The Uninvited by Dorothy MacArdle

Author:Dorothy MacArdle [MacArdle, Dorothy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, American
Publisher: Doubleday, Doran and Co.
Published: 1942-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter XII

The Tree

-»»««-

"I AM so TIRED," Pamela said as we wound down the hill again, "that it would be nice to die."

I, too, felt exhausted.· Miss Holloway's handling of us, her steely grip, her histrionic performance, and the genuine, fanatical emotion which she had let loose when it suited her, had left me mentally flattened. I felt as if I had been beaten on the brain.

Pamela and I talked little until we had had a Martini each ahd were eating a hurried meal at the hotel.

A spray of carnations and a note from Peter had greeted us.

He and Wendy were "bucked to death" at the thought of seeing us and we were to go straight round after Salome and have drinks at their digs after the show.

It would be fun telling those two about my play.

"Feeling better?" I asked Pamela.

"A bit ... Roddy, what does she want? Carmel, I mean.

Unless," she added drily, "she wants Holloway hanged."

"I'd be with her there," I declared.

Pamela laughed. "One of your prejudices?"

"Frightful woman."

So was the cold beef frightful – gristle and fat; no sauce out of the variety of sticky bottles in the cruet would make it eatable.

We had let a generalised objection to "Grands" and "Royals"

send us to an obscure hotel. Never again!

"The whole story's hideous, isn't it?"

I agreed. "What a household! Meredith a cynic, Carmel a vixen, Holloway a wire-pulling hypocrite, and Mary a – "

"Prig?" Pamela offered.

"Well, say 'a creature' much 'too bright and good for human nature's daily food.'"

"Yes, I'm out of love with Mary. Think of leaving the baby in those great cold hands! Poor, frightened little mite."

"Of course it may be Holloway who's the prig," I reflected.

"We are seeing Mary through her eyes – rather a distorting mirror, perhaps."

"That's true," said Pamela; "and Stella felt such heavenly kindness and warmth .... It does go in circles, doesn't it? – .

I wish we needn't go to the theatre," she sighed.

"Tired still? This meal hasn't done much to revive us! Do you want stewed plums and custard?"

"No, just coffee.''

"Would you like to stay and go to bed? I can't possibly disappoint the Careys or I would stay too.''

"An evening here wouldn't be a cure," she replied with a grimace; "besides, I want to see the show . . .. Gosh, how that woman hates Carmel! She probably strangled her."

"She didn't have to: in pneumonia, a little neglect goes quite a long way."

Pamela shuddered. "We've been making ourselves polite to a murderess."

''I'm quite ready to believe it. I wouldn't mind trying to prove it, if you could call a ghost into court."

A greyish liquid was placed before us in coffee cups. Stirring sugar into hers slowly, Pamela said: "If it is Carmel, I don't see that there's anything to be done.''

"Nor do I, but I don't think it is. I believe it is all an emotional echo, and there is nothing that anybody can do except wait for it to wear away."

We both sat, depressed, smoking cigarettes at the table until we realised that it was time to go and too late to change into evening kit.

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