Family Matters

by Anthony Rolls

  If he would read carefully the enclosures, he would see…In view of the tremendous number of applicants, the company had decided that no appointments were to be made without the deposit of a small premium. The stipulated premium was the absurdly low figure of one thousand pounds, in exchange for which the applicant was to receive five hundred cumulative preference shares in the company.

  But since Mr. Kewdingham was a man of such exceptional value, in view of his technical knowledge, Mr. Sundale had induced his brother directors to accept, in this case, a premium of a mere five hundred pounds, carrying with it, none the less, an allotment of five hundred preference shares. Mr. Kewdingham would be good enough to say nothing about this to anyone who might take advantage of the information.

  Mr. Kewdingham would be interested to observe so distinguished a name as that of General Sir Hashall Mewken on the list of directors. Mr. Sundale would beg Mr. Kewdingham to think it over carefully after reading the prospectus—he did not want him to lack the most complete information—and he had no doubt that he would appreciate the wonderful opportunity which presented itself.

  Also, Mr. Sundale hoped that he might be allowed to say that he was acting as a friend of the family, since he had known the Misses Kewdingham for many years, and he asked Mr. Kewdingham to treat the offer in strict confidence. If, after consideration, he decided that he would rather not take up any active duties, but would prefer to be an ordinary shareholder, they might possibly come to terms which would be highly to Mr. Kewdingham’s advantage. At the same time he would point out that a factory manager had the almost certain prospect of making a substantial fortune. The life in the islands might be described as idyllic, and the duties were not onerous.

  If Mr. Kewdingham would like to discuss any further details, Mr. Sundale would urge him to come immediately to London, as all the shares would be allotted and all the appointments confirmed within ten days’ time.

  This, of course, was much too long and much too explanatory for a straightforward business letter. But Kewdingham treated it as a striking proof of his own importance.

  “Bertha! Sew this button on my grey coat, will you? I’m going up to London to-morrow.”

  Chapter VII

  1

  John Harrigall had lunched with a friend at the Athenaeum. There had been a long conference in the smoking-room, and it was about four o’clock when he crossed Pall Mall, intending to go to the London Library.

  It was a horrible tempestuous afternoon. A stiff north-westerly gale, slapping and buffeting the people in the street, came blasting along with showers of cold, stinging rain. As John reached the pavement on the north side of Pall Mall a squall made him duck his head and blew him off his course. While he was thus bending to the storm he bumped into someone who was coming towards him.

  “Sorry!” cried John without looking round, and he was about to proceed on his way when the other man touched his arm.

  “Hullo! Why—don’t you know me?”

  John slewed round in a jiffy, tottering a little as the tempest whanged him on the back. He saw Robert Arthur Kewdingham.

  It could be seen at once that Kewdingham was violently agitated. It was not so easy to say whether he was angry or surprised or frightened, or for what reason he was in such a pother. He was loose, disarticulate, without purpose or stability, a shivering phantasm of a man, a patched-up sort of thing, a thing which might be expected to fall to pieces or dissolve at any moment, blowing about like a wisp of a soul in limbo.

  “Why—John!” Robert Arthur clutched his crumpled hat as the wind whipped and whistled along the street, and it seemed as if hat and head might blow away together. “Look here—I particularly want to see you.”

