when arthur had been five weeks at hartling, he believed that he knew the other inmates of the house as well as he would ever know them, although he had to admit to himself that he knew none of them any better, now, than he had after he had been there three days. his social relations with some of the kenyons had lost formality. he was familiar in his treatment of hubert, on terms of impudence with elizabeth, and of occasional persiflage with joe kenyon and charles turner. but these intimacies were only such as he might have developed in a month's stay with them at the same hotel. on both sides there was an effect of enforced toleration, of making the best of a casual temporarily unavoidable proximity. he was still some one who had come in from the "outside." the kenyons never snubbed him, but he could not be quite at his ease with them; he knew that if for any reason he left hartling, the whole family would become for him the chance acquaintances of a prolonged visit. he could see himself, a few months hence, meeting one of them in the street, pausing to exchange a few conventional inquiries, and passing on with no more than a whimsical smile at a recollection of an old adventure.
there was, however, one exception. if the descendants of old mr kenyon had not emerged from the indeterminate background of humanity in general, the old man himself stood out as a distinctive, even a slightly impressive figure. arthur's original
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inclination, to pity the head of the house, had been gradually diverted; he was not on closer acquaintance, a figure that called for pity; and once or twice arthur had had a strange sensation that was almost akin to fear. there was, indeed, something about old kenyon that was not quite human, something more than that indescribable appearance of immortal old age. he appeared so intimidatingly detached from the common cares and interests of human life. he had boasted of his power to keep in touch with contemporary movements and affairs, but he was never disturbed by them. nearly every morning arthur spent an hour in the old man's company, and in that time he usually discussed the morning's news, but never as yet, had arthur seen him display the least emotion with regard to any question of politics or finance. he would speak of the irish situation, the starvation of austria, the threat of labour troubles, the cost of living, or the burden of the income tax as if they were incidents in the reign of george iv. rather than in that of george v. and if arthur himself gave any sign of heat or partisanship the old man would regard him with the cold speculative eye of one who watches the lives and furies of infusoria under a microscope. he seemed to have completely lost the warm-blooded human passion for interference in other people's affairs.
there was another aspect of him also that was giving arthur an occasional qualm of uneasiness. he had found that the old man was not dependable in such things as the consideration of one's natural needs in the matter of ready money. in that second interview when arthur had put his position quite plainly, acknowledged himself willing to accept the post offered him for three months on trial, and
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hinted more or less indirectly, but as he believed quite plainly, that he would greatly prefer that there should be no question of any posthumous gratitude, the essential point of present remuneration in the form of salary had not been mentioned. nor had any reference been made to it since that occasion. and the truth was that arthur had been spending quite a lot of money in the last five weeks. his original outfit had only been intended to carry him over a glorified week-end, and he had found it necessary to add to it. also, he had paid his entrance fee, and a year's subscription to the golf club, bought himself some new clubs, a croquet-mallet, a new racket, and a billiard cue, and although he still had a balance at his bank, it had begun to appear rather inadequate when regarded as capital for starting a new life in canada. the thought of his shrinking resources had begun to embarrass him, but he had felt a strong disinclination to approach the subject in his conversations with mr kenyon, moreover, the very fact that he was being paid nothing held a kind of implicit promise that he would be "remembered" later. a man of old kenyon's wealth and position would not expect a qualified medical man, who was at best quite a distant connection to give his services, to say nothing of his immediate chances, and receive no sort of compensation.
for in the course of those five weeks arthur had lost some of his scruples with regard to figuring in mr kenyon's will. the atmosphere of the house may have had its influence on him. living, as he presumed he did, among the people who had no other ideal other than that of inheriting as capital what they now enjoyed as interest, he had come by unnoticed degrees to think of that way of life
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as being more or less normal and reasonable. and when he thought of the future he had already begun to anticipate the probability of his staying on at hartling until old kenyon died.
it was so easy to find reasons for planning that mode of life, so difficult to contemplate any other; more particularly when it seemed probable that only by staying could he hope to be rewarded for his services. he still fidgeted occasionally at the thought that he was wasting his time, perhaps his life; but he was steadily accustoming himself to luxury, and the thought of peckham grew more and more repulsive every day. he had not written to bob somers for nearly a month. he had a definite disinclination even to think of somers. the life at hartling was very easy. he was enormously improving his game at golf, croquet, and billiards; and, take it all round, he got on quite well with the family—with all the family—except eleanor.
