Testimony Of Two Men by Taylor Caldwell Page B

sentimental.”
    “Don’t be insulting, Jon,” said Harald, with mildness. “We like it, Jenny and I. It was old Pete’s dream. It’s unfortunate for him that he didn’t live—”
    “But fortunate for you,” said Jonathan.
    Robert wished, all at once, that he had not accepted the invitation. His discomfort was acute. Then he saw that Jenny, for the first time, had turned her face to Jon. It had changed. Hatred was there, more fierce and relentless than ever, but something else was there too, which was secret and violent. Was it despair? Robert had never been famous for his imagination. He had always accepted things at their face value, never looking beneath the obvious for any ulterior meaning. It had never occurred to him so to look. But now he was fascinated by the girl’s expression. She had become even paler than before, as if in great pain. Her fingers were clenched on her glass, and the tips had whitened with pressure.
    Jonathan was indolently studying the water again, as if forgetting everyone on the terrace. Harald said to Robert, “You mustn’t mind his nasty remarks, Bob. He’s always making them. There’s nothing personal in them, I assure you.”
    “Always personal,” said Jonathan. “Come off it, Harald. I’m a gentleman. I never insult anyone except intentionally.”
    Swine, thought Harald, still determinedly smiling. He was all serenity and indulgence. He said, “How’s Mother today?”
    “Do you care? However, she’s as well as possible.”
    Jenny regarded her glass intently. “Hasn’t she improved? It’s been a month since I last saw her. I thought she didn’t look well.”
    “Heart,” said Harald with sympathy to Robert. “Not very serious, but disabling sometimes. That was the trouble with Myrtle, too. She had to take digitalis regularly.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Robert, with a feeling of helplessness.
    Jonathan replied to Jenny. “She isn’t very well. She’s had a lot to bear.”
    “Let’s forget morbid things,” said Harald, rising. “I hear the lunch bell. Jenny?”
    The girl rose swiftly, her head high and stiff, and swept by them into the house. “Bob?” said Harald, and Robert followed her. She was already disappearing through a wide door which had opened into the hall, and there was startling sunlight in its dimness.
    The dining room was very large, with a high peaked roof of timbers. The walls were covered with rich rose damask, and the same rose color hung at tall thin windows, which had a view of the river. Here the furniture was definitely old, and Spanish, dark and heavy, the chairs carved, the seats cushioned in deep red velvet An Aubusson rug of obvious authenticity lay on the floor in tones of buff and soft blue. The long refectory table had been set with a delicate lace cloth, crystal and gleaming silver. A huge fireplace, rough and of white granite, stood at a farther wall, with copper utensils on the flagged hearth. It was a cold and forbidding room for all its taste and luxury. Jenny was already seated, remote and silent again, not lifting her eyes.
    Harald sat genially at the head of the table, and Jenny at the foot where her mother had sat. Robert sat at Harald’s right hand, Jonathan opposite. “This room,” said Jonathan, “would make an excellent mortuary.”
    “Oh, come on,” said Harald. “You’ve said that a hundred times. Do you think Jenny likes to hear what you think of her father’s house?”
    Jonathan yawned. He looked at the immense buffet, dark with age, and surmounted by wrought-iron candlesticks. “Still a mortuary,” he said. “Why the hell don’t you turn this damned place over to the town as a museum?”
    “It’s Jenny’s home. She might object” Harald was lightly amused.
    He doesn’t like this place, either! thought Robert, astonished.
    “Jenny,” said Jonathan, “would you object?”
    She did not answer. “Now, Jenny,” said Harald, “be nice and answer your dear Uncle Jon.”
    The girl still did not