Clara’s representations to Penhallow on Bart’s behalf having failed of their object, it next occurred to him to approach Raymond on the matter. Raymond’s undisguised anxiety to rid Trevellin of its many inhabitants made him hopeful that he might find an ally; but his first interview with him was disappointing. Raymond said caustically that if he wished to convince Penhallow that he was fit to be entrusted with the sole management of Trellick he had better pay a little more attention to his duties on the estate and up at the stud-farm. Bart, whose resentment of his stricture way not lessened by a knowledge of having lately deserved it replied hotly, and the interview came to an abrupt close. When his anger had had time to cool, he again opened the matter to Raymond, offering him an awkward apology for sundry errors of omission, and saying in excuse that he had been busy with affairs of his own for the past few weeks.
“Yes, I know that,” said Raymond unhelpfully “Loveday Trewithian.”
Bart turned scarlet, but said: “Rot! The fact is, I’m sick of hanging about at home. I want to be on my own. Damn it, I’m twenty-five!”
“It’s a pity you don’t behave as though you were,” said Raymond.
Bart kept his temper with an effort. “Look here, Ray! You’ve as good as said you want to get rid of me! Why can’t you back me with the Guv’nor?”
“I don’t want to get rid of you. You’re quite useful, when you can keep your mind on the job. Eugene’s the one I want to get rid of.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” Bart said, momentarily diverted. “He’s so damned funny, with his ailments, and that spitfire of a wife of his. I think I should miss them if they cleared out. Mind you, I’m not in favour of Aubrey’s coming home. Or Clay. But if they are coming, all the more reason for me to make myself scarce.”
Raymond gave him a straight look under his lowering brows. “If you imagine I’m going to help you to Trellick so that you can make a fool of yourself over Loveday Trewithian, you’ve got another guess coming to you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” muttered Bart.
“Do you mean to marry that girl?”
“Look here, who’s been talking to you about my affairs?” Bart demanded.
“I’ve got eyes in my head.”
“Well, keep them off my business, will you?”
“If you’re thinking of marrying Loveday Trewithian, you’ll find I’m not the only one to take an interest in what you call your business. You young fool, so it is true, is it?”
“I didn’t say so. What if it is? I suppose I can please myself when it comes to getting married!”
“Oh, no, you can’t!” retorted Raymond grimly. “You’re a Penhallow!”
“Oh, to hell with that!” said Bart. “That kind of snobbery’s been dead for years!”
“You’ll discover your little error, my lad, if you go any farther with that girl. What the devil’s the matter with you? Do you see yourself calling Reuben uncle?”
Bart could not help grinning, but he replied: “I shan’t. It’ll all work out quite easily: you’ll see!”
“No, I’m damned if I shall! If you can’t get that girl out of your system, she’ll have to go.”
Bart’s chin jutted dangerously. “You try interfering with Loveday, and watch me!”
“Don’t be a bigger ass than you can help! God, I thought you had more pride! Since when has a Penhallow gone to the kitchen for a wife?”
Bart flushed. “That’ll be all from you, Ray! Loveday’s worth a dozen of Faith, or Vivian, or that stuck-up bitch Cliff landed himself with. The trouble with you is that you’re eaten up with conceit. Who cares two pins for the damned family, I should like to know?”
“Go and tell Father your plans, and you’ll find out who cares,” replied Raymond.
“Oh, go to hell!” Bart exploded, and turned on his heel.
The only result of this interview was that Raymond took the first opportunity that offered of warning Loveday to leave his young brother alone. She stood demurely before him, looking up at him under her lashes, and keeping her hands folded over her apron. She denied nothing, and admitted nothing, and she betrayed no hint of resentment. She said, “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” in her meekest tone. He thought her either a fool, or a dangerously clever young woman, and was tempted to speak to Reuben about her. Natural taciturnity, a dislike of discussing the failings of a Penhallow with a servant, and a wary foreboding of Bart’s probable reactions to any intervention of Reuben’s made him forbear. He mentioned the matter instead to Conrad, but Conrad, who had been picking quarrels with his twin for weeks, still would not allow anyone else to criticise him. “Oh, there’s nothing in it!” Conrad said. “She isn’t the first, and she won’t be the last.”
“Do you know that he means to marry her?”
“Rot!” Conrad said scornfully. “Bart wouldn’t be such a fool!”
“I’ll take damned good care he doesn’t get the chance to be!” Raymond said. “What’s got into the kid, I should like to know?”