for some reason, he and she were still strangers to one another. if there was a barrier between him and the rest of the kenyons, there was a gulf between him and eleanor; although, in the first instance, she had seemed to be the only one of them who was prepared to come out and greet him as a friend. but, since he had made his decision to stay on at hartling for a trial period of three months, there had been little intercourse between them, and never once had he been alone with her. she treated him with a calm aloofness, and he on his side had made no overtures. he supposed that, for some reason she disliked him, and had decided that he, also, disliked her.
the first break in the general stagnation in the hartling mode of life came with the intrusion of
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another member of the family, young kenyon turner, the budding stockbroker. he came down for a week-end, and arthur detested him from the outset.
he had been playing golf with hubert until six o'clock, and his first sight of the new arrival was in the garden. he was walking up and down the middle of the terrace with eleanor, deep in what appeared to be a very engrossing conversation. he was an almost deliberately handsome young man, just too well-dressed in arthur's estimation. his own conduit street tailor had never been able to produce that, perhaps too noticeable effect of absolute correctitude. it was probably not the tailor's fault, he was too careless, or the wrong figure or something. and in any case, he despised a man who took too much trouble with his clothes.
he decided on the spur of the moment to interrupt the tête-à-tête; an intrusion that young turner quite obviously resented.
"been playin' golf?" he asked, with a supercilious air when eleanor had made the introduction. "not my game. don't get enough time for it."
arthur noted that turner's eyes were those of a man who was making too great demands on his vitality; tired eyes, shadowed with dark lines, and already thinly creased at the outer corners.
"good, healthy game," he commented, staring rather contemptuously. "keeps you in the open air."
"oh! do you play for medical reasons?" turner replied. "'fraid i haven't the determination for that." and as he spoke he turned back to eleanor intimating as plainly as he could that he had no further use for arthur's company.
eleanor's tone had a faint note of apology as
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she said: "kenyon was asking my advice about something."
arthur could not resist that chance. "you're rather great on giving advice, aren't you?" he asked, and was surprised to see that she winced as if he had hurt her.
"am i?" was all she said, and arthur instantly regretted his rudeness.
"i only meant," he began, "that you.... i'm sorry. i didn't mean it that way."
she smiled sadly. "it's an ungrateful task in any case," she said, "and i'm afraid that in this case, too, my advice will not be taken."
arthur excused himself and went on towards the house, wondering if she were advising young turner, as she had advised himself, to fly the temptation of hartling. why had she done that? he was still unable to find any satisfactory reason for her recommendation of so drastic a course. he could not now believe that she had been jealous of his influence with her grandfather, and the theory that she had conceived so strong an aversion for his personality that she had desired to scare him away, was foolishly improbable. eleanor was not like that. in some ways he rather admired her. even elizabeth always spoke nicely about her.
he was surprised to find an air of disturbance up at the house. most of the kenyons were in the drawing-room, but instead of sitting about their familiar occupations, they were gathered together in a group, engaged in what appeared to be a somewhat anxious conference. their talk ceased abruptly as he came in, and both mr and mrs turner faced round with an expression that was at once expectant and apprehensive. arthur would have
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gone out again at once, but turner hailed him by saying:—
"hallo! arthur. seen my son anywhere?"
"yes, he's on the middle terrace with eleanor," arthur said. "i was just introduced to him, but as they obviously did not want me, i came on up."
turner looked at his brother-in-law, kenyon, who shrugged his shoulders, but made no further comment; and they had returned to their discussion with an effect of rather desperate resignation before arthur was fairly out of the room.
he wondered if there were some sort of affair, perhaps an engagement, between eleanor and young turner; and if the family as a whole objected on account of the nearness of the relationship? he decided that if they consulted him, as they generally did on any matter presumed to be within his province as a medical man, he would make it clear that a marriage of first cousins was not necessarily dangerous. nevertheless, he despised eleanor for her choice.
