten the little candles on the tree. As well as one knew Stephen one still could not get to the bottom of him. He might be in love with Valerie; he might have grown out of love with her; he might even be merely obstinate. But fool enough to whistle a fortune down the wind from mulishness? No man would be fool enough for that, thought Mathilda cynically. She glanced sideways at him, and thought, Yes, you would; you’d be fool enough for anything in this mood. Like my bull-terriers: bristling, snarling, looking for trouble, always convinced you’ve got to fight, even when the other dog wants to be friendly. Oh, Stephen, why will you be such an ass?
She looked at him again, not covertly this time, since his attention was not on her, and saw that he was watching Valerie, whom Joseph had drawn into one of the windowembrasures. He was not quite smiling, but he seemed to Mathilda to be enjoying some hidden jest. She thought, Yes, but you’re not an ass; I’m not at all sure that you’re not rather devilish, in fact. You’re cold-blooded, and you have a twisted sense of humour, and I wish I knew what you were thinking. Then another thought flashed across her mind, startling her: I wish I hadn’t come here!
As though in answer, Paula said suddenly: ‘O God, how I hate this house!’
Stephen yawned. It was Roydon who asked: ‘Why?’
She detached the stub of her cigarette from its long holder, and threw it into the fire. ‘I can’t put it into words. If I said it was evil, you’d laugh.’
‘No, I shouldn’t,’ he said earnestly. ‘I believe profoundly in the influence of human passions on their surroundings. You’re tremendously psychic: I’ve always felt that about you.’
‘Oh, Willoughby, don’t!’ implored Valerie, instantly distracted from her tête-à-tête with Joseph. ‘You make me feel absolutely ghastly! I keep thinking there’s something just behind me all the time.’
‘Nonsense, young people, nonsense!’ said Joseph robustly. ‘No ghosts at Lexham Manor, I assure you!’
‘Oh – ghosts!’ said Paula, with a disdainful shrug.
‘I often think,’ offered Maud, ‘that when one gets fanciful it’s because one’s liver is out of order.’
Paula looked so revolted by this excellent suggestion that Mathilda, to avert an explosion, said hastily that it must be time for tea. Joseph at once backed her up, and began to shoo everyone out of the room, adjuring them to go and ‘wash and brush up.’ He himself, he said, had one or two finishing touches to make to the decorations, and he would ask Valerie if she would just hold a few oddments for him.
The oddments consisted of two streamers, a large paper bell, a sprig of mistletoe, a hammer, and a tin of drawingpins. Valerie was by this time bored with Christmas decorations, and she received the oddments rather sulkily, saying: ‘Haven’t we hung up enough things, don’t you think?’
‘It’s just the staircase,’ Joseph explained. ‘It looks very bare. I meant to do it before lunch, but Fate intervened.’
‘It’s a pity Fate didn’t make a better job of it,’ said Stephen, preparing to follow Mathilda out of the room.
Joseph shook a playful fist at him, and once more picked up the step-ladder. ‘Stephen thinks me a dreadful old vandal,’ he told Valerie. ‘I’m afraid period-stuff makes very little appeal to me. You’ll say I’m a simple-minded old fellow, I expect, but I’m not a bit ashamed of it, not a bit! I like things to be cheerful and comfortable, and it doesn’t matter a bit to me whether a staircase was built in Cromwell’s time or Victoria’s.’
‘I suppose the whole house is pretty old, isn’t it?’ said Valerie, looking with faint interest at the staircase.
‘Yes, quite a show-piece in its way,’ replied Joseph, mounting the four shallow stairs which led to the first half-landing, and trying to erect the steps on it. ‘Now, this is going to be tricky. I thought if I could reach that chandelier we could hang the bell from it.’
‘Mr Herriard must be awfully rich, I should think,’ said Valerie, pursuing her own train of thought.
‘Awfully!’ said Joseph, twinkling down at her.
‘I wonder –’ She broke off, colouring a little.
Joseph was silent for a moment; then he said: ‘Well, my dear, perhaps I know what you wonder; and though one doesn’t like to talk of such things, I have been meaning all day to have a little chat with you.’