Conrad shrugged, and would not answer. He did not know what had got into Bart, and his jealously possessive nature was profoundly troubled. Bart was as friendly as ever he had been; as ready to go off with him, a hand tucked in his arm; as willing, had he received the smallest encouragement, to confide in him; but in some indefinable way he seemed to Conrad to have withdrawn himself, to be living in a snug world of his own, which had no room in it for his twin. None of his earlier amatory adventures had affected him in this manner, and without pausing to consider the unreason of his own feelings, Conrad allowed hatred of Loveday to fester in his soul, until he could scarcely see her without wanting to do her an injury. When the turmoil in his own breast led him to snap Bart’s head off, which it often did, and he caught Bart looking at him with a puzzled, rather hurt expression in his face; he wanted to hit Bart, or to spirit him away to some unspecified locality far beyond the reach of predatory females: he was never quite sure which.
Eugene, whom little escaped, was as well aware of his jealousy as of its cause, and lost few opportunities to plant his barbs in Conrad’s flesh, impelled more by a natural love of mischief than by any real desire to wound. A spin't of considerable unrest dwelt in the house, and was not improved by a sudden recrudescence of energy upon the part of Penhallow, who, after a long spell of physical quiescence, took it into his head to arise from his bed nearly every day, and to meddle with every concern of the house, estate, and stud-farm. He sat in his wheeled chair, usually clad in his disreputable old camel-hair dressing-gown, and wrapped about in a plaid rug, and insisted upon being pushed to the various places where he was least wanted. He harried Raymond, Ingram, and Bart unmercifully, finding fault with all their activities, countermanding most of their orders, roaring abuse of them in front of stable-hands and grooms, and driving them into an uneasy alliance against him. Finding Clara triumphant at having coaxed the rare adder’s tongue to show its head in her garden, amongst the more general Osmunda regalis, and the Hymenophyllum, Tunbridgense, and Unilaterale which she cherished with such anxious care, he threatened to convert the whole area into a sunk garden of Italian design, to give pleasure to his wife. As Faith’s efforts at gardening were confined to the plucking of flowers for the house, and an unsuccessful but characteristic attempt to induce roses to flourish in a climate more suited to fuchsias and hydrangeas, no one was taken in by the blatant falsity of this reason for disturbing Clara’s peace of mind, and the family banded together temporarily to protect her interests. In this they were ably assisted by Hayle, the head-gardener, who said that he had enough on his hands already, and couldn’t get through the work of the place as it was, what with being short-handed, and Mrs Penhallow taking Luckett, the under-gardener, off his work to drive her about the country in season and out of it. This served instantly to divert Penhallow, who, after scarifying his wife for being fool enough to require the services of a chauffeur, and ignorant enough to remove him from his proper sphere in the middle of the bedding-out season, commandeered Luckett’s services himself, and spent several days in being driven up on to the Moor, down to the coast, and into the neighbouring towns of Bodmin and Liskeard, where he called upon a number of acquaintances, hailing them from their houses to stand beside the car exchanging the time of day with him, and marvelling at the robustness of his constitution. He fortified himself upon these drives from a flask of brandy, and insisted upon being accompanied by whichever member of his entourage he thought least wished to go with him. He took Jimmy with him when he went to call at the Vicarage, well knowing that Jimmy’s very existence was an offence in Mrs Venngreen’s eyes; and when the Vicar, standing in a sharp wind in the road, made his wife’s excuses, showed such alarming signs of preparing to descend from the car with Jimmy’s and the startled Vicar’s assistance, that Mrs Venngreen was obliged to come out of the house after all, to prevent his invading it, and very likely (she thought) succumbing there to a heart-attack. She joined her husband in the road, and since she had very good manners forced herself to accept with the appearance at least of credulity Penhallow’s jovial assurances that he had come to call at the Vicarage with the express purpose of discovering how she did. Her private opinion was that he was possessed of a peculiarly malignant devil. He was certainly in a riotous mood, and when she inquired politely after the health of his sons, said with a fiendish twinkle that they were all eating their heads off, including the young rascal he had with him. Under Mrs Venngreen’s outraged gaze, he indicated the regrettable Jimmy, just so that she should have no doubt of his meaning. Mrs Venngreen’s countenance became so rigid and inflamed that he drove off in high good-humour to see if he could get such interesting reactions out of Rosamund Hastings, whom he cordially disliked. Upon the whole, Rosamund’s behaviour was not so satisfactory as Mrs Venngreen’s, but even her cold air of breeding could not conceal her disgust, and Penhallow thought that she would certainly have a good deal to say to poor old Cliff about it when he came home from his office later in the day. He returned to Trevellin, considerably exhausted, but still, apparently, driven by his strange fit of energy, since although he retired to bed he summoned his entire family to spend the evening in his room, in the usual way, and kept them there till an advanced hour of the night, playing backgammon with him, discussing the merits and faults of every horse in the stables, recalling extremely funny and generally improper incidents which belonged to his youth, drinking a quantity of whisky, and consuming a sort of rear-banquet consisting of all the foods most likely to ensure him a restless night.
