Читать книгу The Clock Strikes Twelve - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 8

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Miss Paradine had more gifts to distribute—unwrapped this time, and most unobtrusively slipped into the hand of each of the four men for whose presence she had been prepared. The fact that there was a fifth guest was quite smoothly ignored. Elliot Wray was ignored. The others received a small pocket diary each, compact and useful, with pencil attached—brown leather for Frank, scarlet for Dicky, blue for Mark, and purple for Albert Pearson. Not by look or word was the fact so much as glanced at that an uninvited guest was present.

Elliot found himself with a twinge of bitter amusement which passed rapidly into anger. It wasn’t taking very much to make him angry tonight. The present occasion was trivial, but beneath its triviality, like the tide beneath a floating straw, there was an unanswerable weight, a cold opposing force. He had discerned it always, but he had never been so conscious of it as now. Sharply across a surge of resentment, that bitter humour expended itself in a zigzag flash. Did he get any coffee, or was he just not here at all?

Hard upon that, Lydia came over to him with a cup in her hand. Their eyes met. Hers flashed. He said,

‘But this is yours.’

‘I’ll get another.’

On the edge of the group, voices low against the background of talk, they might have been alone—the coffee-cup between them; Lydia’s hand raised to offer it; Elliot’s just touching the saucer but not yet accepting; she looking up, her green eyes bright; he looking down with the smoulder of anger in his.

She said, ‘Don’t be a fool.’ And he, ‘I was a fool to stay.’

‘Why did you?’

‘He made a point of it. A matter of business.’

The pronoun held no ambiguity. He in that house was James Paradine.

The long dark lashes flickered.

‘Only that?’

‘What else?’

She laughed.

‘I don’t dot other people’s i’s for them. Here, take your coffee! And don’t be a fool.’

She left the cup in his hand and was gone.

After a moment he followed her, skirting the group about the coffee-tray until he came to Phyllida. Standing behind her, he heard Miss Paradine say with resolute cheerfulness,

‘We’ve all got to be as normal as possible—go on just as usual—not give the servants anything to talk about. I do feel that so strongly. Don’t you all agree with me? It may not be easy, but I really do think we must just go on as if nothing had happened. I don’t know, I can’t think, what has put this idea into James’s head, but if we allow ourselves to be disturbed by it, he—oh, don’t you see, if anyone behaves differently, he’ll think it’s because the thing he said is true. So we mustn’t behave differently—nobody must. Everything must be just as it was last year.’

Elliot Wray said at Phyllida’s shoulder,

‘On the strength of that, suppose we sit down and talk. That was what we did last year, wasn’t it?’

She turned, startled, not by his nearness which she had felt, but by a quality in his voice which was new. Of all the tones it had taken for her between love and anger, this one was new. The words were lightly, easily spoken, but they had a cutting edge. It hurt, and just because of that she smiled. The days were gone when she would let him know that he had power to hurt her. She smiled and turned away with him, going towards the couch where she had sat with Lydia. It was only a little way in distance, but it had the effect of isolating them.

Elliot felt a disproportionate elation, but it centred, not about Phyllida, but about Grace Paradine. He had walked his wife away from under her nose, and she couldn’t do anything about it. A very pleasing circumstance—very salutary for Miss Paradine. Everything must be just as it was last year? Very well, she should have good measure. Last New Year’s Eve he and Phyllida were just back from their honeymoon. A week later they had parted. In that one week their house had crashed down upon their heads. But they had been hand in hand when they saw the New Year in—they had looked for it to bring them happiness. Because of these things he was mindful that he had a debt to pay. He said in that new tone which hurt.

‘What shall we talk about?’

But this time Phyllida was ready. When you are pressed hard you use whatever weapons you can. Whether from instinct or from choice, she took the simplest, the least expected, the oldest weapon of all. She smiled and said,

‘You. Won’t you tell me what you’ve been doing? I haven’t heard anything for so long.’

It was very disarming, but he was not to be disarmed. His resentment held.

‘I didn’t think you would be interested.’

‘Oh, yes.’ She spoke quite simply. ‘There’s so much I want to know. The thing you were working on—did it come out all right? You were worried about it.’

‘James Paradine is in the best position to tell you about that.’

She shook her head.

‘No. He never talks—you know he doesn’t. Besides ... Did it come out all right?’

‘No—we had to scrap it.’

