Envious Casca Page 2

  ‘Well, Stephen!’ said Edgar Mottisfont, descending from the car which had been sent to fetch him from the station.

  ‘Hallo!’ said Stephen indifferently.

  ‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ said Mottisfont, looking at him with disfavour.

  ‘Why?’ asked Stephen.

  ‘Now, now, now!’ chided Joseph, overhearing this interchange, and bustling forward. ‘My dear Edgar! Come in, come in! You must be frozen, all of you! Look at the sky! We’re going to have a white Christmas. I shouldn’t be surprised if we found ourselves tobogganing in a day or two.’

  ‘I should,’ said Stephen, following the others into the house. ‘Hallo, Mathilda!’

  ‘I thought I heard your mellow accents,’ said Mathilda. ‘Spreading goodwill, my sweet?’

  Stephen allowed his bitter mouth to relax into a smile at this greeting, but as Nathaniel came into the hall at that moment, and favoured him with nothing more than a nod, and a curt ‘Glad to see you, Stephen,’ the disagreeable expression returned to his face, and he immediately laid himself out to be objectionable to everyone within range.

  Nathaniel, having shaken hands in a perfunctory fashion with Miss Dean, and said ‘Oh!’ dampingly to her announcement that she simply loved coming to spend Christmas in his perfectly fascinating house, lost no time in whisking himself and Edgar Mottisfont into his study.

  ‘Remind me some time to give you some hints and tips on how to put yourself over with your Uncle Nat,’ Mathilda said kindly to Miss Dean.

  ‘Blast you, shut up!’ snapped Stephen. ‘God, I wonder why I came?’

  ‘Probably because you couldn’t think of anywhere else to go,’ said Mathilda. Catching sight of Joseph’s absurdly dismayed countenance, she added: ‘Anyway, now you are here, behave yourself ! Would you like to go up to your room now, Valerie, or have tea first?’

  Miss Dean, whose major preoccupation in life was the possibility of her hair becoming disarranged, or her complexion impaired, chose to go to her room. This put Joseph in mind of his wife, but by the time he had run her to earth in the drawing-room, Mathilda had escorted Valerie upstairs.

  Maud, gently chided by Joseph for not having come out to welcome the visitors, said that she had not heard their arrival. ‘I have a very interesting book here,’ she said. ‘I got it out of the library today. It is the one you or Nat had out a little while ago, and which you thought I should not care for, about the poor Empress of Austria. Fancy, Joseph! She actually rode in a circus!’

  Joseph, who possibly had a very fair idea of what the company would have to suffer from his wife’s perusal of this, or any other, book, suggested tactfully that it should be put away until after Christmas, and reminded her that she was Valerie’s hostess, and should have showed her the way to her room.

  ‘No, dear,’ replied Maud. ‘I’m sure I had nothing to do with inviting Valerie here. Nor do I see why I shouldn’t read my book at Christmas as well as at any other time. She could sit on her hair. Fancy!’

  There did not seem to be much hope of dragging Maud’s attention away from the Empress’s peculiarities, so, with a fond pat on her shoulder, Joseph bustled away again, to irritate the servants by begging them to put tea forward, and to trot upstairs to tap on Valerie’s door, and ask if she had everything she wanted.

  Tea was served in the drawing-room. Maud laid aside the Life of the Empress Elizabeth of Austria, and poured out. She sat on the sofa, a dump of a woman behind a staggering array of embossed silver, and when each of the visitors came into the room, she extended her small plump hand with the same mechanical smile, and the same colourless phrase of welcome.

  Mathilda sat beside her, and laughed when she saw the title of the book Maud had been reading. ‘Last time I was here it was the Memoirs of a Lady-in-Waiting,’ she said, teasing Maud.

  Mockery slid off the armour of Maud’s self-sufficiency. ‘I like that kind of book,’ she replied simply.

  When Nathaniel came in with Edgar Mottisfont, Stephen dragged himself out of a deep armchair, saying ungraciously: ‘Got your chair, uncle.’

