HE found the automobile in the semi-gloom of a closed carriage house.
On the right, separated by a partition, were three loose stalls,
apparently long unoccupied; their ornamental fringe of straw had
moldered, and dank, grey heaps of feed lay in the troughs. A ladder
fixed vertically against a wall disappeared into cobwebby shadows above;
and mounting, Anthony found the room to which he had been directed. It,
too, was partitioned from the great, bare space of the hay-loft; the
musty smell of old hay and heated wood hung dusty, heavy, about the
corners, where sounded the faint squeaks of scattering mice. The space
which he was to occupy had been rigorously swept and aired; print
curtains hung at the small dormer window that overlooked the lawn,
while, above the washstand, was the bell which, he had been warned,
would appraise him of the possible presence of burglars above. A bright
metal clock ticked noisily on a deal bureau, and, on a table beside a
pitcher and glass, two books had been arranged with precise disarray;
they proved, upon investigation, to be a volume of the Edib. Rev. LXIX,
and a bound collection of the proceedings of the Linean Society.
He saw by the noisy clock that it was nearly seven, and, hastily
washing, responded immediately to the summons of the bell. A small,
covered porch framed the kitchen door, where he entered to find a long
room dimly lit, and a dinner set at the end of a table. A bulky woman
with a flushed countenance and massive ankles in white cotton stockings
set before him half a broiled chicken, an artichoke with a bowl of
yellow sauce, and a silver jug of milk.
“God knows it's a queer meal to put to a hearty young lad,” she
observed; “but it's all was ordered. There's not a pitata in the house,”
she added in palpable disgust. A younger woman in a frilled apron
appeared from within, carrying a tray of used dishes. She had a trim
figure, and a broad face glowing with rude vitality, which, with an
assumption of disdain, she turned upon Anthony. “I'd never trust myself
with him in the machine,” she observed to the older woman, “and him not
more than a child.”
“Be holding your impudent clatter,” the other commanded, “you're not
required to go out with him at all.”
“Mr. Hardinge says, will you see him in the library when you have
done,” the former shot at Anthony over a shapely shoulder. “You can walk
through the dining room to where he is beyond.”
The library was a somber chamber: its long windows were draped with
stiff folds of green velvet, its walls occupied by high bookcases with
leaded glass doors and ornamental Gothic points under the ceiling.
A massive desk was piled with papers, pamphlets, printed reports,
comparative tables of figures, an hundred and one huddled details; the
table beneath a glittering crystal chandelier was hardly better; even
the floor was stacked with books about the chair where Anthony found his
employer. The latter looked up absently from a printed sheet as Anthony
entered.
“Positively,” he pronounced, “there are not enough dominants to secure
Mendel's position.” His expression was profoundly disturbed.
“Yes, sir,” Anthony replied non-committally. “The consequences of that,”
the other continued, “are beyond prediction.” Silence descended
upon him; his fixed gaze seemed to be contemplating some unexpected
catastrophe, some grave peril, opened before him in the still chamber.
“I am at a temporary loss!” he ejaculated suddenly; “we are all at a
loss... unless my experiments in pure descent warrant--” Suddenly he
became aware of Anthony's presence. “Oh!” he said pleasantly; “glad you
got fixed up. Say nothing more to Annot--it's all nonsense, taking it
out of your salary. That's what I wanted to see you for,” he added;
“what salary do you require? what did you get at your last place?”
Anthony made a swift calculation of the distance to California, the
probable cost of carriage. “I should like seventy-five,” he pronounced
finally. His conscience suddenly and uncomfortably awoke in the presence
of the other's unquestioning generosity. “Perhaps I'd better tell
you that I don't intend to stay here long.... I am anxious to get to
California.”
But Rufus Hardinge had already forgotten him. “Seventy-five,” he had
murmured, with a satisfied nod, and once more concentrated his attention
upon the sheet in his hand. As Anthony returned through the dining room
he found Annot Hardinge arranging a spray of scarlet verbena in a glass
vase.
“Has father spoken to you about the salary you are to get?” she asked.
He paused, cap in hand. “I told him that you were positively not to get
above eighty.”
“I told him seventy-five. He seemed contented.”
“He would have been contented if you had said seven hundred and fifty.”
Then, to discountenance any criticism of her father's intelligence, she
added: “He is a very famous biologist, you know. The people about here
don't understand those things, but in London, in Paris, in Berlin, he
is easily one of the greatest men alive. He is carrying the Mendelian
theory to its absolute, logical conclusion.”
“He said something about that to me,” Anthony commented; “it seemed to
upset him.”
A cloud appeared upon her countenance; then, coldly, “That will do,” she
told him.
Once more in the informal garage he lit the gas jet on either wall, and,
in the bubbling, watery light, found the automobile caked with mud and
grease, the tires flat, the wires charred and the cylinders coated with
carbon. A pair of old canvas trousers were hanging from a nail, and,
donning them and connecting a length of hose to a convenient faucet, he
began the task of putting the machine in order. It was past eleven
when he finished for the night, and mounting with cramped and stiffened
muscles to his room, he fell into immediate slumber.