Hercule Poirot - Christie Agatha - Страница 7

Hilda said gently:

‘And you haven’t regretted it?’

‘No, indeed. I realize I shan’t ever get anywhere with my art. I shall never be a great artist-but we’re happy enough in this cottage-we’ve got everything we want-all the essentials. And if I die, well, my life’s insured for you.’

He paused and then said:

‘And now-this!’

He struck the letter with his open hand.

‘I am sorry your father ever wrote that letter, if it upsets you so much,’ said Hilda.

David went on as though he had not heard her.

‘Asking me to bring my wife for Christmas, expressing a hope that we may be all together for Christmas; a united family! What can it mean?’

Hilda said:

‘Need it mean anything more than it says?’ 

He looked at her questioningly.

‘I mean,’ she said, smiling, ‘that your father is growing old. He’s beginning to feel sentimental about family ties. That does happen, you know.’

‘I suppose it does,’ said David slowly.

‘He’s an old man and he’s lonely.’

He gave her a quick look.

‘You want me to go, don’t you, Hilda?’

She said slowly:

‘It seems a pity-not to answer an appeal. I’m old-fashioned, I dare say, but why not have peace and goodwill at Christmas time?’

‘After all I’ve told you?’

‘I know, dear, I know. But all that’s in thepast. It’s all done and finished with.’

‘Not for me.’

‘No,because you won’t let it die. You keep the past alive in your own mind.’

‘I can’t forget.’

‘Youwon’t forget-that’s what you mean, David.’

His mouth set in a firm line.

‘We’re like that, we Lees. We remember things for years-brood about them, keep memory green.’

Hilda said with a touch of impatience:

‘Is that anything to be proud of? I do not think so!’

He looked thoughtfully at her, a touch of reserve in his manner. 

He said: ‘You don’t attach much value to loyalty, then-loyalty to a memory?’

Hilda said:

‘I believe thepresent matters-not the past! The past must go. If we seek to keep the past alive, we end, I think, bydistorting it. We see it in exaggerated terms-a false perspective.’

‘I can remember every word and every incident of those days perfectly,’ said David passionately.

‘Yes, but youshouldn’t, my dear! It isn’t natural to do so! You’re applying the judgment of a boy to those days instead of looking back on them with the more temperate outlook of a man.’

‘What difference would that make?’ demanded David.

Hilda hesitated. She was aware of unwisdom in going on, and yet there were things she badly wanted to say.

‘I think,’ she said, ‘that you’re seeing your father as abogy! Probably, if you were to see him now, you would realize that he was only a very ordinary man; a man, perhaps, whose passions ran away with him, a man whose life was far from blameless, but nevertheless merely aman -not a kind of inhuman monster!’

‘You don’t understand! His treatment of my mother-’

Hilda said gravely:

‘There is a certain kind of meekness-of submission- brings out the worst in a man-whereas that same man, faced by spirit and determination, might be a different creature!’

‘So you say it was her fault-’

Hilda interrupted him.

‘No, of course I don’t! I’ve no doubt your father treated your mother very badly indeed, but marriage is an extraordinary thing-and I doubt if any outsider-even a child of the marriage-has the right to judge. Besides, all this resentment on your part now cannot help your mother. It is allgone -it is behind you! What is left now is an old man, in feeble health, asking his son to come home for Christmas.’

‘And you want me to go?’

Hilda hesitated, then she suddenly made up her mind. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do. I want you to go and lay the bogy once and for all.’

George Lee, M.P. for Westeringham, was a somewhat corpulent gentleman of forty-one. His eyes were pale blue and slightly prominent with a suspicious expression, he had a heavy jowl, and a slow pedantic utterance.

He said now in a weighty manner: 

‘I have told you, Magdalene, that I think it myduty to go.’

His wife shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

She was a slender creature, a platinum blonde with plucked eyebrows and a smooth egg-like face. It could, on occasions, look quite blank and devoid of any expression whatever. She was looking like that now.

‘Darling,’ she said, ‘it will be perfectly grim, I am sure of it.’

‘Moreover,’ said George Lee, and his face lit up as an attractive idea occurred to him, ‘it will enable us to save considerably. Christmas is always an expensive time. We can put the servants on board wages.’

‘Oh, well!’ said Magdalene. ‘After all, Christmas is pretty grim anywhere!’

‘I suppose,’ said George, pursuing his own line of thought, ‘they will expect to have a Christmas dinner? A nice piece of beef, perhaps, instead of a turkey.’

‘Who?’ The servants? Oh, George, don’t fuss so. You’re always worrying about money.’

‘Somebody has to worry,’ said George.

