Читать книгу The Clock Strikes Twelve - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 4

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Grace Paradine came out of her room and stood hesitating for a moment with her hand on the knob of the door. It was a very white hand, and it wore a very fine ruby ring. The passage upon which she had emerged was lighted from end to end and thickly carpeted with an old-fashioned but most expensive carpet, a riot of crimson, cobalt, and green. Mr James Paradine liked his colours bright. The fashions of his youth admitted of no improvement. They had been there when he was a boy, and as far as he was concerned, there they would remain. If anything wore out, it must be replaced without any variation from this standard. His only concessions to modernity were of a practical nature. The house bristled with telephones, blazed with electric light, and was most comfortably warmed from a furnace in the basement.

Miss Paradine withdrew her hand and moved a step away from the door. Standing thus under the bright unshaded ceiling light, she appeared a fine, ample figure of a woman—not handsome, but sufficiently imposing in a black dinner-gown and a light fur wrap. There was a diamond star at her breast, and a pearl dog-collar with diamond slides about her throat. Her dark hair, which was scarcely touched with grey, swept in broad waves from a central parting to a graceful knot low down on her neck. Her hair and her hands had been her two beauties. In her late fifties they still served her well. For the rest, she had widely opened brown eyes and a full face with some effect of heaviness in repose. She was James Paradine’s sister, and had kept his house for the twenty years which had elapsed since the death of his wife. As she looked back down the passage now her expression was one of frowning intensity. It was obvious that she was waiting and listening.

And then, with an almost startling suddenness her face changed. The frown, the tension, the heaviness were gone. A wide and charming smile took their place. She turned quite round and moved to meet the girl who was coming out of a room at the end of the passage. The girl came on slowly—slowly and without an answering smile. She was tall and pretty, a graceful creature with dark hair curling on her neck, and the very white skin and dark blue eyes which sometimes go with it. When the black lashes shadowed the blue as they were doing now the eyes themselves might very well have passed for black. It was only when they were widely opened or when they took a sudden upward glance that you could see how really blue they were—as blue as sapphires, as blue as deep-sea water. She was Grace Paradine’s adopted daughter, Phyllida Wray, and she was twenty-three years old.

She came along the passage in a long white dress. She wore the string of pearls which had been her twenty-first birthday present—fine pearls, very carefully matched. They were her only ornament. The pretty hands were ringless. The nails had been lacquered to a bright holly-red.

Grace Paradine put a hand on her shoulder and turned her round.

‘You look very nice, my darling. But you’re pale——’

The black lashes flicked up and down again, the blue of the eyes showed bright. It was all too quick to be sure whether there was anger under the brightness. She said in a perfectly expressionless voice.

‘Am I, Aunt Grace?’

Miss Paradine had that tender, charming smile.

‘Why, yes, my darling—you are.’ She laughed a little and let her hand slide caressingly down the bare arm to the scarlet fingertips. ‘Just between ourselves, you know, I think you might have put a little less on here, and given yourself some roses for our New Year’s party.’

‘But Christmas roses are white.’ Phyllida said the words in an odd, half laughing voice.

She began to walk towards the head of the stairs, Miss Paradine beside her. Phyllida had disengaged herself. They went down together with the width of the stair between them. Grace Paradine kept a hand on the heavy mahogany rail. She said,

‘It was terrible, their keeping you on duty over Christmas.’

‘I volunteered.’

Miss Paradine said nothing for a moment. Then she smiled.

‘Well, my darling, it’s lovely to have you now. How long can you stay?’

Phyllida said, ‘I don’t know.’

‘But——’

The girl stood still, threw her a look which might have meant appeal, and said in a hurry,

‘I can have a week if I like, but I don’t know that I want it. I think I’m better working.’ A note of rebellion came into her voice. ‘Don’t look like that—I didn’t say it to hurt you. It’s just—well, you know——’

Miss Paradine had stopped too. Her hand tightened on the banister. She was making an effort. She made it very successfully. Her voice was full of sympathy as she said,

‘I know. You mustn’t force yourself, but after all this is your home, Phyl. There’s something in that, isn’t there? He can’t spoil that or take it away from you. It was yours before he came, and it will be yours long after we have all forgotten him.’

