seemed too trivial to warrant such a display of emotion. She had exploded with wrath at finding that Conrad had carelessly put a used plate (his own) in her place at the table, instead of removing it to the sideboard.
“And who shall blame her?” said Aubrey. “I do think that egg-stains are quite too alienating, don’t you? The twins simply have no sensibility at all.”
“But what’s she want to kick up such a shindy about?” demanded Conrad. “She’d only got to move it, hang it all! Anyone would think I’d put a live toad in her place!”
“I wouldn’t pay any attention to Vivian’s tantrums, if I were you,” Clara said. “I daresay she has her troubles.”
“She’s got Eugene, if that’s what you mean!”
“Is she starting a baby by any chance?” inquired Charmian, who was sitting with both elbows on the table, and her coffee-cup held between her hands.
Clara rubbed her nose. “Well, she hasn’t said anythin’ about it to me,” she said doubtfully. “Of course, that isn’t to say she isn’t, and it would account for her comin’ over squeamish, I daresay.”
“Oh, no!” said Aubrey imploringly. “Oh, Char darling, you don’t really think so, do you? I mean, what with Father being quite too gross for words, and the twins so terribly, terribly hearty, I don’t think I can bear any more! Shall you stay here for a whole week? I’m nearly sure I shan’t. It’s all so primitive, and vulgar, and I find that I definitely lack the herd-instinct, without which I quite see that it’s practically impossible to feel at home here.”
“Well, that’s something, anyway!” retorted Conrad, getting up from the table. “Considering that you affect the rest of us like a pain in the neck, the sooner you clear out the better!”
“Now, that’s enough!” Clara said mildly. “What with your father on the rampage, and now Vivian, we can’t do with any more nonsense.”
Conrad grimaced at her, and went away, but any hopes she or others might have entertained of spending the eve of Penhallow’s birthday in comparative peace were effectually put an end to, first by the discovery that Vivian was prolonging her attack of hysteria in the library; and next by the antics of Penhallow, who, as soon as he had recovered in some measure from the effects of Raymond’s assault upon him, proceeded to make his presence more than usually felt in the house. Knowing nothing of his father’s unpropitious mood, Clay was inspired to address an appeal to him, having nerved himself to take this desperate step by walking about the gardens for several hours, and rehearsing a convincing speech. Filial respect and manly determination were the predominant notes in the speech, as rehearsed, but since he was destined never to utter more than the opening phrases all his trouble was wasted. The very sight of his pallid countenance, nervously bobbing Adam’s apple, and unquiet hands exasperated Penhallow. He had always done what lay in his power to inspire his sons with dread of him, and had heartily despised any one of them who seemed to show that he had succeeded. Confronted by Clay, who was obviously terrified of him, and as obviously preparing to recite a set speech, he gave the fullest rein to his ill-humour, speedily reducing that unfortunate youth to a condition of stammering imbecility, tearing his character to shreds, trampling brutally over the tenderest spots in his sensibility, and dismissing him finally with a promise to take such steps as were requisite to turn him into a worthy member of the Penhallow family.
Emerging from his father’s room in a much shaken state, Clay fell into the arms of his half-sister, whom he encountered in the hall, and who promptly walked him out into the garden, and endeavoured, with the best possible motives, to instil resolution and self-reliance into him. But as he was of the type that responds only to encouragement mingled with a good deal of flattery, her methods, which were at once bracing and scornful, inspired him with nothing more than a desire to escape from her, coupled with a strong conviction that she did not understand him. He fled to his mother, and unburdened himself to her with so little reserve that it was not long before he had plunged her into a state of even greater desperation than his own.
Having passed one of her restless nights, Faith was late in coming downstairs. The hour which Clay had spent in her room had left her with a throbbing head; she felt her chief need was to be quiet, and was well aware that such a commodity was not to be found under the existing circumstances at Trevellin. The house seemed to teem with persons all more or less inimical to her; and as though it were not enough to find Eugene toying with an idea for an essay in the Yellow drawing-room, his wife viciously smoking cigarettes in the library, Clara mending stockings in the morning-room, and Charmian conducting an argumentative literary discussion with Aubrey in the hall, Myra had walked up from the Dower House to discover what plans had been made for Penhallow’s birthday party on the morrow. Myra had been in to see Penhallow, and gave it as her opinion that he was looking wonderful. As she had very little interest in anything beyond the walls of her own home, she hardly ever came into collision with her father-in-law, a circumstance which enabled her to face the thought of his amazing vitality with perfect equanimity.