  Poor Robert had come up to Phoebe’s flat on the previous evening, and he had just had a talk with Mr. Sundale. Things were not so jolly after all, and Mr. Sundale had been curiously insistent about the premium. Kewdingham said that he could not possibly get hold of five hundred pounds, and Mr. Sundale said that he could arrange for a loan, if that was the only difficulty. But, of course, it was not the only difficulty. There were many things a man had to consider before he engaged himself in such a venture. Mr. Sundale was very friendly, but he was obviously disappointed about the premium, though Kewdingham did all he could to show this excellent man how much he appreciated his generosity. Yes; he did realise the extraordinary kindness of Mr. Sundale…a great opportunity…oh, quite! And then Mr. Sundale kept breaking off his conversation in order to speak on the telephone, for he was tremendously busy, talking in the coolest way about hundreds of thousands of pounds. It was curious that he thought so much about a mere five hundred; but then, as he pointed out, he had to observe the rules of the company. At last he said he was sorry, but several people were waiting to see him: would Mr. Kewdingham ring up, or send him a telegram, if he decided to join in? There were still a few days…No, no! Not at all!…He had been delighted! And yet there was a touch of petulance in the twitching black eyebrows (or was it a touch of regret?) which puzzled Robert and gave him a nasty feeling inside. He came away from Sundale’s office in a flurry of disjointed ideas. The more he thought of the interview, the more he was flurried, and the darker the assemblage of perplexing notions which tumbled in his brain.

  At the moment of his collision with John, Robert had decided, after half an hour of aimless wandering, to walk up to Piccadilly for a bus. But now fate took charge of the poor man, forcing him to an encounter which he dreaded and yet desired. Well!—the sooner the better. They might as well get it over and have done with it.

  The two men did not shake hands with each other. Kewdingham drew up the collar of his coat, while John set his hat more firmly on his head. In both gestures there was a hint of preparation for combat.

  “Hullo, Bobby! I had no idea you were in town. Here—let’s turn up Waterloo Place, out of this confounded gale.”

  They both knew they were on the edge of a crisis, for John had perceived Robert’s jealousy, and Bertha had told him that she believed his letter had been confiscated.

  Of course, John was not seriously disturbed, he took heart from the evident uneasiness of the other, and he believed himself in a good position to receive the attack—if there was one. He had been a bit startled, it is true, by the unexpected appearance of Robert, but now he was rapidly organising a line of defence. He would simply make a flat denial. Why on earth hadn’t Bertha told him that Bobby was coming to town?

  “I have been wanting to see you for some time,” cried Robert hoarsely, as they turned into the shelter of Waterloo Place. “A family matter of some importance—perhaps you can guess what it is. Eh?—How are you getting on with your new book?”

  “Oh, pretty well, I think. It’s not easy for a man to judge his own work, you know. Will you come to my rooms?”

  “No, thanks. I’m in rather a hurry. Only a few words—Brr!” He scowled and shivered as the rain trickled down his neck, and again he tugged up his collar.

  For a few seconds they walked in silence. The gale rushed whooping and booming overhead. Above the uncouth masses of London architecture the low clouds tore apart, disclosing a strip of jagged, pale watery sky. There was a spluther of hail. A shaft of greenish light fell on the Victory of the Crimea, making her look like a figure of polished ebony.

  “We will head for the Park, if you like,” said John, and presently they swung round the corner into Jermyn Street.

  Had they been of a more resolute complexion they might now have been compared to a brace of duelling rivals, marching to the field of honour. And, indeed, the fact that they were marching to a given place, and for a given, though unspoken, purpose, had a steadying effect upon the nerves of Robert Arthur. There was a comforting sense of order and inevitability in what they were doing, and the walk to the Park would give him a respite and enable him to prepare himself. It is so much easier to prepare yourself than to plunge into action. Thus, he t
hought, a man feels when he is going up to the front line—cool, determined. He had never been to the front line, but he knew what it must be like. He talked in a rambling way of trivial family affairs, and John answered him carelessly.

  Evidently Robert had made up his mind to have it out within the sight and hearing of passers-by. He did not wish to be left alone with John. But he did wish the weather had not been so devilish.

  The wind blew sharply along the Ritz Arcade as they passed through it. They were tossed about in the loud commotion of the storm.

  2

  Cuffed, thumped, shaken, deafened, lashed, harried by the violence of the gale, Robert Arthur and his cousin entered the Green Park.