Phyllida moved abruptly. Something in the words had pricked her and pricked her sharply. She said in a strained undertone,

‘I don’t want to talk about it. Please, Aunt Grace.’

Miss Paradine looked distressed.

‘My darling, no, of course not. How stupid of me. We won’t look back. It’s a New Year for us both, and you’re home for a holiday. Do you remember how we used to plan every moment of the holidays when you were a schoolgirl? They were never half long enough for all the things we wanted to do. Well, tonight of course it’s all family—Frank and Irene, and Brenda. They’ve made up the quarrel and she’s staying with them, but I don’t know how long it will last. Lydia is with them too.’ She laughed a little. ‘Prettier than ever and just as provoking. Then there’ll be Mark, and Dicky, and Albert Pearson. I don’t like ten very much for a table, but it can’t be helped.’

They were descending the stairs again. Phyllida said in a relieved voice,

‘What is Lydia doing?’

‘I really don’t know—she talks such a lot of nonsense. She’s somebody’s secretary, I believe. You had better ask her. I do hope she’ll be careful tonight. James never did like her very much, and nonsense is a thing he just doesn’t understand. I’ve put her as far away from him as possible, but she has such a carrying voice.’

They crossed the hall and came into the drawing-room, where two young men stood warming themselves before the fire. Both were Paradines, nephews of old James Paradine. They were cousins, not brothers, and they bore no resemblance either to one another or to their uncle. Mark, the elder, was thirty-five—a tall, dark man with strong features and an air of gloom. Dicky several years younger—slight, fair, with ingenuous blue eyes and an unfailing flow of good spirits.

Whilst Mark was shaking hands and greeting his aunt and Phyllida with the fewest possible words, Dicky was kissing them both and rattling off compliments, good wishes, and enquiries.

‘You’re a smash hit in that dress, Aunt Grace—isn’t she, Mark? I say—you’ve got ‘em all on too, haven’t you? The old diamond star well to the fore! Do you remember when you tied it on to the top of the Christmas tree and Phyl nearly cried herself into a fit because she wanted it for keeps?’

‘I didn’t!’

‘Oh, yes, you did. You were only three, so we won’t hold it up against you. You were awfully pretty then—wasn’t she, Aunt Grace—pretty enough to stick on the Christmas tree with the star?’

Grace Paradine stood there smiling with Dicky’s arm at her waist. Praise of Phyllida was the incense of which she could never have enough.

Dicky burst out laughing.

‘Pity she’s gone off so—isn’t it darling?’

And then the door opened and Lane announced Mr and Mrs Ambrose, Miss Ambrose, and Miss Pennington. They all came in together—Frank Ambrose big and fair, with a pale, heavy face; his pretty dark wife Irene, with her air of having dressed in a hurry; his sister Brenda, mannish, with thick cropped hair as fair as his and the same very light blue eyes. One of the very worst quarrels which periodically shook the Ambrose household had followed upon a suggestion by Irene and her sister Lydia Pennington that Brenda’s appearance would be very much improved if she would darken her almost white eyelashes. Lydia had most obligingly proffered experienced help, but the whole affair had gone up in smoke.

Lydia’s own lashes bore witness to her skill. Nature had made them as red as her hair, but she had no idea of sitting down under anything of that sort. Her grey-green eyes now sparkled jewel-bright between lashes as dark as Phyllida’s own. For the rest, she was a little bit of a thing who always managed to look as if she were about to take part in a mannequin parade. The latest clothes, the latest shoes, the latest way of doing the hair, the latest and most startling lipstick and nail-polish—these were Lydia. She made talk wherever she went. Men dangled and pursued, but never quite caught up with her. Dick Paradine proposed to her every time she came to stay. She fluttered up to him now and deftly evaded a kiss.

‘Hullo, Dicky! Hullo, Phyl! I believe you’ve grown. I must get higher heels on my shoes. You’re such an immense family. Look at Mr Paradine, and Aunt Grace, and Frank, and you—and Mark! Miles up in the air, all of you—so remote!’

Dicky had an arm about her.

‘Not me, darling. You mayn’t have noticed it, but I’m quite nice and near.’

She leaned back, laughing up at him.