She turned enquiring eyes upon him. ‘Oh, do! I mean, you can say absolutely anything to me: I shall quite understand.’
He came down the stairs again, abandoning the steps, and took her arm. ‘Well, I expect you’ve guessed that I have a very soft corner for old Stephen.’
‘I know, and I think it’s marvellous of you!�
� said Valerie.
As Stephen’s treatment of his uncle was cavalier to the point of brutality, this remark was less fatuous than it sounded.
‘Ah, I understand Stephen!’ Joseph said, changing under her eyes from the skittish uncle into a worldly-wise observer of life. ‘To know all is to forgive all.’
‘I always think that’s frightfully true,’ said Valerie, adding after a moment’s reflection: ‘But has Stephen – I mean, is there anything – ?’
‘No, no!’ Joseph replied rather hastily. ‘But life hasn’t been easy for him, poor old chap! Well! life hasn’t been easy for me either, and perhaps that helps me to understand him.’
He smiled in a whimsical way, but as Valerie was not at all interested in the difficulties of his life, she did not realise that he had stopped being wordly-wise, and was now a Gallant and Pathetic figure. She said vaguely: ‘Oh yes, I suppose so!’
Joseph was finding her a little difficult. A less self-centred young woman would have responded to this gambit, he felt, and would have asked him sympathetic questions. With a sigh, he accepted her disinterest, and said, resuming his rôle of kindly uncle: ‘But that’s quite enough about me! My life is nearing its close, after all. But Stephen has his all before him. Ah, when I look back to what I was at Stephen’s age, I can see so many points of similarity between us! I was ever a rebel, too. I expect you find that hard to believe of such a respectable old fogy, eh?’
‘Oh no!’ said Valerie.
‘Eheu fugaces! ‘ sighed Joseph. ‘When I look back, do you know, I can’t find it in me to regret those carefree years?’
‘Oh?’ said Valerie.
‘No,’ said Joseph, damped. ‘But why should I bore a pretty young thing like you with tales of my misspent youth? It was about Stephen I wanted to speak to you.’
‘He’s been utterly foul all day,’ responded his betrothed with great frankness. ‘It makes it absolutely lousy for me, too, only he’s so damned selfish I don’t suppose he even thinks of that. As a matter of fact, I’ve got a complete hate against him at the moment.’
‘But you love him!’ said Joseph, taken aback.
‘Yes; but you know what I mean.’
‘Perhaps I do,’ said Joseph, with a wise nod. ‘And I’m relying on you to bring your influence to bear on the dear old fellow.’
‘What?’ asked Valerie, turning her large eyes upon him in astonishment.
He pressed her arm slightly. ‘Ah, you’re not going to tell me that you haven’t got any! No, no, that won’t do!’
‘But what on earth do you expect me to do?’ she demanded.
‘Don’t let him annoy his uncle,’ he said. ‘Try to get him to behave sensibly! After all, though I suppose I’m the last person to preach wisdom, as this world knows it (for I’m afraid I’ve never had a scrap of it my whole life long!), it would be silly, wouldn’t it, to throw away all this just out of perversity?’
A wave of his hand indicated their surroundings. Valerie’s eyes brightened. ‘Oh, Mr Herriard, is he really going to leave everything to Stephen?’
‘You mustn’t ask me that, my dear,’ Joseph replied. ‘I’ve done my best, that’s all I can say, and now it depends on Stephen, and on you, too.’
‘Yes, but I don’t believe Mr Herriard likes me much,’ objected Valerie. ‘It’s funny, because generally I go over big with old men. I don’t know why, I’m sure.’
‘Look in your mirror!’ responded Joseph gallantly. ‘I’m afraid poor Nat is a bit of a misogynist. You mustn’t mind that. Just keep that young man of yours in order, that’s all I ask.’
‘Well, I’ll try,’ said Valerie. ‘Not that he’s likely to pay any attention to me, because he never does.’
‘Now you’re talking nonsense!’ Joseph rallied her playfully.
‘Well, all I can say is that it seems to me he pays a darned sight more attention to Mathilda Clare than he does to me,’ said Valerie. ‘In fact, I wonder you don’t set her on to him!’