His medical adviser, Dr Wilfred Lifton, who had attended him for more years than either could remember, besides delivering Rachel of all her children, from Ingram down to the twins, paid him one of his periodical visits, and solemnly warned him that he was fast killing himself; but Penhallow merely laughed, and said that he didn’t want any damned leech to tell him what he could do or what he could not do. He refused to allow his old friend to sound him, but recommended him to join him in a glass of sherry instead.
Dr Lifton was neither brilliant nor modern, but since he was a sportsman, and a good man to hounds, he was popular with a certain section of the community, who in any case disliked the up-to-date methods of his partner, an earnest and severe gentleman who treated his patients with a sternness quite alien to anyone accustomed to Dr Lifton’s casual attentions.
However, Dr Lifton was sufficiently impressed by the folly of Penhallow’s present conduct to warn Faith and Raymond severally that if they wished him to survive they must put a stop to his disastrous energy, and regulate drastically his consumption of wines and spirits. Raymond, when this was propounded to him, gave a short laugh, recommended the doctor to address his advice to the patient, and walked out of the room, saying that he had something better to do than to talk about impossibilities.
Faith, when similarly admonished, faltered that Dr Lifton knew what her husband was. He could not deny this, but said that he could not be responsible for the outcome if Penhallow continued to indulge his taste for strong drink to the extent he was now doing.
“He says — he says you told him that he might take stimulants to keep his strength up,” faltered Faith.
“Mrs Penhallow, are you aware of the amount of liquor your husband consumes?” demanded Lifton.
“Yes — no — I mean, I’ve always said he drank too much, but it never seems to affect him. And really he does seem better now than he’s been all winter.”
“He has the most amazing constitution I ever met with,” said Lifton frankly. “But he can’t last at this rate. All this dashin’ about the country, too! It isn’t fit for him. You’ll have to use your influence with him, my dear.”
Faith was incapable of admitting that she possessed no influence over Penhallow — a fact of which he was well aware — and said rather vaguely: “Yes, of course. Only he has a — a very strong will, you know, Doctor.”
“He’s the most obstinate old devil in the county, and well I know it!” responded Lifton, not mincing matters.
Clara, when this conversation was reported to her, shook her head, and said that Lifton was an old woman,. and knew less about Penhallow’s constitution than she knew about the workings of a combustion engine. “He’s been sayin’ for years that Adam will kill himself with his goin’s on, but he’s not dead yet, my dear, nor likely to be. It’s my belief this heart-dropsy of his isn’t as bad as he likes to make out. You mark my words: he’ll go on for a good many years yet. As for all this dashin’ around, it’s the spring got into his blood. He’ll quieten down again if you don’t pester him or take any notice of his antics.”
Faith was roused to say with some indignation: “It’s impossible not to take any notice of him when he does such outrageous things! Do you know that he actually took Jimmy with him when he went to call on Rosamund the other day, and insisted on her more or less recognising the creature?”
“He shouldn’t have done that,” agreed Clara. “But there! He was always one to enjoy his bit of fun, and nothin’ ever tickles him more than to shock people. I’ve no patience with Rosamund for kickin’ up such a song and dance about it!”
“Well, I think it was disgusting!” said Faith. “And apart from anything else, taking Jimmy about with him in that way is simply making him more objectionable than he was before. Jimmy, I mean. He’s beginning to behave as though he could do exactly as he liked, and I’m sure I’m not surprised at it!”
“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” said Clara. “The boys will soon knock it out of him, if he gets above himself.”
“Knock what out of whom?” inquired Eugene, who had come into the room in time to overhear this remark.
“Faith thinks your father’s makin’ a fool of Jimmy.”
“Repulsive by-blow!” said Eugene, lowering himself into an easy-chair. “He’s quite beneath my notice. Of course, I see that bringing him under our roof is a truly superb gesture, but if he’s a fair specimen of Father’s illegitimate offspring I can only be thankful that he hasn’t extended the practice of adoption to the rest of them.”
“I don’t expect any of you to see the thing in an ordinarily decent light,” said Faith, “but I regard his presence here as a direct insult to me!”
Eugene regarded her with some amusement. “Oh, I don’t think you need!” he said sweetly. “That little episode was before your time.”
“I sometimes think you none of you have any moral sense at all!” Faith cried.
“Well, not much, anyway,” agreed Eugene. “Except Bart, of course.”
“Bart!”
He smiled. “It does seem odd, doesn’t it? Deplorable:, too, one must admit. There is something almost suburban about the respectability of his present matrimonial intentions.”
