The old man chuckled spitefully. ‘You want to get something for nothing, don’t you? We all want that. Nephew Charles; we all want that. But we don’t often get it.’
Charles forced himself to laugh. Patiently he explained his proposal.
‘You’re a great business man, Nephew Charles; you’ve shown that. And so you want the old man out of the way, do you?’ He leered with a sort of sly cunning. ‘If only the old dodderer were out of the way, you’d get it all.’
Charles was really annoyed. ‘Now, uncle, I don’t think that’s fair,’ he protested. ‘Not a single word that I’ve said could suggest such a thing, and you know it’s not true.’
Andrew seemed surprised. ‘Perhaps not; perhaps not,’ he admitted. ‘But why should I pay your expenses? Can you tell me that?’
‘I don’t suggest that, uncle, or at least only with the money you’ve already promised me. The small amount I want couldn’t make any difference to you.’
‘Very true, no doubt, but not an answer to my question. Is it now?’
‘No,’ Charles returned frankly, ‘I’m afraid it’s not. There’s no reason of course why you should, except that I’m your nephew and that as my uncle you might be willing to help me in a way that you would not do to an outsider.’
Andrew shook his head. ‘Sentiment and business, Nephew Charles. They won’t mix.’
‘Then there is the works; your works that you built up and made so successful. You would do a little to prevent them going down?’
‘I did prevent them going down – when they were mine. They’re not mine now.’
‘But what about the men? They’re good fellows. You know most of them yourself. You would do a little to prevent them losing their jobs? Come now, uncle. It’s a very small thing that I ask.’
To his intense disappointment Charles realized that the old man was getting tired. The unwonted discussion had upset him. He suddenly seemed exhausted. His whole body sagged and he lay back helplessly in his chair. For a moment he tried to speak, while a sharp spasm of dismay passed over Charles. Then he murmured ‘Weatherup!’
Charles rang the bell. Suspiciously soon the door was opened and the saturnine face of the attendant appeared.
‘Mr Crowther,’ said Charles quickly. ‘I’m afraid he’s not well. See to him, will you?’
Weatherup glanced at his employer, then, crossing to a table near the old man’s chair, poured some medicine into a glass and held it to his lips. Andrew drank and in a moment recovered.
‘Did you think you were going to get your money?’ he sneered at Charles. ‘Not this time. There’s some life in the old dodderer still.’
‘I admit you gave me a fright,’ Charles returned. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve tired you with my talk.’
‘Oh, not at all, not at all. I’m always grateful for a disinterested visit. That’ll do, Weatherup, Mr Charles wants to talk business.’
‘No,’ said Charles, rising, while Weatherup silently disappeared. ‘I’ve said all I have to say. You’ll think over the matter, uncle? It’s the first time I have ever asked a favour, and if you can see your way to help me, it will be the last. For the sake of the men and the works, if not for my own, I ask you.’
The old man shrugged. The medicine seemed to have given him an artificial stimulus and he seemed stronger than before, while his pallid face had taken a more healthy colour.
‘Sentiment, Nephew Charles; all sentiment. I know all about it. I’ve been stuck, not once, but many times, for money. Did I depend on my friends? I depended on myself, and that’s what you must do. It wouldn’t be helping you to pay that money. I won through by hard work. You do the same and you’ll live to bless me.’
The stimulus of the medicine now seemed to be passing off and Andrew sank back into his chair as if exhausted again.
‘Come and let me hear how you get on,’ he murmured, touching the bell on the arm of his chair. Weatherup silently appeared and he went on: ‘I’m tired. I’ll have a little sleep, I think. Get tea for Mr Charles and tell Mrs Pollifex.’ Once again he pushed out his claw-like hand. ‘Good-bye, Nephew Charles; and let me know how you get on.’
Charles’s disappointment was bitter as he followed Weatherup from the room. The ready way of escape from his troubles, to which he had been so hopefully looking forward, had failed him. The old man had taken up just the attitude which he had feared he would. Charles could not exactly blame him. It was old age and illness that were really at fault.
