The Dark House | Page 3

until such time
as Christine raised 40 pounds from somewhere.
These were mere incidents--entirely commonplace--but at six o'clock
James Stonehouse himself had driven up in a taxi, to the driver of
which he had appeared to hand the contents of all his pockets, and a
moment later stormed into the house in a mood which was, if anything,
more devastating than his ungovernable rages. He had been
exuberant--exultant--his good-humour white-hot and dangerous.
Looking into his brilliant blue eyes with their two sharp points of light,
it would have been hard to tell whether he was laughing or mad with
anger. His moods were like that--too close to be distinguished from one
another with any safety. Christine, who had just come from
interviewing the bailiff, had looked grave and disapproving. She knew
probably, that her disapproval was useless and even disastrous, but
there was an obstinate rectitude in her character that made it impossible
for her to humour him. But Edith Stonehouse and Robert had played up
out of sheer terror.
"You do seem jolly, Jim," Edith had said in her hard, common voice.
"It's a nice change, you bad-tempered fellow----"
She had never really recovered from the illusion that she had captured
him by her charms rather than by her poor little fortune, and when she
dared she was arch with an undertone of grievance. Robert had capered
about him and held his hand and made faces at Christine so that she
should pretend too. Otherwise there would be another row. But
Christine held her ground.
"The butcher came this afternoon," she said. "He says he is going to get
out a summons. And the bailiff is in again. It's about the furniture. You
said it was paid for. I can't think how you could be so mad. I rang up
Melton's about it, and they say the firm wants to prosecute. If they do,
it might mean two years'----"
Robert had stopped capering. His knees had shaken under him with a
new, inexplicable fear. But James Stonehouse had taken no notice. He

had gone on spreading and warming himself before the fire. He had
looked handsome and extraordinarily, almost aggressively, prosperous.
"I shall write a sharp note to Melton's. Damned impertinence. An old
customer like myself. Get the fellow down into the kitchen. The whole
thing will be settled tomorrow. I've had an amazing piece of luck.
Amazing. Met Griffiths--you remember my telling you about Alec
Griffiths, don't you, Christine? Student with me at the University. Got
sent down together. Wonderful fellow--wonderful. Now he's in
business in South Africa. Made his pile in diamonds. Simply rolling.
He's going to let me in. Remarkable chap. Asked him to dinner. Oh,
I've arranged all that on my way up. Gunther's are sending round a cook
and a couple of waiters and all that's necessary. For God's sake,
Christine, try and look as though you were pleased. Get into a pretty
dress and join us. Must do him well, you know. Never do for a man like
that to get a wrong impression. And I want him to see Robert. He knew
Constance before we were married. Put him into his best clothes----"
"He hasn't got any," Christine had interrupted bitterly.
For a moment it had seemed as though the fatal boundary line would be
crossed. Stonehouse had stared at his son, his eyes brightening to an
electric glare as they picked out the patches of the shabby sailor-suit
and the frantic, mollifying smile on Robert's face had grown stiff as he
had turned himself obediently about.
"Disgraceful. I wonder you women are not ashamed, the way you
neglect the child--I shall take him to Shoolbred's first thing to-morrow
and have him fitted out from top to toe----" The gathering storm
receded miraculously. "However, he can't appear like that. For God's
sake, get the house tidy, at any rate----"
So Robert had been bustled up stairs and the bailiff lured into the
kitchen, where fortunately he had become so drunk that he had had no
opportunity to explain to the French chef and the two waiters the real
reason for his presence and his whole-hearted participation in the feast.
From the top of the stairs Robert had watched Christine go into dinner

on his father's arm, and Edith Stonehouse follow with a black-coated
stranger who had known his mother. He had listened to the talk and his
father's laughter--jovial and threatening--and once he had dived
downstairs and, peering through the banisters like a small blond
monkey, had snatched a cream meringue from a passing tray. Then for
a moment he had almost believed that they were all going to be happy
together.
That had been last night. Now there was nothing left but the bailiff, still
slightly befuddled, an incredible pile of unwashed dishes