Faith coloured hotly. “It isn’t true! Loveday has never dreamt of such a thing! If it hadn’t been for you starting what I can only call a malicious rumour, no one would ever have thought of it!”
Clara looked from one to the other of them, with an expression of mild dismay on her face. “You don’t mean it! Well, I thought he was up to something. But I don’t like that at all, and, what’s more, his father will never hear of it.”
“Clara! It’s nothing but one of Eugene’s scandals! I’m perfectly sure Loveday has never looked at Bart!”
Clara looked unconvinced, merely remarking gloomily that she had said all along that Loveday was a sly gal. Thoroughly incensed, Faith left the room. Eugene yawned, and said reflectively that it was realy hard to discover what Penhallow had ever seen in her.
“Well, she’s a tiresome creature, and there’s no gettin’ away from that,” conceded Clara. “But you shouldn’t tease her, Eugene, when you know it upsets her. I daresay she’s got a lot more to put up with than any of us realise. She’s worried too about Clay’s havin’ to come home, which isn’t what she wants. You leave her alone!”
“If she doesn’t want Clay to come home I can even sympathise with her,” replied Eugene. “Though I should hardly have expected Faith to show such good taste, I must say.”
“Now, that’s enough!” said Clara severely. “The doctor’s been here, and he says your father can’t go on like this.”
“He’s been doing it for a good many years,” said Eugene, selecting a fat Egyptian cigarette from his case, and lighting it.
Clara rubbed her nose. “Well, that’s what I say, but I’m sure I don’t know what’s got into the man, for I never knew him quite so wild as he is this year. He’s goin’ on as though someone had wound him up, and he couldn’t stop.”
“Yes, I thought he seemed distinctly above himself,” said Eugene, with detached interest. “Perhaps he’ll have a stroke, or something. That ought to please a good many of our number.”
Clara ignored this rider. “If this story you’ve got hold of about Bart is true, he’ll very likely burst a bloodvessel,” she said. “I don’t like it at all, Eugene, and that’s the truth.”
“Personally, I feel that Loveday is just the sort of wife to suit Bart down to the ground,” replied Eugene, blowing smoke-rings, and lazily watching them float upwards. “Not, of course, that the rest of the family is likely to see it in that light. You’re all so hidebound.”
“Now, don’t you go backin’ him up!” Clara begged him. “There’ll be trouble enough without you addin’ to it. I never liked that gal.”
As Eugene showed no disposition to continue the discussion, she relapsed into silence. That she was unusually disturbed, however, was seen by her working nearly an inch of her crochet-pattern wrong, a thing no one had known her to do before.
In spite of her soothing remarks to Faith, she privately felt that Penhallow was working himself up to a crisis. His conduct had never been orthodox, but he had not until lately indulged in as many extravagances as were fast becoming commonplaces in his life. His career had been characterised by a sublime disregard for convention or public opinion; he seemed now to be taking a malignant delight in outraging his family and his acquaintance, a significant change in his mentality which made Clara uneasy. The robust and generally unthinking brutality of his maturity was changing to a deliberate, if irrational, cruelty, which seemed often to be as purposeless as it was ruthless. From having exercised his power over his dependants to force them to conform to that way of life which suited himself, he was now showing alarming signs of exercising an arbitrary tyranny for the sheer love of it. The wounds his rough tongue had dealt during the years of his rampant strength and health had seldom been intentional; now that his health had broken down, and his strength had failed, nothing seemed to please him more than to aim such wicked shafts at his victims as penetrated even the armour of a Penhallow. If he could upset the peace of mind of any of his household, he would lose no time in doing so, as if he were bent on revenging his physical helplessness on his family. The absence of motive for many of his wanton attacks made his sister wonder whether his brain was going. He had unblushingly boasted to her of the weapon he had used to compel Clifford to receive Clay as a pupil, and had appeared to be hugely entertained by her shocked face. She had said, with an odd dignity: “If you want me to leave Trevellin, Adam, you’ve only to tell me so. There’s no need to drag my boy into it that I know of. I can shift for myself.”
“Lord, I don’t want to get rid of you, old girl!” he had replied carelessly. “Catch Cliff calling my bluff! Made me laugh to see him squirming, though.”
Either he was impervious to the very natural feeling of hurt which she must experience from learning her son’s reluctance to receive her under his roof, or he had made the disclosure on purpose to enjoy her discomfiture. She could not be sure, and she would not gratify him by betraying a wound. A silent woman, she did not refer to the matter again; nor, in her behaviour, did she show the least sign of having taken his words seriously. But she was disturbed, filled with vague forebodings of disaster, regarding the growing indications of brewing strife in the house with a concern quite foreign to her aloof temperament.