‘I never do notice you—that’s why I love you so passionately.’ Then, with a turn of her head which brought it against Dicky’s shoulder, she was looking up at Mark.

‘Happy New Year, darling.’

He made no answer, only turned and pushed at the fire with his foot. A log crashed in, and a flurry of sparks went up.

‘Snubbed!’ said Lydia in a mournful tone. Then she disengaged herself and ran across to Miss Paradine. ‘Will I do, Aunt Grace? Or is he going to be shocked as usual? I wanted to come in my new brocade trousers—gorgeous furniture stuff and no coupons—but Frank lectured me and Irene lectured me till my spirit was broken, so here I am all jeune fille in a skirt.’

‘You look very nice, my dear,’ said Grace Paradine. She smiled and added, ‘You always do.’

The skirt cleared the floor and stood out rather stiff. It was of heavy cream satin, and there was nothing at all jeune fille about it. It was worn with a top of cream and gold brocade, high in the neck and long in the sleeve. The red hair was piled as high as it would go in an elaborate arrangement of puffs and curls.

Beside her her sister Irene looked dowdy and washed-out. She had been in the middle of telling Grace Paradine just how much cleverer her Jimmy was than any of the other children in his class at the kindergarten. As soon as Lydia turned away she resumed her narrative.

Lydia caught Phyllida by the arm and swung her round.

‘Look at Irene in that old black rag! Isn’t she an awful warning? If I ever begin to feel myself slipping I just take a good strong look at her and it does the trick. She’s still pretty, but it won’t go on—she’s going down the domestic drain just as fast as ever she can. Come along over here and tell me all about everything. Golly—isn’t this an awful room for me—my hair and all this crimson! Pity I didn’t go the whole hog and sport the emerald trouserings. One might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.’

‘Uncle James would have had a fit,’ said Phyllida. She pulled down a fat velvet cushion with gold tassels which was balancing on the back of one of the brocaded couches and sank gracefully against it. ‘You can’t really wear anything but black or white in this house. I made up my mind to that years ago.’

The room was very large and very lofty. Its three tall windows were draped in ruby velvet. Between them and over the white marble mantelshelf hung mirrors heavily framed in gold. A ruby carpet covered the floor. Couches, chairs, and stools all flamed in red brocade. Two large chandeliers dispensed a brilliant light broken into rainbows by elaborately cut lustres and drops. Vulgarity had been avoided only by a hairsbreadth, yet somehow it had been avoided. The effect was heavily old-fashioned—a scene from some mid-Victorian novel—but for all the colour, the marble, and the gilding, it had a kind of period dignity. Queen Victoria might have received in it. Prince Albert might have sat at the grand piano and played Mendelssohn’s Songs without Words.

Lydia leaned across from the other corner of the couch.

‘Go on—tell me everything! Quick—before someone tears us apart! They will in about half a second. What are you doing? I thought you’d prized yourself loose and gone off on your own.’

‘Only to Birleton,’ said Phyllida. ‘I’m secretary of the Convalescent Home there.’

She did not look at Lydia, but Lydia looked at her—a green, determined glance.

‘Why didn’t you go right away—into one of the Services or something? I nearly screamed with rage when Irene wrote and said you’d got caught up in this convalescent show and were doing it from here on a push-bike.’

Phyllida looked down into her lap.

‘It was too far,’ she said listlessly. ‘Aunt Grace wanted me to try, but I couldn’t keep it up in the black-out—she saw that. So I live at the Home now. I’ve got a week’s leave if I want it, but I expect I shall go back in a day or two. I’d rather be doing something.’

Lydia darted another of those glances.

‘Aunt Grace hates it, doesn’t she?’

Phyllida nodded.

Lydia went on.

‘How many times a week does she come along and take you out to lunch?’

There was nothing in the words, but the tone was a challenging one. Phyllida looked up, her eyes dark and hurt.

‘She misses me—she can’t help that. She’s been very good. Lydia, you know what she’s done for me.’

‘Well, what has she done for you? She adopted you, but you don’t suppose she did it to please you, do you? People don’t adopt a baby for the baby’s sake. They do it for exactly the same reason that they get a puppy or a kitten—because they want something to pet. Nobody asks the puppy or the kitten if it wants to be petted—nobody asks the baby.’

