"I have thought once or twice lately that I should like to have some
one living here in the house who might ..." he paused before he
added, "who would be competent in an emergency. There is a doctor
in the village--an able, pleasant man, for whom I have considerable
respect--but he lives two miles from us, and...." He let the
sentence die away without completing it, beginning again in a firmer
voice, "At my age, Arthur--I must call you that! we are, after all,
connected--one has fancies. I don't deceive myself with any foolish
idea that I can live for ever. And one of my fancies, a fairly common
one, I believe, is a fear of premature burial. I should like to have
some one permanently here whom I could trust. Moreover, I have felt
that a competent medical man with whom I was in touch, would be in a
position to give me--shall I say--warning. You may be surprised to
learn that I--a business man by training and inclination--have been
so unbusinesslike as to have left my own affairs unsettled. There are
reasons, of course, family reasons that I need not trouble you with,
but you must think it very lax in a man of ninety-one not to have
completed his testamentary dispositions. I have, it is true, made a
will, but not a final one. I have an eccentric inclination--a touch of
superstition perhaps--to postpone that duty, although my present will,"
he turned and faced Arthur with an expression of humorous despair, "is
nothing more or less than an untidy mass of codicils. In my opinion,
it is dangerously contestable in its present state. Fleet, my lawyer,
thinks otherwise, but I have had more experience than he has.
"In any case, I mean to make a new one, and since you have been here
it has occurred to me that I might indulge my little eccentricity more
safely if I had some competent and experienced person on whom I could
rely, permanently in the household; some one who would be with me for
an hour or so every day, an expert who would be in a position to say
to me: "Kenyon, I must warn you that your days are running out and it
is time for you to put your affairs in order." Also, as I have said, I
should prefer to trust the matter of my death certificate to a medical
man in whose integrity I could have perfect confidence. These are the
fancies of a very old man, no doubt, but after all why should I not
indulge them if I can? I may tell you quite frankly, Arthur, that I am
not of those who make a virtue of self-sacrifice."
He broke off abruptly, stood staring in front of him for a moment, as
if he reflected on that last statement, and then sat down again in the
chintz-covered arm-chair.
Arthur realised that the time had come for him to reply, and that he
was not ready with an answer.
If the arrangement that was now suggested had been hypothecated while
he was dressing, he would have laughed at the idea of refusing it; but
as Mr Kenyon had been speaking, Arthur had seen a vision of his own
future that had been vaguely repellent--a vision of idle, satisfied
days spent in perfecting himself at various games, waiting for
something that he could not precisely define. What was there to wait
for in such a life as that--except death? Marriage and the begetting of
children would only be incidents, comparable, perhaps, to the making
of his first hundred break or doing the course in "bogey." And yet,
what else had life, any life, to offer him? He had no peculiar gifts.
He would never become famous. The end of him would almost certainly be
a small practice somewhere and a perpetual struggle to live within his
income. Nevertheless, his spirit drooped at the prospect of the life he
anticipated if he accepted this offer. There was no adventure in it.
"Frightfully flattered, sir, by your--your confidence in me and so on,"
he muttered, "and, of course, in many ways, almost every way...."
Mr Kenyon stopped him. "No, no, Arthur," he said, "I haven't even made
my proposal yet; and in any case I do not want you to give me an answer
to-night. I understand that at your age you naturally have ambitions,
that the future has romantic possibilities for you. I have not
forgotten that. But," he leant forward, dropping his forehead on to the
ivory handle of the stick he held between his knees, "I have a feeling
that your service would not be a very long one--six months, a year
perhaps, at the outside." His voice was so low that Arthur could hardly
follow him as he concluded: "And then you would have ... opportunity,
greater opportunity ... pecuniary advantages ... I would provide for
that."
