The Dark House | Page 4

and an
atmosphere of stale tobacco. James Stonehouse had gone off early in a
black and awful temper. It seemed that at the last moment the
multi-millionaire had explained that owing to a hitch in his affairs he
was short of ready cash and would be glad of a small loan. Only
temporary, of course. Wouldn't have dreamed of asking, but meeting
such an old friend in such affluent circumstances----
So the eighth birthday had been forgotten. Robert himself could not
have explained why grief should have driven him to his father's
cigars-box. Perhaps it was just a beau geste of defiance, or a reminder
that one day he too would be grown up and free. At any rate, it was still
a very large cigar. Though he puffed at it painstakingly, blowing the
smoke far out of the window so as to escape detection, the result was
not encouraging. The exquisite mauve-grey ash was indeed less than a
quarter of an inch long when his sense of wrong and injustice deepened
to an overwhelming despair. It was not only that even Christine had
failed him--everything was failing him. The shabby plot of rising
ground opposite, which justified Dr. Stonehouse's contention that he
looked out over open country, had become immersed in a loathsome
mist, greenish in hue, in which it heaved and rolled and undulated like
an uneasy reptile. The house likewise heaved, and Robert had to lean
hard against the lintel of the window to prevent himself from falling out.
A strange sensation of uncertainty--of internal disintegration--obsessed
him, and there was a cold moisture gathering on his face. He felt that at
any moment anything might happen. He didn't care. He wanted to die,
anyhow. They had forgotten him, but when he was dead they would be
sorry. His father would give him a beautiful funeral, and Christine

would say, "We can't afford it, Jim," and there would be another awful
scene.
In the next room Edith and Christine were talking as they rolled up the
Axminster carpet which, since the bailiff had no claim on it, was to go
to the pawnbroker's to appease the butcher. The door stood open, and
he could hear Edith's bitter, resentful voice raised in denunciation.
"I don't know why I stand it. If my poor dear father, Sir Godfrey, knew
what I was enduring, he would rise from the grave. Never did I think I
should have to go through such humiliation. My sisters say I ought to
leave him--that I am wanting in right feeling, but I can't help it. I am
faithful by nature. I remember my promises at the altar--even if Jim
forgets his----"
"He didn't promise to keep his temper or out of debt," Christine said.
Edith sniffed loudly.
"Or away from other women. Oh, it's no good, Christine, I know what I
know. There's always some other woman in the background. Only
yesterday I found a letter from Mrs. Saxburn--that red-haired vixen he
brought home to tea when there wasn't money in the house to buy bread.
I tell you he doesn't know what faithfulness means."
Robert, rising for a moment above his own personal anguish, clenched
his fist. It was all very well--he might hate his father, Christine might
hate him, though he knew she didn't, but Edith had no right. She was an
outsider--a bounder----
"He is faithful to his ideal," Christine answered. "He is always looking
for it and thinking he has found it. And except for Constance he has
always been mistaken."
"Thank you."
"I wasn't thinking of you," Christine explained. "There have been so
many of them--and all so terribly expensive--never cheap or

common----"
They were dragging the carpet out into the landing. Their voices
sounded louder and more distinct.
"I could bear almost everything but his temper," Edith persisted
breathlessly. "He's like a madman----"
"He's ill--sometimes I think he's very ill----"
"Oh, you've always got an excuse for him, Christine. You never see
him as he really is. I can't think why you didn't marry him yourself. I'm
sure he asked you. Jim couldn't be alone with a woman ten minutes
without proposing. And everyone knows how fond you are of him and
of that tiresome child----"
Robert Stonehouse gasped. The earth reeled under his feet. The stump
of the cigar rolled off the windowsill, and he himself tumbled from his
chair and was sick--convulsively, hideously sick. For a moment he
remained huddled on the floor, half unconscious, and then very slowly
the green, soul-destroying mist receded and he found Christine bending
over him, wiping his face, with her pocket-Handkerchief.
"Robert, darling, why didn't you call out?"
"He's been smoking," Edith's voice declared viciously from somewhere
in the background. "I can smell it. The horrid little boy----"
"I didn't--I didn't----" He kept