  Inside the Park, twigs were being snapped off the bare black trees and whisked and whirled through the air and over the ground. Bits of paper, sticks and leaves were dancing on the asphalt in a scurrying rattle. A few people were scattered along the walks, all stooping and staggering, either fighting up into the wind or driven before it.

  What with the roar of the gale and the still audible thunder of Piccadilly traffic, Robert had much difficulty in assembling his thoughts and in giving them expression. They had walked for some time, and had reached the desolate fountain of soft and mouldering stone at the cross-ways, when he opened the attack:

  “As a matter of fact, I wish to speak to you on the subject of Bertha.”

  “Bertha?” said John. “Ah, yes! She’s quite well, I hope.”

  “You know what I mean,” shouted Robert, giving himself the order to advance while the storm howled about them. “Let me put it in this way—let me ask you a question. I want you to suppose—”

  A furious puff of wind, lifting dead leaves and a gritty dust, lashed him full in the face.

  “Suppose a man discovers that someone is making love to his wife. I am not thinking of myself. I want you to understand that I am not thinking of myself at all. Impossible! But just suppose—what would you advise him to do?”

  “Well,” replied John, raising his voice in the hurricane, “it would rather depend on the other man, wouldn’t it? As you are not personally concerned, you must forgive me if I appear cynical. There’s money to be considered, the social point of view, and all sorts of things—if you mean to imply criminal intimacy. But why do you ask me such an extraordinary question? I thought you had something to say about Bertha.”

  “What! Do you mean to say you wouldn’t advise him to thrash the cad?”

  He scudded over to the edge of the grass and then rolled back into the fairway.

  John smiled. “My dear chap! Without overwhelming proof—and even then I shouldn’t recommend violence: it’s obsolete, and expensive, too. As for a mere flirtation, if that’s what you mean—why not leave it alone?”

  Kewdingham wavered. Then he decided to attack more openly. His check with Mr. Sundale had made it necessary for him to assert himself. They were in sight of Constitution Hill, and he looked up at the monstrous winged lady in the chariot. The top of an arch, he thought, is a curious place for a chariot exercise, but if you have a pair of good wings you are safe enough.

  “Look here, John; you’re getting away from the point. You know perfectly well what I’m referring to. I am not the man to play fast and loose with. I say what I think. It is not my custom to beat about the bush.”

  John had made up his mind that he would fight on the defensive as long as he could, and turn the tables if he got a chance. He was an easy-going man, he did not positively hate Kewdingham, and he would avoid a quarrel if he could.

  But the heart of John was capable of hardening. The last observations of Kewdingham made him feel angry. He would not allow Robert to bully him. A sense of outrage began to quicken his pulse. He shouted in a louder voice:

  “I have not the least idea of what you are driving at. I never said you were a man to be trifled with, did I? No doubt you would make short work of anyone who crossed your path. But that is neither here nor there. You tell me you have something to say about Bertha. Well; out with it! Is anything wrong? Do you want my help or advice?”

  “Oh, go to blazes!” roared Kewdingham, giving way to a gust of rage. “Will you have the decency to behave like a man, and own up? Why do you persist in dodging the question? This is not the time for your silly jokes. It’s the time for straight speaking. A man doesn’t make silly jokes about honour.”

  They had turned about on Constitution Hill, and were now scurrying back over the Park with the wind rattling and booming astern. They could hear each other with less effort.

  “Good Lord! I’m not trying to make silly jokes about honour or anything else. But what has honour to do with all this nonsense? I’m sorry to say it, but you are talking nonsense, as you know very well. I wish you would come to the point, if there is one. It’s not a very pleasant evening for a stroll, and I have some work to do. What are you talking about? What do you mean by owning up? Will you be so kind as to tell me? I ask you again, is there anything wrong?”

  “Confound you!—you—you damned Dutchman!” Robert’s temper was getting out of hand. Yet he observed that several people were passing within hailing distance.

  John stiffened like a porcupine. His policy was forgotten as he retorted sharply:

  “I will not allow you to insult me.”

