Hercule Poirot’s Christmas. Agatha Christie

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      IV

      David was reading the letter. Once he screwed it up into a ball and thrust it away from him. Then, reaching for it, he smoothed it out and read it again.

      Quietly, without saying anything, his wife, Hilda, watched him. She noted the jerking muscle (or was it a nerve?) in his temple, the slight tremor of the long delicate hands, the nervous spasmodic movements of his whole body. When he pushed aside the lock of fair hair that always tended to stray down over his forehead and looked across at her with appealing blue eyes she was ready.

      ‘Hilda, what shall we do about it?’

      Hilda hesitated a minute before speaking. She had heard the appeal in his voice. She knew how dependent he was upon her—had always been ever since their marriage—knew that she could probably influence his decision finally and decisively. But for just that reason she was chary of pronouncing anything too final.

      She said, and her voice had the calm, soothing quality that can be heard in the voice of an experienced nannie in a nursery:

      ‘It depends on how you feel about it, David.’

      A broad woman, Hilda, not beautiful, but with a certain magnetic quality. Something about her like a Dutch picture. Something warming and endearing in the sound of her voice. Something strong about her—the vital hidden strength that appeals to weakness. An over-stout dumpy middle-aged woman—not clever—not brilliant—but with something about her that you couldn’t pass over. Force! Hilda Lee had force!

      David got up and began pacing up and down. His hair was practically untouched by grey. He was strangely boyish-looking. His face had the mild quality of a Burne Jones knight. It was, somehow, not very real…

      He said, and his voice was wistful:

      ‘You know how I feel about it, Hilda. You must.’

      ‘I’m not sure.’

      ‘But I’ve told you—I’ve told you again and again! How I hate it all—the house and the country round and everything! It brings back nothing but misery. I hated every moment that I spent there! When I think of it—of all that she suffered—my mother…’

      His wife nodded sympathetically.

      ‘She was so sweet, Hilda, and so patient. Lying there, often in pain, but bearing it—enduring everything. And when I think of my father’—his face darkened—‘bringing all that misery into her life—humiliating her—boasting of his love affairs—constantly unfaithful to her and never troubling to conceal it.’

      Hilda Lee said:

      ‘She should not have put up with it. She should have left him.’

      He said with a touch of reproof:

      ‘She was too good to do that. She thought it was her duty to remain. Besides, it was her home—where else should she go?’

      ‘She could have made a life of her own.’

      David said fretfully:

      ‘Not in those days! You don’t understand. Women didn’t behave like that. They put up with things. They endured patiently. She had us to consider. Even if she divorced my father, what would have happened? He would probably have married again. There might have been a second family. Our interests might have gone to the wall. She had to think of all those considerations.’

      Hilda did not answer.

      David went on:

      ‘No, she did right. She was a saint! She endured to the end—uncomplainingly.’

      Hilda said, ‘Not quite uncomplainingly or you would not know so much, David!’

      He said softly, his face lighting up:

      ‘Yes—she told me things—She knew how I loved her. When she died—’

      He stopped. He ran his hands through his hair.

      ‘Hilda, it was awful—horrible! The desolation! She was quite young still, she needn’t have died. He killed her—my father! He was responsible for her dying. He broke her heart. I decided then that I’d not go on living under his roof. I broke away—got away from it all.’

      Hilda nodded.

      ‘You were very wise,’ she said. ‘It was the right thing to do.’

      David said:

      ‘Father wanted me to go into the works. That would have meant living at home. I couldn’t have stood that. I can’t think how Alfred stands it—how he has stood it all these years.’

      ‘Did he never rebel against it?’ asked Hilda with some interest. ‘I thought you told me something about his having given up some other career.’

      David nodded.

      ‘Alfred was going into the army. Father arranged it all. Alfred, the eldest, was to go into some cavalry regiment, Harry was to go into the works, so was I. George was to enter politics.’

      ‘And it didn’t work out like that?’

      David shook his head.

      ‘Harry broke all that up! He was always frightfully wild. Got into debt—and all sorts of other troubles. Finally he went off one day with several hundred pounds that didn’t belong to him, leaving a note behind him saying an office stool didn’t suit him and he was going to see the world.’

      ‘And you never heard any more of him?’

      ‘Oh, yes, we did!’ David laughed. ‘We heard quite often! He was always cabling for money from all over the world. He usually got it too!’

      ‘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.’

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