The Clock Strikes Twelve (4 page)

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, last 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 iater Mark and Dicky said goodnight. The party was over.

There remained in the big drawing-room Elliot, Phyllida, and Grace Paradine, with Albert Pearson as a buffer. It was impossible to say whether he realized the position and found it untenable, or whether he was merely being conscientious when he said that he had work to do and thought he had better be getting down to it. He did not appear nervous, but then Albert never did. Whether he had ever felt unequal to any occasion in the course of his twenty-nine years, was known only to himself. To the world he presented an obstinate efficiency which was sometimes irritating. Infallibility requires a great deal of charm to carry it off. Unfortunately Albert was deficient in charm. Yet on this occasion three people watched him go with regret.

There was one of those pauses. Phyllida stood by the fire looking down into it, half turned away from the room, her pose one of graceful detachment, her colour high. Grace Paradine had not resumed her seat. A couple of yards away Elliot, with the expression of a polite guest masking some embarrassment and some sarcasm. If she was waiting for him to speak first, she could wait.

They all waited, Phyllida withdrawn, Miss Paradine momentarily more indignant. He had the insolence to come here, to force himself upon them— upon Phyllida! She was going to find it hard to forgive James for abetting him—very hard indeed. The shock to Phyl was unforgiveable. And what was he waiting for now, when everyone else was gone? She made a quick movement and said,

“I think we had better say goodnight. Lane will show you out.”

At this moment, which should have increased it, any embarrassment that Elliot had been feeling went up in smoke. He was suddenly so angry that he didn’t give a damn. He found himself saying cheerfully,

“Oh, didn’t Mr. Paradine tell you? I’m afraid I must apologise, but I’m staying the night. We’re in the middle of some rather important business, and he insisted on it.”

Miss Paradine was speechless. The blood rushed to her face. Words rushed clamouring to her tongue, driven by the rage which filled her. But for the moment she held them back. Stronger than her resentment, stronger than anything else at all, was the consciousness that Phyllida was listening, and that she must not put herself in the wrong. No matter what the provocation, there must be nothing said or done to swing Phyllida’s sympathies over to Elliot’s side. She refrained those crowding words and, choosing among them, said,

“No, he did not tell me. I think that I should have been told.”

Elliot could admire what he disliked. He disliked Grace Paradine a good deal, but he had never despised her as an adversary. They had fought for Phyllida, and she had won. Anger over that barren victory swept any faint admiration away. He said,

“I quite agree. But you mustn’t hold me responsible. Mr. Paradine requires my presence rather urgently—I am certainly not here of my own choice. I have to see him now, so I will say goodnight.”

Grace Paradine inclined her head and stepped back a pace. Elliot looked towards Phyllida, and all at once she turned from the fire and came over to him.

“Goodnight, Elliot.”

He said, “Goodnight,” and having said it, waited—to see what she would do, or because he found it hard to look away.

She came right up to him, still with that gentle, dreamy air, and put up her cheek to be kissed. It was done so simply, so naturally, as to make his response an involuntary one. His lips just touched her, and withdrew as she withdrew. She looked over her shoulder and said, “Goodnight, Aunt Grace,” and so went down the room and out of the door.

He had no impulse to follow. Everything in him was shocked into stillness. They had been lovers, and they had parted. They had met as strangers and talked as mere acquaintances. To what remote distance from all their passion of love and anger had Phyllida withdrawn that she could come up to him and offer the kind of kiss you gave your grandfather? His mind was shocked quite numb. He stood where he was and watched Grace Paradine follow Phyllida.

The numbness lasted through his interview with James Paradine. It was not a long one. He had, in fact, made an excuse of it. James was neither expecting him nor desirous of keeping him. He sat grim and sarcastic at his writing-table and said,

“Come to confess, have you? Go away! I’m busy, or I’d tell you just what a fool I think you are.”

“Thank you, sir—Lydia has just been telling me that.”

“She’s too free with her tongue. Wants a husband who’ll keep her in order. Richard won’t. But I’m talking about you. You’re a fool to come visiting me tonight. It’s compromising, that’s what it is— damned compromising.” He gave a short, hard laugh. “If anyone saw you, your character’s gone. They’ll be sure you came to confess.”