But though his disappointment was so keen, Charles did not entirely lose heart. The idea of making an unaccustomed move had come too quickly for his uncle. Andrew’s natural reaction would be to oppose anything new. But there was a reasonable chance that as he thought over the situation his opposition would decrease.
It would, Charles saw immediately, be a capital mistake to show any signs of annoyance. He therefore controlled himself and told Weatherup he would be glad of tea and that he hoped Mrs Pollifex could see him.
Penelope Pollifex was Andrew’s sister, the widow of a not very successful London stockbroker. When her husband had died, leaving her badly off, Andrew had offered her and her daughter Margot a home in return for running his house. The arrangement had worked well. Mrs Pollifex had carried out her part of the bargain efficiently. Andrew inhabited his own suite of rooms and was not troubled by matters domestic, while otherwise the house was to all intents and purposes Mrs Pollifex’s. With the housekeeping allowance Andrew made her and her own money she was comfortably off, and entertained her friends as if Andrew no longer existed.
Weatherup led the way downstairs and threw open a door. ‘Mr Charles Swinburn,’ he intoned in melancholy accents. Charles passed into the room.
Like the hall, it was spacious and well proportioned, lit by three windows reaching almost from ceiling to floor, and panelled and floored in oak. In an easy chair reclined a well-preserved and elegantly dressed woman of between fifty and sixty. Though her appearance formed a striking contrast to that of the venerable wreck upstairs, there was something in the grey eyes and the set of the features which proclaimed their relationship. Mrs Pollifex suggested what Andrew might have been before his illness, looking, as she did, a woman of the world, hard-headed, resourceful, and suavely competent. As Charles entered she looked up from her book.
‘Hello, Aunt Penelope,’ said Charles. ‘I’ve not seen you for a month of Sundays.’
‘Not my fault, I think, Charles,’ she answered with a smile. ‘How are you?’ Without getting up, she extended a well-manicured hand. Charles shook it dutifully.
‘No, I’m afraid it’s mine,’ he admitted as he dropped into a chair. ‘Been pretty busy lately. Things are difficult at present.’
‘I suppose you’re feeling it like everyone else?’
‘I am rather. Can’t hope to escape, you know. Everyone’s in the same boat.’
‘I know my dividends have dropped badly enough.’ She shrugged daintily. ‘However, if we go bankrupt we’ll have the satisfaction of all doing it together. You were up with your uncle?’
‘I was. I hadn’t seen him for some time.’
‘How did you think he was?’
Charles hesitated momentarily. ‘Not too well, I’m afraid. In fact, he gave me quite a fright. Got some kind of attack; I thought he was going to collapse altogether. He was just able to call for Weatherup. Weatherup gave him some medicine which pulled him round.’
‘He’s getting those attacks more frequently. I notice a change in him. He’s certainly weaker than he was in the winter; weaker both in mind and body.’
‘I thought so, too. He seemed less able to grasp things.’
‘He’s been very depressed lately. I think it’s his indigestion.’
Charles made a grimace. ‘A beastly thing,’ he declared. ‘Enough to depress anyone. I know what it’s like.’
‘You, Charles? You’re too young to be troubled with indigestion. What’s happened to you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Not
enough exercise, I expect. Uncle usen’t to be troubled with it, surely? I don’t seem to remember.’
‘Yes, he’s had it for years, but it’s only lately that it’s got so bad. Then someone put him on to some pills which have helped him.’
‘I must find out what they are.’
‘They’re one of those patent medicines that are advertised everywhere. The doctor doesn’t know he’s got them or he’d probably be annoyed. Your uncle takes them regularly, one after every meal. Says they do him a lot of good.’
‘Those patent things often do for a time, but you generally pay for it afterwards. Where’s Margot?’
‘Gone to play tennis. She’ll be sorry to have missed you.’