  Nathaniel accepted this overture in the spirit in which it was presumably meant. ‘Don’t disturb yourself, my boy. How have you been keeping?’

  ‘All right,’ Stephen said. He added, with a further effort towards civility: ‘You look very fit.’

  ‘Except for this wretched lumbago of mine,’ Nathaniel said, not quite pleased that Stephen should have forgotten his lumbago. ‘I had a touch of sciatica yesterday, too.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Stephen.

  ‘The ills the flesh is heir to!’ said Mottisfont, shaking his head. ‘Anno domini, Nat, anno domini!’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Joseph. ‘Look at me! If you two old fogies would take my tip, and do your daily dozen every morning before breakfast, you’d feel twenty years younger! Knees bend – touch your toes – deep breathing before the open window!’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Joe!’ growled Nathaniel. ‘Touch my toes indeed! Why, there are some mornings when I should be set fast if I stooped an inch!’

  Miss Dean offered her contribution to the discussion. ‘I do think exercises are the most ghastly bore, don’t you?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be at your age,’ said Nathaniel.

  ‘A dose of salts every morning would do most people a great deal of good,’ said Maud, handing a cup-and-saucer to Stephen.

  Nathaniel, after casting a malevolent look at his sisterin-law, at once began to talk to Mottisfont. Mathilda gave a gurgle of laughter, and said: ‘Well, that’s settled that topic, at any rate!’

  Maud’s pale eyes met hers, uncomprehending, devoid of any hint of humour. ‘I find salts very beneficial,’ she said.

  Valerie Dean, who was looking entrancingly pretty in a jersey-suit which exactly matched the blue of her eyes, had been taking stock of Mathilda’s tweed coat and skirt, and had reached the conclusion that it did not become her. This made her feel friendly towards Mathilda, and she moved her chair nearer to the sofa, and began to talk to her. Stephen, who seemed to be making a real effort to behave nicely, joined in his uncle’s conversation with Mottisfont, and Joseph, radiant now that his party looked like being a success after all, beamed on everyone impartially. So patent was his satisfaction that Mathilda’s eyes began to twinkle again, and she offered, after tea, to help him to hang up his paper-chains.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come, Tilda,’ Joseph told her, as she gingerly mounted the rickety steps. ‘I do so want this party to go well.’

  ‘You’re the World’s Uncle, Joe,’ said Mathilda. ‘For God’s sake, hang on to these steps! They feel most unsafe to me. Why did you want this family reunion?’

  ‘Ah, you’ll laugh at me if I tell you!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I think, if you hang your end just above that picture it would just reach to the chandelier. Then we could have another chain over to that corner.’

  ‘Just as you say, Santa Claus. But why the reunion?’

  ‘Well, my dear, isn’t it the season of goodwill, and isn’t it all working out just as one hoped it would?’

  ‘Depends what you hoped,’ said Mathilda, pressing a drawing-pin into the wall. ‘If you ask me, there’ll be murder done before we’re through. Nat’s patience will never stand much of little Val.’

  ‘Bosh, Tilda!’ said Joseph roundly. ‘Bosh and nonsense! There’s no harm in the child, and I’m sure she’s pretty enough to eat!’

  Mathilda descended the steps. ‘I don’t think that Nat prefers blondes,’ she said.

  ‘Never mind! It doesn’t matter what he thinks of poor little Val, after all. The main thing is that he shouldn’t carry on a silly quarrel with old Stephen.’

  ‘If I’m to fix this end to the chandelier, move the steps over, Joe. Why shouldn’t he quarrel with Stephen, if he wants to?’

  ‘Because he’s really very fond of him, because quarrelling in families is always a pity. Besides—’ Joseph stopped, and began to move the steps.

  ‘Besides
what?’

  ‘Well, Tilda, Stephen can’t afford to quarrel with Nat, the silly fellow!’

  ‘You should worry!’ said Mathilda. ‘You aren’t going to tell me that Nat has at last brought himself to make a will? Is Stephen the heir?’

  ‘You want to know too much,’ said Joseph, giving her a playful smack.