“To what?”

“Folly of some kind,” said James Paradine. “There are more fools than wise men, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the devil made the fools. Anyhow be off with you! You’ll get your plans in the morning.”

He went out, and was aware of Albert Pearson in the offing, looking earnest.

“If I might have a word with you, Wray—”

Nobody in the world with whom Elliot less desired to have a word than Albert, but impossible to refuse. He did say, “I thought you had work to do,” but it produced no effect. Albert merely remarked that he could do it later and followed Elliot to his room. It was on the farther side of the bedroom floor, and was the same which had always been assigned to him before he married Phyllida—a fair-sized room which would have looked larger if it had not contained so much furniture. Mahogany bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers, dressing-table, and wash-stand encroached upon the floor space. There was a writing-table, an armchair, and two or three smaller chairs.

Albert came in, shut the door, and said,

“Do you mind if I stay here till after twelve?”

“What?”

Albert repeated the horrible remark.

“Do you mind if I stay here till after twelve? You see, he’s made it very awkward for me, living in the house. It’s all very well for the Ambrose lot—they can go home and be alibis for each other, and so can Richard and Mark. Cousin Grace and Phyllida can stick together if they want to. But what about me after what he said? ‘I’ll be in my study till twelve’— well, who’s going to say I didn’t go and have an interview with him and confess to what he was hinting about at dinner? I’m the one the family would rather see in a spot than any of themselves—wouldn’t they? If you can’t see them tumbling over one another to put it on me, I can. And I’m not having any. My character is my capital, and I’m not risking it. I’ll have a witness to prove that I didn’t go near him till the time was up.”

Elliot leaned against the footrail of the bed with his hands in his pockets and said with a spice of malice,

“Well, you had a minute or two to confess in before I came along—didn’t you?”

Albert shook his head.

“No, I didn’t. Lane was in the study when I got there, putting out a tray of drinks—he can speak to that. And I wasn’t there half a minute behind him. I suppose nobody imagines I had time to confess to whatever it is in about thirty seconds.”

“It would be quick work.”

“Very well. Then if I stay here till after twelve, they can’t put it on me.”

Elliot raised his eyebrows. The hands on the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to a quarter past ten. He had never cottoned to Albert, he was not cottoning to him now. Nearly two hours of Albert neat was a stupefying prospect. Of all things in the world, he desired to be alone. He said in the driest tone at his command,

“I should cut it out and go to bed.”

Albert looked obstinate. All the Paradines could be obstinate, but it was his mother, born Millicent Paradine, who had been nicknamed Milly the Mule.

“I have my character to consider.”

Elliot produced an agreeable smile.

“I could always lock you in and take away the key.”

Albert’s resemblance to the late Mrs. Pearson was intensified. He walked over to the easy chair and sat down.

“I might have another key. I’m not taking any risks. Besides, have you thought about your own position? Cousin Grace doesn’t exactly love you, you know, and what goes for me goes for you. If we sit here together, she can’t put anything on either of us. See? I can say you weren’t in long enough with him to do any confessing. So it will be all O.K. for both of us.”

The situation could hardly have been more tersely summed up. The facts were as stated. That there was a certain humour attaching to them was obvious to Elliot. He resigned himself to the inevitable.

Albert having annexed the only armchair, he seated himself upon the bed and prepared to endure. He would at least not be called upon for very much in the way of conversation. No one in England could better sustain a monologue than Albert. A competent analysis of Japanese foreign policy for the last twenty years led on by a natural transition to a résumé of the personal history and career of Marshal Chiang Kai-Shek. The words flowed over Elliot without really impinging upon his mind or impeding the processes of his thought. They were even vaguely soothing. Albert’s voice rose and fell. There was not the slightest need to listen to what he was saying. Elliot did not listen.

He came to the surface at intervals and was aware of Albert discoursing on Communism, on Proportional Representation, on the life history of the eel, but for the most part he remained submerged beneath the flow of his own thoughts and of Albert’s persistent monologue.