Margot Pollifex was Charles’s cousin, Mrs Pollifex’s only daughter. She was a pretty young woman of some four and twenty, with luxurious tastes. Hating Cold Pickerby, she looked down on its inhabitants and its society. She wanted to live in London, and it rankled as a grievance that she had never been presented. As a result, popularity was not her strong suit locally, but the young woman had a certain caustic wit which was calculated to make a party ‘go’, and hostesses were therefore glad to have her at their functions.
Charles did not stay long at The Moat. With what he had on his mind small talk was an effort to him. As he started up his car the load of care which for the last half-hour he had so resolutely banished from his thoughts, descended once more upon him. With this new and bitter disappointment he felt he was becoming desperate. He did not know where to turn. Nowhere upon his horizon did there seem a ray of light.
Chapter VI
Charles Meets Temptation
That night after dinner Charles’s thoughts returned once more to his desperate position. Not that they had ever entirely left it, but now he settled down to consider it deliberately in the almost despairing hope of finding some way, if only a temporary way, out of his difficulties.
Things were rapidly coming to a head. Before leaving the office he had had another look over his secret ledger, and he had been forced to realize that unless he could get money within the fortnight, he would be short of actual cash to pay his men.
Charles knew he should close down at once. Those men should have a full week’s notice. If he delayed another week they wouldn’t get it.
But now that the end was upon him, with all it entailed, he could not face it. The loss of the works, yes. The loss of his own position, unemployment for himself, poverty perhaps; yes, all these he could face. But the loss of Una he could not face. He could not bring himself to do anything which would make this inevitable. While there was life there was hope, and as long as any financial life whatever remained to him he just could not take so irrevocable a step.
His thoughts reverted to his interview with Andrew Crowther. There was the way of escape, if only the old man could be induced to change his mind. Was there no way in which he could bring pressure to bear on his uncle?
Charles felt terribly bitter towards the old man. It wasn’t as if he had been continually pestering him for money. This was absolutely the first time he had ever made any serious request of him. And then, on this very first occasion, to be turned down as if he were a schoolboy asking for a holiday! It was really unbearable.
And not only that, but Andrew had been so abominable in his manner, with his jeers and his sarcasm and his puerile suspicions. Charles had no use for anyone who indulged in sarcasm. And last, but not least, there was Andrew’s perfectly unpardonable suggestion that his nephew would be glad if he died. The whole thing was so unjust.
And yet, Charles thought grimly, was this last point so very unjust after all? Did he not in his heart of hearts wish the old man would peg out? Of course he did. Wouldn’t anyone do so in his position?
How strange it was, Charles ruminated, that the useless and obstructive so often live on, while the valuable and progressive die early! Here was Andrew Crowther, a man whose existence was a misery to himself and a nuisance to all around him. Why should he be spared and others who perhaps were doing a great work in the world be cut off in their prime? It didn’t somehow seem right. For the sake of himself and everyone else it would be better if Andrew were to die.
It was then that the dreadful idea shot into Charles’s mind. Why should not Andrew die?
For a moment Charles scarcely realized what he had thought. Then more definitely it came again. Why should not Andrew die? He was old: he must die soon. Why not now?
Charles suddenly saw what he had really meant, and his mind revolted. At once he tried to banish the dreadful idea. Horrible, monstrous thoughts did force themselves into people’s minds, and the only thing to be done was to expel them as soon as possible. Not that this idea really mattered; it was too far removed from actuality to be taken seriously.
But suppose Andrew did die. Ah, if that were to happen, what a difference it would make! That attack that he had had, that surely meant heart. Suppose he got one of those attacks and the medicine did not revive him. Andrew Crowther’s death? What would it not mean to Charles Swinburn?
In spite of himself, Charles allowed his imagination to dwell on the prospect. In four or five days there would come the reading of the will; and once the terms of the will were known, his difficulties would be over. No longer would Witheroe hesitate to sanction the increase of his overdraft. No longer would Bostock be unable to afford a loan. The works would be saved. His credit would bound up. Una would marry him!