Six months, a year at the outside! He probably knew as well as any
one. He looked as sound as a bell, but he might go to pieces all at
once. Those queer trances of his were no doubt symptomatic of some
deep-seated trouble. Would it be very rotten to take on a job like
that with the idea of having money left to you? Arthur fancied that he
could make out a good case for himself on that score. And beyond all
that personal issue there was a greater one. Putting that hypothetical
legacy out of the question, would he not be doing this old man a real
service by accepting his offer? He undoubtedly felt the need of some
one to perform the two offices he had indicated.
"If I might consider ..." Arthur began, and was interrupted by the
sound of the second gong booming through the house.
Mr Kenyon raised his head. "Well, well, Arthur, think it over, think
it over," he said, getting to his feet. "I will only add now that
it would be a great relief to me if you saw your way to accept my
offer. Do not forget that side of it. And--we will have another talk
to-morrow."
Arthur was aware of a new atmosphere at the dinner-table that night.
For the first time since he had been in the house, the Kenyons
were wide-awake and curious; the object of their curiosity was
unquestionably himself. They seemed to be watching him. Whenever he
looked up the table, he had the impression that one of them had just
averted his or her eyes, and when he was talking to Elizabeth or Miss
Kenyon, he was conscious of being under steady observation from every
part of the table. Only Eleanor kept her eyes down, and to the best of
his knowledge never once looked in his direction. Yet this new attitude
towards him had no effect of being hostile. It was merely as if he had
suddenly become an object of peculiar interest.
Even Miss Kenyon's manner was changed, although it was not until they
were half-way through dinner that she put a direct question to him.
"You had your little talk with my father this evening?" she said then
in a tone that sounded, he thought, a faint note of propitiation.
"Yes, I did; quite a long talk," he replied, feeling no inclination to
make a confidante of Miss Kenyon.
"Has he asked you to prolong your visit to us?" she went on, making
a more direct attack. "I hope you may be able to stay over the next
week-end in any case."
"Thanks very much, I should like to immensely," Arthur returned. "Yes,
Mr Kenyon did suggest something of the sort. In fact...."
"Well!" Miss Kenyon prompted him with a touch of asperity.
"Oh! well, in fact he made a kind of proposal to me that we are going
to discuss again to-morrow," Arthur admitted.
Miss Kenyon stared at him thoughtfully for a moment.
"One more or less doesn't after all make much difference in a family
like this," she said, with a touch of resignation.
"But I haven't decided yet," Arthur began.
"You will," she interrupted him dryly, and at once devoted her
attention to Hubert on the other side.
"Does that mean that you're staying on indefinitely?" Elizabeth asked.
Arthur shrugged his shoulders. "It seems as if you all knew more about
it than I do myself," he said. "I really don't know yet."
"But he wants you to?" Elizabeth pressed him.
"Apparently," Arthur admitted.
Elizabeth sighed thoughtfully. "You're a kind of grand-nephew, I
suppose," she remarked, addressing no one in particular, and then
added, "Are you going to be a sort of tame medical attendant?"
"If I stay," Arthur agreed.
"You'll stay all right," Elizabeth replied, echoing her aunt's tone.
"Why shouldn't you?"
"Don't you want me to stay?" Arthur asked.
"Might teach you to play croquet in time," she replied pertly.
"Is that all?" he inquired. He felt as if he were at last getting past
that barrier she had set up against him.
She met his eyes frankly and pursed her undoubtedly pretty mouth. "Oh,
wait and see," she said.
"I can see now, and I don't want to wait," Arthur returned boldly.
Her smile was not one of encouragement. She had suddenly ceased to
flirt with him. "Even puppies don't get their eyes open for nine days,"
she said coldly, "and you haven't been here four yet. You haven't the
least idea what you're talking about."
Arthur frowned impatiently. He was not vexed by the snub he had
received--girls of Elizabeth's type thought it "smart" to be rude--but
by the reintroduction of that suggestion of a family secret which
separated the Kenyons from the outside world. There was an air of
arrogance about the thing that annoyed him.
"Is there so much for me to learn here?" he asked dryly.