Towards Zero (7 page)

“It matters to me.”

“I don't know what's wrong with you. You can't behave in this hysterical fashion when you're staying in other people's houses. Don't you know how to behave in public?”

“Why did you give it to Audrey?”

“Because she wanted it.”

“So did I, and I'm your wife.”

“All the more reason, in that case, for giving it to an older woman and one who, technically, is no relation.”

“She scored off me! She wanted to and she did. You were on her side!”

“You're talking like an idiotic jealous child. For goodness' sake, control yourself, and try to behave properly in public!”

“Like she does, I suppose?”

Nevile said coldly: “At any rate Audrey can behave like a lady. She doesn't make an exhibition of herself.”

“She's turning you against me! She hates me and she's getting her revenge.”

“Look here, Kay, will you stop being melodramatic and completely foolish? I'm fed up!”

“Then let's go away from here! Let's go tomorrow. I hate this place!”

“We've only been here four days.”

“It's quite enough! Do let's go, Nevile.”

“Now look here, Kay, I've had enough of this. We came here for a fortnight and I'm going to stay for a fortnight.”

“If you do,” said Kay, “you'll be sorry. You and your Audrey! You think she's wonderful!”

“I don't think Audrey is wonderful. I think she's an extremely nice and kindly person whom I've treated very badly and who has been most generous and forgiving.”

“That's where you're wrong,” said Kay. She got up from the bed. Her fury had died down. She spoke seriously—almost soberly.

“Audrey hasn't forgiven you, Nevile. Once or twice I've seen her looking at you…I don't know what is going on in her mind but something is—She's the kind that doesn't let anyone know what they're thinking.”

“It's a pity,” said Nevile, “that there aren't more people like that.”

Kay's face went very white.

“Do you mean that for me?” There was a dangerous edge to her voice.

“Well—you haven't shown much reticence, have you? Every bit of ill temper and spite that comes into your mind you blurt straight out. You make a fool of yourself and you make a fool of me!”

“Anything more to say?”

Her voice was icy.

He said in an equally cold tone:

“I'm sorry if you think that was unfair. But it's the plain truth. You've no more self-control than a child.”

“You never lose your temper, do you? Always the self-controlled charming-mannered little pukka sahib! I don't believe you've got any feelings. You're just a
fish
—a damned cold-blooded
fish!
Why don't you let yourself go now and then? Why don't you shout at me, swear at me, tell me to go to Hell?”

Nevile sighed. His shoulders sagged.

“Oh lord,” he said.

Turning on his heel he left the room.

III

“You look exactly as you did at seventeen, Thomas Royde,” said Lady Tressilian. “Just the same owlish look. And no more conversation now than you had then. Why not?”

Thomas said vaguely,

“I dunno. Never had the gift of the gab.”

“Not like Adrian. Adrian was a very clever and witty talker.”

“Perhaps that's why. Always left the talking to him.”

“Poor Adrian. So much promise.”

Thomas nodded.

Lady Tressilian changed the subject. She was granting an audience to Thomas. She usually preferred her visitors one at a time. It did not tire her and she was able to concentrate her attention on them.

“You've been here twenty-four hours,” she said. “What do you think of our Situation?”

“Situation?”

“Don't look stupid. You do that deliberately. You know quite well what I mean. The eternal triangle which has established itself under my roof.”

Thomas said cautiously: “Seems a bit of friction.”

Lady Tressilian smiled rather diabolically.

“I will confess to you, Thomas, I am rather enjoying myself. This came about through no wish of mine—indeed I did my utmost to prevent it. Nevile was obstinate. He would insist on bringing these two together—and now he is reaping what he has sown!”

Thomas Royde shifted a little in his chair.

“Seems funny,” he said.

“Elucidate,” snapped Lady Tressilian.

“Shouldn't have thought Strange was that kind of chap.”