‘Tilda?’ exclaimed Joseph. ‘No, no, my dear, you’re quite wrong there! Good gracious me, as though Stephen would ever look twice at Tilda!’
‘Oh, do you honestly think so?’ she said hopefully. ‘Of course, she isn’t in the least pretty. I mean, I like her awfully, and all that sort of thing, but I shouldn’t call her attractive, would you?’
‘Not a bit!’ said Joseph. ‘Tilda’s just a good sort. And now we must go and wash our hands, or we shall both be late for tea, and I shall be making Stephen jealous! I’ll just lean the steps up against the wall, and finish the decorations after tea. There! I don’t think they’ll be in anyone’s way, do you?’
Since the half-landing was a broad one, the steps were not, strictly speaking, in anyone’s way, but Nathaniel, when he came out of the library, a few minutes later, took instant exception to them, and said that he wished to God Joe would come to the end of all this tomfoolery. Stephen, descending the stairs, identified himself with this wish in no uncertain tones.
‘Now then, you two wet-blankets!’ said Joseph. ‘Tea! Ah, there you are, Maud, my dear! We wait for you to lead the way. Come along, Nat, old man! Come along, Stephen!’
‘Makes you feel quite at home, doesn’t he?’ Stephen said, grinning at Nathaniel.
Joseph’s heartiness so nauseated Nathaniel that this malicious remark made him feel quite friendly towards his nephew. He gave a snort of laughter, and followed Maud into the drawing-room.
Four
JOSEPH MANAGED TO TELL MATHILDA DURING THE COURSE of tea that he had (as he expressed it) tipped the wink to Valerie. She thought his impulse kind but misguided, but he triumphantly called her attention to the better relationship already existing between Stephen and Nathaniel. Whether this arose from the exertion of Valerie’s influence, or whether, faced by the prospect of having a play read aloud to them by its author, they had been drawn momentarily together by a bond of mutual misfortune, was a point Mathilda felt to be as yet undecided, but it was evident that Stephen was making an effort to please his uncle.
The thought of the approaching reading lay heavy on Mathilda’s brain. At no time fond of being read to, she thought the present hour and milieu so ill-chosen that nothing short of a miracle could save this party from disruption. Glancing at Roydon, who was nervously crumbling a cake, she felt a stir of pity for him. He was so much in earnest, torn between his belief in himself and his natural dread of reading his play to what he could not but recognise as an unsympathetic audience. She moved across the room to a chair beside him, and said, under cover of an interchange of noisy badinage between Valerie and Joseph: ‘I wish you’d tell me something about your play.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ll any of you like it,’ he said, with a sulkiness born of his nervousness.
‘Some of us may not,’ she replied coolly. ‘Have you had anything put on yet?’
‘No. At least, I had a Sunday-night show once. Not this play. Linda Bury was interested in it, but it didn’t come to anything. Of course, it was very immature in parts. I see that now. The trouble is that I haven’t any backing.’ He pushed an unruly lock of hair off his brow, and added defiantly: ‘I work in a bank!’
‘Not a bad way of marking time,’ she said, refusing to see in this belligerent confession anything either extraordinary or pathetic.
‘If I could only get a start, I’d – I’d never set foot inside the place again!’
‘You probably wouldn’t have to. Has your play got popular appeal?’
‘It’s a serious play. I don’t care about popular appeal, as you call it. I – I know I’ve got it in me to write plays – good plays! – but I’d sooner stick to banking all my life than – than –’
‘Prostitute your art,’ supplied Mathilda, unable to curb an irrepressible tongue.
He flushed, but said: ‘Yes, that’s what I do mean, though I’ve no doubt you’re laughing at me. Do you think – do you suppose there’s the least hope of Mr Herriard’s being interested?’
She did
not, but although she was in general an honest woman, she could not bring herself to say so. He was looking at her with such a dreadfully anxious expression on his thin face that she began, almost insensibly, to turn over vague plans in her mind for cajoling Nathaniel.
‘It wouldn’t cost much,’ he said wistfully. ‘Even if he doesn’t care about art, he might like to give Paula a chance. She’s quite marvellous in the part, you know. He’ll see that. She’s going to do the big scene, just to show him.’
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