Phyllida put out a hand.

‘Lydia—please—you mustn’t! She loved my father and mother. They were her greatest friends—faraway cousins too. I don’t know what would have happened if she hadn’t adopted me. There wasn’t a penny, you know. Nobody wanted me. I do owe her everything.’

Lydia caught the hand and pinched it lightly.

‘All right, chicken. Don’t over-pay your debts—that’s all.’

Phyllida drew back. She opened her lips as if she were going to speak, shut them again, and then said in a hurry.

‘Why don’t you like Aunt Grace? She’s always very nice to you.’

Lydia’s eyes were all indignant fire.

‘Darling, I adore her—just the same as I adore featherbeds, and bubbly, and pouring myself out in a heart-to-heart talk with someone who makes me feel I’m the only pebble on the beach. I just don’t think it’s frightfully good for one, that’s all. Minute doses and at long intervals, yes, but every day and all day, absolutely and definitely no.’

Phyllida jumped up. She didn’t want to quarrel with Lydia, but if she stayed any longer she would have to quarrel—or agree. She went over to where Irene was telling Miss Paradine all about a spot on little Rena’s chest.

‘It only showed this morning, and of course I took her temperature at once, and it was normal. I sent for Doctor Horton and he said he didn’t think it was anything. Of course he hasn’t got young children of his own, and I don’t think he takes them seriously enough. I didn’t really want to come tonight. The spot had gone, but of course you never can tell, can you, and I knew you’d understand. But Frank was so dreadfully cross that I thought I had better get dressed after all. You know, I think he’s really unreasonable about the children. He would be the first to complain if I neglected them, but he seems to think that I can go here, there, and everywhere with him just as I used to before we had a nursery. I do wish you’d speak to him.’

Grace Paradine laid an affectionate hand on her arm. She said,

‘You’re a very devoted mother, my dear.’

And then Phyllida came up. Irene turned to her.

‘Oh, Phyl, I’ve been so worried all day! It was Rena—she had a spot on her chest, and of course I took her temperature at once....’

Grace moved a little away. Frank Ambrose joined her.

‘Irene been boring you with the kids’ ailments? She’s always at it. They’re perfectly healthy children, but she worries herself to fiddle-strings over them. If it isn’t one thing it’s another. She’s got a good nurse, and she doesn’t trust her a yard. Look here, Aunt Grace, can’t you put in a word about it? There isn’t anyone else she’d take it from.’

‘She’s young,’ said Grace Paradine in an indulgent tone.

‘She won’t be if she goes on like she’s doing. She can’t do this, and she can’t do that, and she won’t do the other, and it’s always the same excuse—Jimmy’s nose wants blowing, or Rena’s had a sneeze, or a hiccup, or a cough. Why, it was all I could do to get her here tonight.’

Grace Paradine turned a sympathetic look upon him,

‘Poor old Frank,’ she said.

Lydia, glancing across at them from the other side of the hearth, watched the sulky look fade out of Frank’s face. The heavy lines relaxed. He talked. Miss Paradine listened. Every now and then she smiled.

Lydia shot a sparkling glance at Dicky.

‘The best butter——’ she murmured.

But when he stared and said ‘Hullo—what’s that?’ she only laughed and said, ‘Alice in Wonderland, darling.’

And then the door at the end of the room was opened and three people came in. James Paradine first, very imposing. The black and white of evening dress confers an undue advantage upon those to whom much has already been given. Mr Paradine stood six-foot-five in his shoes. He carried his height with ease and dignity. His fine head was thickly covered with silver hair, but his eyebrows and the eyes over which they arched were as dark as they had been when he was twenty. The ruby and gold of the room became merely background when he came in. A little behind him on his left was his secretary, Albert Pearson, a bun-faced young man in horn-rimmed spectacles and the kind of dress suit which suggests a peg in a bargain basement. On his other side Elliot Wray.

Everyone stopped talking. Everyone looked at Elliot. Mr Paradine came up to his sister and observed with smiling malice,

‘My dear, you will be charmed to know that we have another guest. You were complaining only this morning that ten would not make at all a good table. Well, here is Elliot Wray to make the number up to eleven. We had some business together, and I have prevailed upon him to stay.’