  “I’m not insulting you. Can’t I say what I think? I am trying to make you understand—make you understand—”

  “Then perhaps you will be good enough to speak plainly.”

  “I’ve been speaking plainly enough in all conscience. If you were half a man you would have answered me. You would have been straight with me, as I am with you. Straight—English—that’s what I want. Do you want me to come to the point, as you call it? Very well, then—here’s the point. What do you imagine my wife is, eh? Answer me, will you?”

  John turned his head towards the blunt mass of Buckingham Palace, the dim towers of Westminster. Upon my word! he thought, this man is a crazy fool—I can’t stand very much more of it. And he really did feel, for a moment, as though he would like to kill him. With a considerable jerk of the will he recovered his balance.

  “Do be more sensible, Bobby. I am fond of Bertha, as you know. I hope we are good friends. As for what I think of her—since you ask me—I think she’s a very intelligent and a very charming woman, and a very good one. But what is the point of your question?”

  “We’ll have no more of this, if you please. Things have gone too far. People are talking. You come to my house and receive my hospitality, and now you have the damned impudence to tell me to my face that you’re fond of my wife.”

  “What is the matter?” cried John. “Why are you trying to pick a quarrel with me? We have always been friends; but I tell you frankly, there are limits to my patience.”

  “Oh, very fine!” yelled Kewdingham, making an effort to walk steadily. “You go on with your pretences, like a sly lying Dutchman, and you know quite well what I am talking about. Can’t you see—”

  This was more than John could stand.

  “Get at it and have done with it! If I am a lying Dutchman, then what are you? A muddled, pigheaded Irishman! Put an end to these futile insinuations of yours. I won’t have any more of this ridiculous ambiguity and these foolish insults. You have sworn at me and called me names. Now then!—Will you explain your conduct?”

  He knew that his temper was getting out of control, but he did not care. He felt the grand exhilaration of a man discovering his own powers. He had never imagined that he could be in such a splendid temper, such a tuning-up of body and soul in the glory of battle. A lovely pervading warmth ran like a soft fire through his limbs, such a glow as may be felt after hard though healthy exercise. Suddenly he sprang in front of Robert and forced him to look him in the face. There they stood, slanting in the gale like a pair of ruffled chickens. Three girls, hurrying past, looked at them with amusement
.

  “Listen to me, Bobby. You are willing enough to talk of being a man and all that, but instead of daring to speak honestly you bluster and call names, and you insist on this idiotic prevarication. If you really have anything to say—in God’s name, say it!”

  Kewdingham recoiled. He glanced angrily at John, but he backed away from him.

  John noticed the movement and saw its meaning in a flash. Now was the time to strike hard. Kewdingham was afraid of him.

  “Do you dare to insinuate that I have been trying to seduce your wife? Is that the filthy thought which has come into your muddled brain? Out with it, then! Out with it!”

  A scurry of icy sleet drove in their faces. It was growing dark. The pale white fires of the lamps began to shine in the stormy twilight.

  “You have been playing with her,” said Kewdingham vehemently, but with signs of weakening morale.

  “Staying with her?” roared John, deafened by the noise of the tempest. “What do you mean?” He moved fiercely towards Robert, staring in his face. “What the devil do you mean?”

  “No! I said—playing,” cried Robert, staggered by John’s violence and by the horrid implications of the word.

  John saw that he had got the upper hand. He smiled.

  But a wonderful change had taken place in him. It seemed as if his blood was thicker, as if the naked fire of anger had licked him into a new shape and given him a new impulse. And he was already sharpening the edge of retaliation. He would get his own back. Any lingering scruples were blown away like the dry sticks in the gale. He swung round again, and they walked on to the fountain at the cross-ways.

  “I ask you once more,” said John, completely under control, “do you imagine that I would accept your hospitality and then make love to your wife? Is that what you have been getting at, or trying to get at, all the time?”