the function of dinner was even more formal than usual that night, and old mr kenyon had a prolonged lapse of consciousness that kept them all waiting for more than five minutes. these solemn intervals of suspense always produced in arthur an effect of being present at some religious observance, and to-night he was more aware of it than usual. he remembered how, as a youth, he had been half-awed and half-exasperated when he attended the sacrament at home by the ceremonial deliberation of his father. he had had an evangelical tendency, but in this service he had favoured quite an elaborate ritual of his own, and his bearing of the chalice and the paten from the ambry to the
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altar, and the subsequent presentation consecration, and personal acceptance of the elements had been conducted in a low, scarcely audible voice, and with an air of almost exaggerated reverence. once or twice arthur had sacrilegiously wondered if his father had found an unusual satisfaction in being the sole human instrument and representative of this mystery of the consecration, and had unduly prolonged the periods of silence involved? and to-night, the same thought crossed his mind with regard to old kenyon. was he, perhaps, extending the interval of waiting after he had recovered consciousness, exulting in the exercise of his power?
instinctively arthur glanced across the table at eleanor. she was sitting very still, her hands in her lap, her eyes downcast, but he fancied that her expression conveyed something of impatience and revolt. did she know? he asked himself. was she inclined to be critical of her grandfather's whims? was she, perhaps, desperately ready to marry young turner in order to escape from hartling?
as soon as the service was released again, he turned for information to elizabeth.
"is anything up?" he asked in an undertone. "anything out of the ordinary?"
she looked at him out of the corners of her eyes and softly blew her relief. "we got a good dose to-night," she whispered, and continued, "that means there's going to be a fuss."
"about young turner and eleanor?" he tried.
"eleanor? where does eleanor come in?" was her surprised response.
"i don't know. i thought possibly...." he hesitated, finding an unexpected difficulty in putting his guess into words.
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"nothing whatever to do with eleanor," elizabeth said, without waiting for him to finish his sentence.
"what is it, then?" he insisted.
"about him," she said, indicating kenyon turner. "i can't possibly tell you now."
but after dinner he received enlightenment as to the cause of the impending "fuss" from the prime disturber of the peace himself.
"care to have a game of pills?" he asked, coming over to arthur as they were leaving the dining-room.
his first instinct was to refuse. the conceit of the fellow annoyed him—he had two lines of braid down his dress trousers—but arthur was on the top of his form just then, and was spurred by a desire to beat him at what was, no doubt, his own game. he had been so cursedly supercilious about playing golf for "medical reasons."
"don't mind," he said in the true hartling manner of one condescending to a casual visitor from the outside.
but although he did, in fact, beat young turner, he realised that his victory was due to the fact that his opponent was "off his game," and could probably give him twenty in a hundred on ordinary occasions. young turner's touch was almost as delicate as his father's.
"i'm no earthly good to-night," he said, putting down his cue at the conclusion of the game. "all this business is such an infernal worry."
as he spoke he looked at hubert—who had been exercising his predestinate function of marker—rather than at arthur.
"you're not the only one," hubert commented morosely.
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arthur, who had been continuing a break that had not been completed when he reached game, straightened his back and faced his cousin. "what is this business?" he asked.
hubert, who had got into that uneasy-looking pose of his, looked down at his crossed ankles.
"the old man's so infernally difficult," he said.
"so cursedly tight with the money-bags," turner explained.
"have you been trying to milk him, then?" arthur asked.
"oh, well! the fact is i'm in a hole, on the rocks," turner admitted. "i've put it off as long as i can, but something has cursedly well got to be done now."
hubert smiled contemptuously. "got to be done," he repeated. "who's going to make him? what it'll end in 'll be your coming to live down here!"
"i'm damned if it will," turner declared vehemently, but there was a note of fear in his voice as he continued: "it's out of the question. i mean i'm not doing so badly at the office and all that. if only the old man allowed me a decent screw, i should be all right. in an office like ours you simply have to be in everything that's going. sometimes one of the partners 'll put you in to what he thinks is a good thing, for instance, and you're practically bound to have a fiver on. there's a lot of that sort of thing anyhow you can't keep out of."
"and how much notice d'you think the old man'll take of that?" hubert asked, without looking up.
turner almost whimpered. "he's got to put me right," he protested, "absolutely got to."
hubert rocked silently from foot to foot. "he hasn't," he said quietly, "and you can't make him.
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you know that well enough. what did eleanor say?"
"she promised to do all she could," turner replied unhopefully, and added: "i'd sooner emigrate than come to live down here."
"got the money for your passage?" hubert inquired.
"i suppose i could get that somehow," turner said. "trouble'd be to dodge my creditors. besides, some of the money must be paid—fellows in the office and so on. i couldn't let them down."