It was with something very like horror that Charles brought himself up with a jerk. This would never do. Even as a joke such thoughts must not be harboured. Not, of course, that there was any danger. All the same, he would put the idea out of his mind…
But Charles Swinburn did not put the idea out of his mind. Una! Una and the works. Was he going to throw up the sponge and to allow this money trouble to knock him out without making any real effort for his woman and his possessions? Or was he going to fight for what he wanted – to keep the works and marry Una?
Marry Una! The very thought of it intoxicated him. Would such a thing not be worth anything else on earth? Anything – even…
But no, no, no! He mustn’t even think of such a thing. There must be some other way, some way of influencing Andrew. Would, or could, his aunt help him? Or Margot? Or even Elsie Morley? The old man thought a lot of both Margot and Elsie. Was it possible that he would do for them what he wouldn’t do for Charles?
For a long time that night Charles tossed about, pondering his problem. There was, of course, another way out; a terrible alternative, though not so terrible as that which had been in his mind. Would the easiest way not be simply to end the whole thing – quietly to take his own life? Suicide! Was suicide not the solution of his problem?
Charles had no moral scruples on the point. He did not believe in a hereafter. To him physical death was the end of everything. He considered that he had a right to take his own life if he chose to do so. Did he choose to do so?
Then he saw that there was nothing he dreaded more. No! A hundred times no! Abstractly and at a distance the idea of suicide was not repulsive. But brought face to face with it as an immediate need, he shivered at the thought. With the whole strength of his being he wanted to live.
At last Charles fell into a restless doze, only to awake unrefreshed and unhappy. In vain he took out his mare and went for a gallop across the fields before breakfast. In vain he plunged into his cold bath and rubbed himself down with energy. He could not rid his mind of the dreadful thought which had obtained lodgement.
It was all that Charles could do that day to preserve a quiet manner and a smiling face. Till the worst actually came to the worst – if it did so – no one must know what was impending. Nothing irrevocable must be done which would prevent him taking advantage of any unforeseen circumstance which might arise.
As he continued to wrestle with his problem his mind gradually became made up as to his next step. He would go out again to The Moat and plead his case w
ith Andrew Crowther in stronger terms. He would show Andrew his secret ledger, and make him understand that for him, Charles, the matter was one either of help or of suicide.
Accordingly he rang Andrew up. The old man was in a good mood, for he made no gibe, but said he would be glad to see Charles, and would he come out next day to lunch?
This seemed to Charles so encouraging that his thoughts that night were much more normal, and he was no longer obsessed with the idea of death, either his own or his uncle’s. He slept well and woke next day in a more wholesome frame of mind. When shortly before one he drove his car to the door of The Moat, he had half persuaded himself that the end of his troubles was in sight.
On good days Andrew Crowther came down for meals, and it seemed to Charles a promising omen that when he was shown into the drawing-room he should find his uncle there. Andrew greeted him pleasantly enough, but there was no opportunity for confidential discussion, as both his aunt and Margot came in directly.
Lunch was a family party – only the four were present. On the whole it was not a happy meal. Andrew undoubtedly was a good deal changed. He did not keep up with the conversation, but made spasmodic and unrelated remarks, evidently following some rambling train of ideas in his own mind. Mrs Pollifex’s contribution was perfunctory, and it was obvious that she also had her private thoughts and was bored with her company. Margot, except in the presence of strangers, rarely exerted herself to please, and on this occasion she made no attempt to hide her dislike of Cold Pickerby in general and her uncle’s household in particular. Charles himself was not up to his usual form; his anxieties too fully occupied his mind. It was therefore with something of relief that he watched the meal draw to an end.
In due course Mrs Pollifex and her daughter withdrew, and Charles and his uncle were left face to face across the table. In a few moments they would go up to the study, and then another of the critical moments of Charles’s life would be upon him.
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