Читать книгу The Missing Angel - Erle Cox - Страница 8

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So now we see why Tydvil Jones was ripe for rebellion against life in general, and his wife in particular. He felt he had had a raw deal. He did not quite know what to do about it, but he was determined to do something, and in the humour he was in, he did not care much what he did.

The overdue explosion occurred about a fortnight after the episode of the two typists. He entered his breakfast room, as usual, the first arrival. It was Amy's practice to appear at breakfast always, but unless she had something particular to say to him, usually annoying, she seldom arrived on the scene until a few minutes before he was timed to depart for his office.

She did not like early rising, but she did like to say to her friends, "I think, my dear, it is a wife's duty to give her husband her society at breakfast." She considered it marked her as a devoted spouse who was willing to sacrifice her comfort for her husband's pleasure. She certainly did sacrifice her comfort, but whether Tydvil found pleasure in it is open to argument.

The maid who attended to his simple wants found the master unusually unresponsive. He was as much loved by his household staff as Amy was disliked—which says volumes for his popularity. Tydvil had slept badly, and was still simmering from a domestic argument of the previous night.

There was, among others, an institution known as the Moral Uplift Society, of which Amy was president. Its aim was to assist unfortunate girls, who had run off the rails, back to the tracks of righteousness. Jones had, on several occasions, contributed lavishly to its upkeep. A quiet investigation, however, had suggested to him, that though its expenditure was real, the results accruing from its efforts were doubtful.

His insistence on being given some concrete evidence of its usefulness was met with replies so vague, and so conflicting, that he arrived at the conclusion that its secretary was a son of Ananias, and several of the helpers were daughters of Sapphira. Moreover, his requests for a balance sheet had been fruitless, though he admired the skill with which his curiosity on the subject was baffled.

For several days Amy had been angling for a cheque for one thousand pounds for the Moral Uplift Society. Usually he submitted to her exactions patiently. This time, however, she met with a flat refusal until he had seen a balance sheet prepared by his own auditor.

Amy was annoyed, but had no misgivings as to the outcome of Tydvil's extraordinary stubbornness. On the previous evening she had given up an engagement to devote herself seriously to the matter. From eight o'clock until ten-thirty, when he fled to his room, still recalcitrant, and locked himself in—and her out—she had wrought with him faithfully. He had remained silent, sullen and unyielding under the ordeal by tongue.

All this may explain, if it does not excuse, the outburst of Tydvil Jones as his eyes ran over the columns of the newspaper the maid had placed beside his plate. Suddenly he sat erect. He dropped his half lifted cup back into the saucer with a clash of china and jingle of silver that shattered the dignified silence of the room.

In both hands he grabbed the paper, and glared at it with incredulous eyes. It was no wonder he doubted their accuracy, for he read, under triple and flattering headlines, the following paragraph: "Members and friends of the Moral Uplift Society passed a hearty vote of thanks to Mr. Tydvil Jones, the well known philanthropist, at their monthly meeting yesterday afternoon. Mrs. Tydvil Jones, the president of the Society, read a letter from her husband in which he offered a donation of one thousand pounds to be used for any purpose the committee may direct. This is the third cheque for a similar amount which Mr. Jones has contributed to the funds of the society."

"That well known philanthropist, Mr. Tydvil Jones," read that paragraph three times before its enormity filtered thoroughly into his system. The third time, he read it standing up. The startled maid regarded her employer with wide-eyed concern. She thought he was choking, so suffused had his face become. Then the long suppressed volcanic eruption took place. Tydvil hurled the newspaper to the floor and ground it tinder his heel. This was bad enough, but his language..."It's an outrage!" he shouted. "A damned outrage and a damned conspiracy! Not a penny! Not one damned penny!"

Fate decreed that, at that moment Amy entered the room and both saw and heard her husband's demonstration. It was only when his wife had advanced towards the table that he was aware of her presence. Not that that made any difference, Tydvil was beyond caring two hoots for Amy or anyone else.

Scenting battle, the wide-eyed maid fled—but not out of earshot. Amy advanced, showing no sign of emotion, and, stooping down, drew the newspaper from under her husband's foot. Deliberately she smoothed out the creases of the torn page, and quietly placed it on the table. Then, as quietly, she walked round the table and took her seat. She leaned back in her chair with her cold eyes fixed on his flushed face. There was a long thirty seconds' silence.

Then Amy spoke calmly, "I am waiting, Tydvil."

"For what?" he snapped.

"For your apology." Her eyes never left his for a moment.

"Then you'll wait a dashed long time!" He had leaned towards her with both hands resting on the edge of the table, and his out-thrust chin gave him an unusually bellicose air.

The lines about Amy's mouth hardened. Her lips compressed to a straight pink line, and there was cold fury in her grey eyes. Very few of her friends would have recognised "Dear Amy" at that moment.