  ‘Sure I do! You’re very mysterious, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, no, upon my word I’m not! I only feel it would be very foolish of Stephen to go on being on bad terms with Nat. Shall we hang this big paper-bell under the chandelier, or do you think a bunch of mistletoe would be better?’

  ‘If you really want my opinion, Joe, I think they look equally lousy.’

  ‘Naughty girl! Such language!’ Joseph said. ‘You young people don’t appreciate Christmas as my generation did. Doesn’t it mean anything to you?’

  ‘It will, by the time we’re through,’ replied Mathilda, once more ascending the steps.

  Two

  PAULA HERRIARD DID NOT ARRIVE AT THE MANOR UNTIL

  after seven, when everyone else was changing for dinner. Her appearance on the scene was advertised, even to those in remote bedrooms, by the unusual amount of commotion heard downstairs. Paula’s entrances always commanded attention. It was not that she deliberately staged them: merely, her personality was rather overpowering, her movements as impetuous as her vivid little face. In fact, Mathilda said with gentle malice, she seemed to have been born with the hall-marks of a great emotional actress.

  She was several years younger than her brother Stephen, and resembled him scarcely at all. She was pretty, in the style made popular by Burne-Jones, with thick, springy hair, a short, full upper lip, and dark eyes set widely under discontented brows. There was an air of urgency about her; you could see it in her restless movements, in the sudden glow in her changeable eyes, and in the hungry line of her mouth. She had a beautiful voice, like a stringed instrument. It was mellow, and flexible, which made her the ideal choice for a Shakespearean rôle. It cast into shocking relief the light, metallic tones of her contemporaries, with their clipped vowels, and the oddly common inflexions they so carefully cultivated. She knew how to throw it, too: no doubt about that, thought Mathilda, hearing it float upstairs from the hall.

  She heard her own name. ‘In the Blue Room? Oh! I’ll go up!’

  Mathilda sat back on her dressing-stool to await Paula’s entrance. In a minute or two there was a perfunctory knock on the door, and before she could call Come in! Paula had entered, bringing with her that uncomfortable feeling of impatience, of scarcely curbed energy.

  ‘Mathilda! Darling!’

  ”Ware my make-up!’ Mathilda exclaimed, dodging the embrace.

  Paula chuckled, deep in her throat. ‘Idiot! I’m so glad to see you! Who’s here? Stephen? Valerie? Oh, that girl! My dear, if you knew the feeling I have here about her!’ She struck her chest as she spoke; her eyes quite blazed for a moment, but then she blinked her thick lashes, and laughed, and said: ‘Oh, never mind that! Brothers – ! I’ve brought Willoughby.’

  ‘Who is Willoughby?’ demanded Mathilda.

  There was again that disconcerting flash. ‘One day no one will ask that question!’

  ‘Pending that day,’ said Mathilda, intent on her own eyebrows, ‘who is Willoughby?’

  ‘Willoughby Roydon. He has written a play…’

  It was strange how much that throbbing voice and those fluttering hands could express. Mathilda said: ‘Oh? Unknown, dramatist?’

  ‘So far! But this play – ! Producers are such fools! We must have backing. Is Uncle Nat in a good mood? Has Stephen upset him? Tell me everything, Mathilda, quick!’

  Mathilda laid down the eyebrow-pencil. ‘You haven’t brought your playwright here in the hope of winning Nat’s heart, Paula? My poor girl!’

  ‘He must do it for me!’ Paula said, impatiently pushing back the hair from her brow. ‘It’s art, Mathilda! Oh! When you have read it – !’

  ‘Art plus a part for Paula?’ murmured Mathilda.

  The shaft glanced off Paula’s armour. ‘Yes. A part. Such a part! It was written for me. He says I inspired it.’

  ‘Sunday performance, and an audience composed of intellectuals. I know!’

  ‘Uncle has got to listen to me! I must play it. I must, Mathilda, do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, my sweet, you must play it. Meanwhile, dinner will be ready in twenty minutes’ time.’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t take me ten minutes to change!’ Paula said impatiently.

