Hercule Poirot’s Christmas. Agatha ChristieЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘And Alfred?’
‘Father made him chuck up the army and come back and go into the works.’
‘Did he mind?’
‘Very much to begin with. He hated it. But Father could always twist Alfred round his little finger. He’s absolutely under Father’s thumb still, I believe.’
‘And you—escaped!’ said Hilda.
‘Yes. I went to London and studied painting. Father told me plainly that if I went off on a fool’s errand like that I’d get a small allowance from him during his lifetime and nothing when he died. I said I didn’t care. He called me a young fool, and that was that! I’ve never seen him since.’
Hilda said gently:
‘And you haven’t regretted it?’
‘No, indeed. I realize I shan’t ever get anywhere with my art. I shall never be a great artist—but we’re happy enough in this cottage—we’ve got everything we want—all the essentials. And if I die, well, my life’s insured for you.’
He paused and then said:
‘And now—this!’
He struck the letter with his open hand.
‘I am sorry your father ever wrote that letter, if it upsets you so much,’ said Hilda.
David went on as though he had not heard her.
‘Asking me to bring my wife for Christmas, expressing a hope that we may be all together for Christmas; a united family! What can it mean?’
Hilda said:
‘Need it mean anything more than it says?’
He looked at her questioningly.
‘I mean,’ she said, smiling, ‘that your father is growing old. He’s beginning to feel sentimental about family ties. That does happen, you know.’
‘I suppose it does,’ said David slowly.
‘He’s an old man and he’s lonely.’
He gave her a quick look.
‘You want me to go, don’t you, Hilda?’
She said slowly:
‘It seems a pity—not to answer an appeal. I’m old-fashioned, I dare say, but why not have peace and goodwill at Christmas time?’
‘After all I’ve told you?’
‘I know, dear, I know. But all that’s in the past. It’s all done and finished with.’
‘Not for me.’
‘No, because you won’t let it die. You keep the past alive in your own mind.’
‘I can’t forget.’
‘You won’t forget—that’s what you mean, David.’
His mouth set in a firm line.
‘We’re like that, we Lees. We remember things for years—brood about them, keep memory green.’
Hilda said with a touch of impatience:
‘Is that anything to be proud of? I do not think so!’
He looked thoughtfully at her, a touch of reserve in his manner.
He said: ‘You don’t attach much value to loyalty, then—loyalty to a memory?’
Hilda said:
‘I believe the present matters—not the past! The past must go. If we seek to keep the past alive, we end, I think, by distorting it. We see it in exaggerated terms—a false perspective.’
‘I can remember every word and every incident of those days perfectly,’ said David passionately.
‘Yes, but you shouldn’t, my dear! It isn’t natural to do so! You’re applying the judgment of a boy to those days instead of looking back on them with the more temperate outlook of a man.’
‘What difference would that make?’ demanded David.
Hilda hesitated. She was aware of unwisdom in going on, and yet there were things she badly wanted to say.
‘I think,’ she said, ‘that you’re seeing your father as a bogy! Probably, if you were to see him now, you would realize that he was only a very ordinary man; a man, perhaps, whose passions ran away with him, a man whose life was far from blameless, but nevertheless merely a man—not a kind of inhuman monster!’
‘You don’t understand! His treatment of my mother—’
Hilda said gravely:
‘There is a certain kind of meekness—of submission— brings out the worst in a man—whereas that same man, faced by spirit and determination, might be a different creature!’
‘So you say it was her fault—’
Hilda interrupted him.
‘No, of course I don’t! I’ve no doubt your father treated your mother very badly indeed, but marriage is an extraordinary thing—and I doubt if any outsider—even a child of the marriage—has the right to judge. Besides, all this resentment on your part now cannot help your mother. It is all gone—it is behind you! What is left now is an old man, in feeble health, asking his son to come home for Christmas.’
‘And you want me to go?’
Hilda hesitated, then she suddenly made up her mind. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do. I want you to go and lay the bogy once and for all.’
V
George Lee, M.P. for Westeringham, was a somewhat corpulent gentleman of forty-one. His eyes were pale blue and slightly prominent with a suspicious expression, he had a heavy jowl, and a slow pedantic utterance.
He said now in a weighty manner:
‘I have told you, Magdalene, that I think it my duty to go.’
His wife shrugged her shoulders impatiently.
She was a slender creature, a platinum blonde with plucked eyebrows and a smooth egg-like face. It could, on occasions, look quite blank and devoid of any expression whatever. She was looking like that now.
‘Darling,’ she said, ‘it will be perfectly grim, I am sure of it.’
‘Moreover,’ said George Lee, and his face lit up as an attractive idea occurred to him, ‘it will enable us to save considerably. Christmas is always an expensive time. We can put the servants on board wages.’
‘Oh, well!’ said Magdalene. ‘After all, Christmas is pretty grim anywhere!’
‘I suppose,’ said George, pursuing his own line of thought, ‘they will expect to have a Christmas dinner? A nice piece of beef, perhaps, instead of a turkey.’
‘Who?’ The servants? Oh, George, don’t fuss so. You’re always worrying about money.’
‘Somebody has to worry,’ said George.
‘Yes, but it’s absurd to pinch and scrape in all these little ways. Why don’t you make your father give you some more money?’
‘He already gives me a very handsome allowance.’
‘It’s awful to be completely dependent on your father, as you are! He ought to settle some money on you outright.’
‘That’s not his way of doing things.’
Magdalene looked at him. Her hazel eyes were suddenly sharp and keen. The expressionless egg-like face showed sudden meaning.
‘He’s