‘Yes, but it’s absurd to pinch and scrape in all these little ways. Why don’t you make your father give you some more money?’

‘He already gives me a very handsome allowance.’

‘It’s awful to be completely dependent on your father, as you are! He ought to settle some money on you outright.’

‘That’s not his way of doing things.’

Magdalene looked at him. Her hazel eyes were suddenly sharp and keen. The expressionless egg-like face showed sudden meaning.

‘He’s frightfully rich, isn’t he, George? A kind of millionaire, isn’t he?’

‘A millionaire twice over, I believe.’

Magdalene gave an envious sigh.

‘How did he make it all? South Africa, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, he made a big fortune there in his early days. Mainly diamonds.’

‘Thrilling!’ said Magdalene.

‘Then he came to England and started in business and his fortune has actually doubled or trebled itself, I believe.’

‘What will happen when he dies?’ asked Magdalene.

‘Father’s never said much on the subject. Of course one can’t exactlyask. I should imagine that the bulk of his money will go to Alfred and myself. Alfred, of course, will get the larger share.’

‘You’ve got other brothers, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, there’s my brother David. I don’t fancyhe will get much. He went off to do art or some tomfoolery of that kind. I believe Father warned him that he would cut him out of his will and David said he didn’t care.’ 

‘How silly!’ said Magdalene with scorn.

‘There was my sister Jennifer too. She went off with a foreigner-a Spanish artist-one of David’s friends. But she died just over a year ago. She left a daughter, I believe. Father might leave a little money to her, but nothing much. And of course there’s Harry-’

He stopped, slightly embarrassed.

‘Harry?’ said Magdalene, surprised. ‘Who is Harry?’

‘Ah-er-my brother.’

‘I never knew you had another brother.’

‘My dear, he wasn’t a great-er-credit-to us. We don’t mention him. His behaviour was disgraceful. We haven’t heard anything of him for some years now. He’s probably dead.’

Magdalene laughed suddenly.

‘What is it? What are you laughing at?’

Magdalene said:

‘I was only thinking how funny it was that you-you, George, should have a disreputable brother! You’re so very respectable.’

‘I should hope so,’ said George coldly.

Her eyes narrowed.

‘Your father isn’t-very respectable, George.’

‘Really, Magdalene!’

‘Sometimes the things he says make me feel quite uncomfortable.’

George said: 

‘Really, Magdalene, you surprise me. Does-er-does Lydia feel the same?’

‘He doesn’t say the same kind of things to Lydia,’ said Magdalene. She added angrily, ‘No, he never says them toher. I can’t think why not.’

George glanced at her quickly and then glanced away.

‘Oh, well,’ he said vaguely. ‘One must make allowances. At Father’s age-and with his health being so bad-’

He paused. His wife asked:

‘Is he really-pretty ill?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t saythat. He’s remarkably tough. All the same, since he wants to have his family round him at Christmas, I think we are quite right to go. It may be his last Christmas.’

She said sharply:

‘Yousay that, George, but really, I suppose, he may live for years?’

Slightly taken aback, her husband stammered:

‘Yes-yes, of course he may.’

Magdalene turned away.

‘Oh, well,’ she said, ‘I suppose we’re doing the right thing by going.’

‘I have no doubt about it.’

‘But I hate it! Alfred’s so dull, and Lydia snubs me.’ 

‘Nonsense.’

‘She does. And I hate that beastly manservant.’

‘Old Tressilian?’

‘No, Horbury. Sneaking round like a cat and smirking.’

‘Really, Magdalene, I can’t see that Horbury can affect you in any way!’

‘He just gets on my nerves, that’s all. But don’t let’s bother. We’ve got to go, I can see that. Won’t do to offend the old man.’

‘No-no, that’s just the point. About the servants’ Christmas dinner-’

‘Not now, George, some other time. I’ll just ring up Lydia and tell her that we’ll come by the five-twenty tomorrow.’

Magdalene left the room precipitately. After telephoning she went up to her own room and sat down in front of the desk. She let down the flap and rummaged in its various pigeon-holes. Cascades of bills came tumbling out. Magdalene sorted through them, trying to arrange them in some kind of order. Finally, with an impatient sigh, she bundled them up and thrust them back whence they had come. She passed a hand over her smooth platinum head.

‘What on earth am I to do?’ she murmured.

On the first floor of Gorston Hall a long passage led to a big room overlooking the front drive. It was a room furnished in the more flamboyant of old-fashioned styles. It had heavy brocaded wallpaper, rich leather armchairs, large vases embossed with dragons, sculptures in bronze…Everything in it was magnificent, costly and solid.