  Mathilda reflected that this was true. Paula never bothered about her clothes. She was neither dowdy nor smart; she flung raiment on, and somehow one never knew what she was wearing: it didn’t count, it was nothing but a covering for Paula’s thin body: you were aware only of Paula herself. ‘I hate you, Paula; my God, how I hate you!’ Mathilda said, knowing that people remembered her by the exquisite creations she wore. ‘Go away! I’m less fortunate.’

  Paula’s gaze focused upon her. ‘Darling, your clothes are perfect.’

  ‘I know they are. What have you done with your playwright?’

  ‘I don’t know. Such an absurd fuss! As though the house weren’t big enough – ! Sturry said he’d see to it.’

  ‘Well, as long as your playwright doesn’t wear soft shirts and a plume of hair – !’

  ‘What do these things matter ?’

  ‘They’ll matter fast enough to your Uncle Nat,’ prophesied Mathilda.

  They did. Nathaniel, introduced without warning to Willoughby Roydon, glared at him, and at Paula, and could not even bring himself to utter conventional words of welcome. It was left to Joseph to fill the breach, and he did so, aware of Nat’s fury, and covering it up with his own overflowing goodwill.

  The situation was saved by Sturry, announcing dinner. They went into the dining-room. Willoughby Roydon sat between Mathilda and Maud. He despised Maud, but Mathilda he liked. He talked to her about the tendency of modern drama, and she bore it very meekly, realising that it was her duty to draw his fire.

  He was a sallow young man, with rather indeterminate features, and an over-emphatic manner. Listening, a little inattentively, to his conversation, Mathilda pictured him against a middle-class background of indifference. She felt sure that his parents were worthy people, perhaps afraid of their clever son, perhaps scornful of a talent they could not understand. He was unsure of himself, aggressive from very lack of poise. Mathilda felt sorry for him, and schooled her features to an expression of interest in what he was saying.

  Paula, seated beside Nathaniel, was talking to him about Roydon’s play, forgetting to eat her dinner in her earnestness, annoying him by gesticulating with her thin, nervous hands, insisting on his attending to her, even though he didn’t want to, wasn’t interested. Valerie, on his right, was bored, and taking no pains to hide it. She had pretended at first to be deeply interested, saying: ‘My dear, how marvellous! Do tell me about your part! I shall adore coming to see you in it!’ But Paula didn’t want to capture Valerie’s interest; she brushed her aside with that careless contempt which made her look suddenly like Stephen. So Valerie sighed, patted her sleek curls into position, and despised Paula for wearing a dress which didn’t suit her, and for combing her hair so casually off her face.

  It was being a bad evening for Valerie. She had wanted to come to Lexham (in fact, she had insisted on Stephen’s bringing her) because she knew that Nathaniel did not like her. She hadn’t doubted her ability to captivate him, but even the Chanel model she was wearing had failed to bring that admiring look into his eyes which she was accustomed to see in men’s eyes. Joseph had twinkled appreciation, but that was no use (though pleasant) because Joseph had no money to leave.

  The arrival of an unexpected male guest had been exciting, but he seemed to be absorbed in conversation with Mathilda. Valerie wondered what men saw in Mathilda, and glanced resentfully across at her. It happened that Roydon looked up at that moment, and their eyes met. He
seemed to see her for the first time, and to be shaken. He stopped in the middle of what he was saying, flushed, and picked up the thread again in a hurry, Valerie began to feel more cheerful. Playwrights! One never knew about them; they became famous overnight, and made pots and pots of money, and were seen about everywhere with the best people.

  Joseph, whom Nathaniel suspected of having connived from the start at Willoughby’s arrival, said that he could smell the sawdust again, a figure of speech which apparently left Roydon with the impression that he had been a circusartist. Joseph speedily disillusioned him. ‘I remember once in Durban, when I was playing Hamlet…’ said Joseph.

  ‘Go on, Joe! You never played Hamlet in your life!’ interrupted Mathilda. ‘Your outline’s all wrong.’