"you'll be living here before you're a week older," hubert decided. "safe as houses."
turner began to pace up and down the billiard room. there was possibly a touch of the histrionic in his manner of doing it, but he was without question genuinely distressed.
"oh, i'll be double damned if i do!" he repeated. "it's all very well for you—you seem to like this sort of life—but i'd be a raving lunatic in a month. i simply couldn't stand it. i—oh! god! i'll make the old man pay. why the devil shouldn't he? he's got more money than he knows what to do with."
hubert was quite unmoved by his cousin's emotion; indeed he seemed to take a melancholy pleasure in watching him. "when are you going to see him?" he asked.
"to-morrow morning," turner said. "and, by the lord, if he refuses i'll give him a piece of my mind."
hubert smiled sadly. "not you," he commented.
arthur had not attempted to interrupt this conversation. once more he had a sense of some curious mystery behind the commonplace situation. both hubert's dismal resignation and young
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turner's too violent asseverations hinted at some quality in their grandfather's treatment of them that arthur found it difficult to associate with the old man himself. it was true, certainly, that he had overlooked or forgotten to offer his medical attendant a salary, but he had none of the signs of the miser. arthur knew that he gave freely to charities, and spent money without stint on the upkeep of hartling. and did he not keep his whole family in idleness from one year's end to another?
"why are you so sure that your grandfather will refuse?" arthur now broke in, looking at hubert.
hubert exchanged a glance with young turner, and it was the latter who answered.
"he's not sure," he protested. "anyway, i'm not."
hubert pursed his mouth and stared thoughtfully at the billiard table.
"do you think he'll have a down on you for gambling?" arthur asked.
turner laughed brusquely. "well, hardly," he said. "been a pretty good gambler himself in his day. that was the way he made most of his money. jolly shady some of his business was too, i've heard. he happened to bring it off, so it was all right. if he hadn't he'd have found himself on the wrong side of the big door."
"you are a pretty damned fool, ken, to talk like that," hubert put in softly.
"oh, well! it makes me so wild," turner protested. "you know the whole amount's under fifteen hundred, and what's that to a man worth over half a million? the pater told me this evening that the old chap's worth all that. quite likely a heap more."
hubert solemnly closed his left eye, and
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continued to stare at the billiard table with the other. "if you come to live down here, he'll put you in the will," he remarked.
turner snorted impatiently. "it isn't good enough," he said crossly. "besides, it's a rotten game waiting for dead men's shoes."
"specially if you can't damned well help yourself," hubert agreed, without the least sign of being offended.
arthur's general perplexity was not enlightened by this conversation, although he had now no further doubts as to the reason for kenyon turner's visit. there still remained that old suggestion of something taken for granted, something that was hidden from arthur himself. the two men had apparently spoken quite frankly before him, and turner, at least, had verged upon the indiscreet until hubert had pulled him up. but behind all their talk lay the hint of an assumption that violated arthur's feeling for common sense. this particular refusal of money could be accounted for. old mr kenyon, if he had been a successful gambler himself, might feel a contempt for the failure, or he might, very reasonably, dislike young turner. but why should he, in either case, want him to come and live at hartling? unless that alternative was being held over him as a kind of threat?
nor did the temporary solution of the immediate problem elucidate the general situation. kenyon turner had his interview with his grandfather on sunday morning, and left for town half an hour later in the vauxhall.
arthur, burning with curiosity, made an opportunity to get hubert alone after lunch.
"well, what happened this morning?" he asked.
"given him a month," hubert replied.
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"how do you mean?" arthur said.
"month to think it over," hubert elaborated. "if he'll chuck the city and come to live down here, the old man'll put him straight."
"and if he won't?"
"then he can jolly well look out for himself."
"but, good lord, why does mr kenyon want him to come and live here?" arthur broke out.
"thinks he'll be company for you and me, perhaps?" hubert suggested.
"oh! rot! he must have some reason," arthur protested.
hubert scratched his eyebrow.
"don't you know what it is?" arthur persisted.
hubert seemed to purse not only his mouth but his whole face. "can't say i do," he said, paused, and then continued in another voice: "i'm up against it too. you know miss martin, don't you? didn't you meet her up at the club-house? well—it's a case with her and me. and what the devil i'm going to do about it, i don't know."