“It's interesting your saying that. Because it is what I felt. It was uncharacteristic of Nevile. Nevile, like most men, is usually anxious to avoid any kind of embarrassment or possible unpleasantness. I suspected that it wasn't originally Nevile's idea—but, if not, I don't see whose idea it can have been.” She paused and said with only the slightest upward inflection, “It wouldn't be Audrey's?”

Thomas said promptly, “No, not Audrey.”

“And I can hardly believe it was that unfortunate young woman, Kay's, idea. Not unless she is a remarkable actress. You know, I have almost felt sorry for her lately.”

“You don't like her much, do you?”

“No. She seems to me empty-headed and lacking in any kind of poise. But, as I say, I do begin to feel sorry for her. She is blundering about like a daddy longlegs in lamplight. She has no idea of what weapons to use. Bad temper, bad manners, childish rudeness—all things which have a most unfortunate effect upon a man like Nevile.”

Thomas said quietly:

“I think Audrey is the one who is in a difficult position.”

Lady Tressilian gave him a sharp glance.

“You've always been in love with Audrey, haven't you, Thomas?”

His reply was quite imperturbable. “Suppose I have.”

“Practically from the time you were children together?”

He nodded.

“And then Nevile came along and carried her off from under your nose?”

He moved uneasily in his chair.

“Oh well—I always knew I hadn't a chance.”

“Defeatist,” said Lady Tressilian.

“I always have been a dull dog.”

“Dobbin!”

“Good old Thomas!—that's what Audrey feels about me.”

“‘True Thomas,'” said Lady Tressilian. “That was your nickname, wasn't it?”

He smiled as the words brought back memories of childish days. “Funny! I haven't heard that for years.”

“It might stand you in good stead now,” said Lady Tressilian.

She met his glance clearly and deliberately.

“Fidelity,” she said, “is a quality that anyone who has been
through Audrey's experience might appreciate. The doglike devotion of a lifetime, Thomas, does sometimes get its reward.”

Thomas Royde looked down, his fingers fumbling with a pipe.

“That,” he said, “is what I came home hoping.”

IV

“So here we all are,” said Mary Aldin.

Hurstall, the old butler, wiped his forehead. When he went into the kitchen, Mrs. Spicer, the cook, remarked upon his expression.

“I don't think I can be well, and that's the truth,” said Hurstall. “If I can so express myself, everything that's said and done in this house lately seems to me to mean something that's different from what it sounds like—if you know what I mean?”

Mrs. Spicer did not seem to know what he meant, so Hurstall went on:

“Miss Aldin, now, as they all sat down to dinner—she says
‘So here we all are'
—and just that gave me a turn! Made me think of a trainer who's got a lot of wild animals into a cage, and then the cage door shuts. I felt, all of a sudden, as though we were all caught in a trap.”

“Law, Mr. Hurstall,” said Mrs. Spicer, “you must have eaten something that's disagreed.”

“It's not my digestion. It's the way everyone's strung up. The front door banged just now and Mrs. Strange—our Mrs. Strange, Miss Audrey—she jumped as though she had been shot. And there's the silences, too. Very queer they are. It's as though, all of a sudden, everybody's afraid to speak. And then they all break out at once just saying the things that first come into their heads.”

“Enough to make anyone embarrassed,” said Mrs. Spicer.

“Two Mrs. Stranges in the house. What I feel is, it isn't
decent.
”

In the dining room, one of those silences that Hurstall had described was proceeding.

It was with quite an effort that Mary Aldin turned to Kay and said:

“I asked your friend, Mr. Latimer, to dine tomorrow night!”

“Oh good,” said Kay.

Nevile said:

“Latimer? Is he down here?”

“He's staying at the Easterhead Bay Hotel,” said Kay.

Nevile said:

“We might go over and dine there one night. How late does the ferry go?”

“Until half past one,” said Mary.

“I suppose they dance there in the evenings?”

“Most of the people are about a hundred,” said Kay.

“Not very amusing for your friend,” said Nevile to Kay.

Mary said quickly:

“We might go over and bathe one day at Easterhead Bay. It's quite warm still and it's a lovely sandy beach.”