"I think, Tydvil, dear," she said evenly, though the white knuckles clenched on the arm of her chair showed what it cost to control her voice—"I think, Tydvil, dear, that you have been overworking yourself. I will ask Dr. Morris to call this evening. Perhaps a holiday will be necessary.

"Morris, be hanged!" he snorted.

Amy raised her brows slightly. "Perhaps, my dear Tydvil," she knew of old how the reiterated "Dear Tydvil" grated, "you will explain the cause of your irritation. Your conduct may be, indeed is, unpardonable." She waved a hand slightly and went on, "I am quite unused, as you know, to hearing such language. Neither am I used to being sworn at before my servants."

The statements were unassailable facts. Usually she would have side-tracked Tydvil into a defence that he had not sworn at her. But he was too full of wrath to be distracted by minor issues. He snatched up the crumpled paper and, in a voice that she scarcely recognised, he read that outrageous paragraph aloud. "What's the meaning of that infernal falsehood?" he demanded. "You know I have refused to subscribe to that den of racketeers. Eh? Eh?"

There was a nasty little smile on the corners of Amy's lips as she answered.

"The paragraph is quite in order, my dear Tydvil. It states what actually took place at our meeting yesterday." She paused, and the smile deepened. "Indeed, I handed the paragraph into the newspaper offices myself."

"Meeting—yesterday—afternoon!" He gasped his surprise with each word. "You told me you knew I particularly wished to be present. You told me yourself it was—postponed." Amazement struggled with his wrath.

Amy nodded slightly, quite unabashed. "I am quite aware of that, as I was aware that you intended to make a very disagreeable fuss over a quite unnecessary balance sheet. I most strongly object to your interference in matters in any of my societies that do not concern you."

Staring at her, open mouthed, Tydvil sank slowly back into his chair. "But the letter!" he gasped, "the letter..."

"I saw to that, too." She spoke as though humouring a petulant child.

Jones turned the revelation over in his mind. "Do you mean to tell me you wrote that letter yourself?" he said at last.

She nodded. "I typed it myself, and read it to the meeting. It was not signed, and no one saw it but myself."

"And," his voice shook with his rising wrath again, "you expect me to hand over that cheque!"

She nodded emphatically. "I most certainly do."

"Then let me tell you this," he shouted, thumping the table while everything on it jangled to his blows, "I'll see you to Jericho before I give you a farthing; and you can explain why as you dashed well please."

"After the publicity the matter has been given, you will find it rather awkward to say that you have changed your mind." Amy smiled her derision.

Jones pressed his finger furiously on the bell button. The maid arrived with a rapidity that would have excited suspicion had either combatant been in a mood to notice trifles.

He turned to her. "Tell Carter to bring round the single-seater," he said abruptly. "Tell him I wish him to drive me to the office." The girl vanished on the word.

Meanwhile, the tension between the two increased. Up till now, Tydvil's actions, to use diplomatic phraseology, had been merely unfriendly. The ordering of the car had been a declaration of war. Like some other good people, Amy's self-denial extended only to others. She had laid it down that the exercise of the walk along St. Kilda road to the city was necessary for his health. Moreover, it set the staff an example of un-ostentation. Now, his ordering of the car was flat and flagrant rebellion.

When the maid disappeared, Amy said acidly, "I think, Tydvil dear, we have already settled the question of your using a car to take you to the office."

"Well, I'm unsettling it," he snorted. He picked up the paper and, turning a most aggressive back on his wife, he pretended to read.

Five minutes passed in strained silence. The maid returned. "The car is waiting, sir."

Before Jones could move, his wife said quickly, "Oh, Kate! Mr. Jones has changed his mind. Tell Carter to take the car back."

This was one of Amy's choicest methods of management. She relied for its success on Tydvil's horror of scenes, even in private, and felt certain he would shrink from a brawl before the maid. But, for, once, she had misjudged the extent of the revolt.

Jones sprang to his feet, and arrested the maid as she moved, with a barked "Wait!" The girl stopped. "If you convey that message, both you and Carter will be summarily dismissed. Bring me my hat and coat."

The girl hesitated, and looked at her mistress for guidance. She was between a horde of devils and a very deep sea. "Do you hear me!" thundered the voice of the master, and never before had she heard it with such a ring of fury. Suddenly she recognised that she was a spectator to a revolution. When, a minute later, she returned, Amy was sobbing, with her face in her plate.

"Oh, Tydvil! To think you would insult me before the maids!"

"I haven't begun insulting you yet!" he growled truculently. "Just wait a bit!" and he left without even glancing at her again.

That he reached his office by car instead of using his legs, added one more link to the chain of circumstances. He arrived just twenty minutes before the time his staff had learned to expect him, and saw certain things that were as unexpected as he was.