“I always say,” she remarked brightly, “that he’ll see us all out! Of course, all the Penhallows are long-lived, aren’t they? I’m sure everyone thought his grandfather would die years and years before he did. He had everything in the world the matter with him, too. Of course, his father died young, but that was only because of a hunting accident.”
Faith barely repressed a shudder. Her sister-in-law replied placidly that she for one had never believed in half Penhallow’s ailments. She added that Dr Lifton might say what he liked, but that she knew her brother better than he did, and expected him to live for a good many years yet.
Faith could not listen to such a prognostication in silence. “If he did not drink so much!” she said. “Dr Lifton told me himself that no constitution could stand it!”
“Ah!” said Clara, rethreading her needle. “Time will show.”
Faith went out into the garden, murmuring that her head ached. The thought of perhaps having to endure years of the sort of purgatory she had been going through for months now was so appalling to her that she looked quite hunted, and indeed felt as though her reason were tottering. Since Aubrey’s return to the fold, the noise and the strife in the family seemed to have become augmented, not one of his brothers being able, apparently, to see him without making some belittling remark to which he promptly responded in kind. Such bickering had no effect upon Clara, who largely ignored it, but it preyed on Faith’s nerves to an extent that would have been quite incomprehensible to the Penhallows, had they had the least idea of it. More than ever, now that Aubrey had come and Loveday had betrayed her confidence, she found herself dreaming of the prettily furnished fiat in London which she hoped to share one day with Clay. It had become her escape from the turmoil of actuality, but sometimes it seemed to her that she would never realise her ambition until she had grown too old and weary to enjoy it.
Seated in the shade of a big tree on the lawn, she glanced towards the sprawling grey house, with its graceful Dutch gables, its chamfered windows, and high chimney-stacks, and remembered with a feeling almost of incredulity that she had once, long ago, exclaimed at its beauty, and thought herself fortunate to be its mistress.
The truth was, of course, that she had never been its mistress. No spirit ruled at Trevellin other than Penhallow’s, and the tyranny he exercised was so complete that it left no member of the household untouched. Brooding over it, she realised, with a little start (for she was so much in the habit of thinking her own sufferings unique that she had never considered whether the rest of the family might not suffer too, in their degrees), that it would not only be herself and Clay who would be released by Penhallow’s death from an intolerable bondage. There was Raymond, always at silent loggerheads with his father, and striving against the odds to husband the estate; there was Vivian, tied to a house and an existence she loathed, cheated of her right to her own home; there was Bart, baulked of a marriage which, however distasteful to his family, would probably turn out successfully; there was Aubrey, escaping for a little while only to be caught back again into his father’s toils. Perhaps, in the end, Charmian too would be forced to abandon the peculiar life she had chosen for herself. It did not seem likely, but anything, Faith thought, was possible when Penhallow jerked on the reins. But if he were to die, as the doctor had hinted that he would, every trouble would vanish, and they would be free, all of them: free to disperse, to follow their own inclinations; free from the fear of Penhallow’s wrath; free from their degrading dependence upon him for their livelihood. Bart would marry his Loveday, and take her to live at Trellick; Vivian would at last have Eugene to herself, to worship and to protect; Aubrey might pursue his exotic course undisturbed; and Raymond, coming after impatient years into his inheritance, would govern Trevellin without let or hindrance. And Clay, who was so much more important than any of them, would be saved from the grim future planned for him by Penhallow, for even if Penhallow left him nothing, there would be her own jointure, and on that he and she could live in peace and tolerable comfort while he made a name for himself with his pen.
She saw clearly that Penhallow’s death would be a universal panacea, and at once it seemed to her monstrous that he should lie there, in that fantastic room, year upon year, as no doubt he would, growing steadily