‘Oh, what a pity!’

‘Not really. We’ve got something better—much better. That’s what I’m up about now.’

Insensibly they were slipping into something easier. She was looking at him with the serious, half wistful attention which had always touched some spring of confidence and compunction—like a child who is trying very hard but not sure whether it is trying hard enough. He remembered her saying, ‘I do love all your things when you talk about them. But I’m not clever—I don’t understand them. You won’t mind, will you?’ And he had said, ‘Anyone who likes can be clever. I only want you to be sweet.’

Where had it all gone? They were looking at each other across a blank, lost year. It was gone. How suddenly the path had crumbled before their feet and left them separate.

But Phyllida went on speaking as if there were no gap.

‘Where are you living?’

No—if the gap had not been there, she would not have needed to ask him that—‘Where thou lodgest I will lodge....’

He answered without any noticeable pause.

‘I’m with the Cadogans. It’s very good of them, and of course it’s very convenient. Only Ida complains that John and I never stop talking shop.’

He thought bitterly, ‘So she didn’t even know where I was—didn’t care. What are we doing, making conversation like this? It’s like talking over a grave. She isn’t Phyllida—she’s a ghost trying to get back into the past. And you can’t do it, so what’s the good of trying?’

She said, her voice tripping and hesitating,

‘Why do you—look like that? What is it?’

‘I was thinking you were a ghost.’

Her eyes were on him. He saw them widen a little and wince. Something in him was savagely glad because he had hurt her. He had seen a man look like that when he had had a sudden blow. She said quick and low,

‘Do I look—like a ghost?’

‘No.’

She was all colour and bloom, her eyes deep blue and shining, carnation in her cheeks and on her lips—vivid colour which ebbed and flowed. She said,

‘Why did you say that? I don’t like it.’

‘Isn’t it true?’

She bent her head, not in assent, but as if she could not look at him any longer. The brilliant colour rose. She said,

‘What are you?’

‘I wonder——’

‘Another ghost?’

He gave a short laugh.

‘Ghosts don’t haunt each other—or do they?’

‘I don’t know.’ She looked up again. ‘Elliot——’

‘Yes?’

‘Couldn’t we just go on talking—about—about ordinary things?’

Something got under his guard. He said,

‘I don’t know, Phyl. It’s a bit late in the day.’

‘Please, Elliot——’ She dropped to her lowest tone. ‘It’s all been—frightful—hasn’t it? This evening, I mean. Irene’s been crying, and everything’s bad enough without making it worse. Please, Elliot——’

‘All right, Phyl—without prejudice.’

‘Of course. Elliot, what did he mean—what is it all about? Do you know?’

‘Well, he was fairly explicit.’

She was leaning towards him.

‘Do you think it’s true? Do you think someone has really—oh, I don’t see how it could be true!’

‘Yes, I think it’s true.’

The brilliant colour faded. Her eyes were puzzled—frightened. She said,

‘What is it?’

And then, before he could answer, Grace Paradine was calling,

‘Phyl, darling—Phyl!’

Nothing for it but to go back to the others.

Miss Paradine’s smile was a faint one. Her manner showed distress.

‘Phyl, they think we ought to break up the party. Frank thinks so. He wants to take Irene home. And perhaps—I did think we ought just to go on, but Irene is very upset, and Frank thinks ... It’s very difficult to know what is best.’

Frank Ambrose stood beside her frowning.

‘It’s no good, Aunt Grace. You can pretend up to a certain point, but there are limits, and I’ve reached mine. I’m going home, and I’m taking Irene. Brenda and Lydia can do just as they like.’

‘Well, you don’t expect us to walk, do you?’ said Brenda bluntly.

For once Lydia found herself in agreement. The sooner they all got home the better. Aunt Grace could put a perfectly good face on it with the staff. Nobody did that sort of thing better—‘Mrs Ambrose was anxious about the little girl—she didn’t seem quite the thing this afternoon—and as Mr Paradine isn’t very well——’ She could just hear her doing it, and Lane being respectfully sympathetic.

Goodbyes were said. The Ambrose party trooped away.

Miss Paradine spoke her piece to Lane. It would have amused Lydia very much, because it was almost word for word as she had imagined it—‘Mrs Ambrose is feeling anxious about her little girl,’ and the rest.

Ten minutes later Mark and Dicky said goodnight. The party was over.