Thomas Royde said in a low voice to Audrey:

“I thought of going out sailing tomorrow. Will you come?”

“I'd like to.”

“We might all go sailing,” said Nevile.

“I thought you said you were going to play golf,” said Kay.

“I did think of going over to the links. I was right off my wooden shots the other day.”

“What a tragedy!” said Kay.

Nevile said good-humouredly:

“Golf's a tragic game.”

Mary asked Kay if she played.

“Yes—after a fashion.”

Nevile said:

“Kay would be very good if she took a little trouble. She's got a natural swing.”

Kay said to Audrey:

“You don't play any games, do you?”

“Not really. I play tennis after a fashion—but I'm a complete rabbit.”

“Do you still play the piano, Audrey?” asked Thomas.

She shook her head.

“Not nowadays.”

“You used to play rather well,” said Nevile.

“I thought you didn't like music, Nevile,” said Kay.

“I don't know much about it,” said Nevile vaguely. “I always wondered how Audrey managed to stretch an octave, her hands are so small.”

He was looking at them as she laid down her dessert knife and fork.

She flushed a little and said quickly:

“I've got a very long little finger. I expect that helps.”

“You must be selfish then,” said Kay. “If you're unselfish you have a short little finger.”

“Is that true?” asked Mary Aldin. “Then I must be unselfish. Look, my little fingers are quite short.”

“I think you are very unselfish,” said Thomas Royde, eyeing her thoughtfully.

She went red—and continued, quickly.

“Who's the most unselfish of us? Let's compare little fingers. Mine are shorter than yours, Kay. But Thomas, I think, beats me.”

“I beat you both,” said Nevile. “Look,” he stretched out a hand.

“Only one hand, though,” said Kay. “Your left hand little finger is short but your right hand one is much longer. And your left hand is what you are born with and the right hand is what you make of your life. So that means that you were born unselfish but have become more selfish as time goes on.”

“Can you tell fortunes, Kay?” asked Mary Aldin. She stretched out her hand, palm upward. “A fortune-teller told me I should have two husbands and three children. I shall have to hurry up!”

Kay said:

“Those little crosses aren't children, they're journeys. That means you'll take three journeys across water.”

“That seems unlikely too,” said Mary Aldin.

Thomas Royde asked her: “Have you travelled much?”

“No, hardly at all.”

He heard an undercurrent of regret in her voice.

“You would like to?”

“Above everything.”

He thought in his slow reflective way of her life. Always in attendance on an old woman. Calm, tactful, an excellent manager. He asked curiously:

“Have you lived with Lady Tressilian long?”

“For nearly fifteen years. I came to be with her after my father died. He had been a helpless invalid for some years before his death.”

And then, answering the question she felt to be in his mind:

“I'm thirty-six. That's what you wanted to know, wasn't it?”

“I did wonder,” he admitted. “You might be—any age, you see.”

“That's rather a two-edged remark!”

“I suppose it is. I didn't mean it that way.”

That sombre thoughtful gaze of his did not leave her face. She did not find it embarrassing. It was too free from self-consciousness for that—a genuine thoughtful interest. Seeing his eyes on her hair, she put up her hand to the one white lock.

“I've had that,” she said, “since I was very young.”

“I like it,” said Thomas Royde simply.

He went on looking at her. She said at last, in a slightly amused tone of voice:

“Well, what is the verdict?”

He reddened under his tan.

“Oh, I suppose it is rude of me to stare. I was wondering about you—what you are really like.”

“Please,” she said hurriedly and rose from the table. She said as she went into the drawing room with her arm through Audrey's:

“Old Mr. Treves is coming to dinner tomorrow, too.”

“Who's he?” asked Nevile.

“He brought an introduction from the Rufus Lords. A delightful old gentleman. He's staying at the Balmoral Court. He's got a weak heart and looks very frail, but his faculties are perfect and he has known a lot of interesting people. He was a solicitor or a barrister—I forget which.”