“Something wrong here…” he thought.
There was something wrong with Delancey, and with Elsie, and with Mrs. Whitestone, and something very wrong indeed with Robert Whitestone.
“That fellow’s in hell,” thought Hugh, soberly.
Mrs. Whitestone was talking with animation to the polite and unresponsive Luff; Mrs. Luff and Delancey were very cheerful together, and Elsie and Whitestone obviously had no desire and no intention of talking at all, so Hugh thought himself justified in keeping silent, and trying to understand this situation. His quiet gray eyes never seemed to watch; his boyish face never revealed that he was listening, but he saw, and he heard, and every nerve in his alert, hardy body was conveying impressions to him.
Somehow, it was Delancey who interested him most. Beneath that genial air was a strained uneasiness; he kept glancing from Whitestone to Mrs. Whitestone.
“Is he in love with Mrs. Whitestone?” thought Hugh.
He decided not. He had seen plenty of fellows in love, and they had not been like this.
“No,” he thought. “He’s afraid of something.”
Fear, he reflected, was the one emotion that could not be concealed. Hate, love, even pain could be disguised, but not fear, that first great primeval passion and driver of men. At the hangar, at sea in a storm, Hugh had seen men afraid; he knew what that side-long look, that overhearty laugh meant.
“Why?” he thought. “What’s he afraid of? Whitestone? Mrs. Whitestone? Is it blackmail?”
He was well enough acquainted with the less creditable aspects of life; on one occasion an attempt had been made—unsuccessfully—to blackmail him. He knew that such things happened, and he was neither unduly shocked nor distressed about them. He turned this idea over in his head. But whatever was afoot, he decided, the Whitestones were not acting in concert; there was no harmony between them. Mrs. Whitestone wasn’t afraid of anything; he felt sure of that. The flush in her cheeks, the forced gaiety of her manner were caused by anger. That was how women behaved when they were angry. And she had cause for irritation, with her husband sitting there silent and haggard, eating none of the excellent dinner she had prepared. She couldn’t feel much good-will toward Elsie, either; the girl did not make the slightest effort to do her duty as a guest; never even glanced at her hostess.
“The kid’s miserable,” he thought. “And so is Whitestone.”
That gave him another idea, and a most unwelcome one, but one that persisted. As always, he fell back upon his own experience, recalling what he himself had seen or heard, and he could not call his idea impossible, or even improbable. Elsie would not be the first poor little fool to entangle herself in a disastrous love affair of this sort, or the last. It happened all the time. And it fitted. It explained her sullen mood, and Whitestone’s morose and distrait silence, and Mrs. Whitestone’s anger.
But it left out Delancey’s fear.
“I don’t see…” thought Hugh.
He wanted to see, on Elsie’s account, because Anabel Luff was fond of the girl, and because she was so young. He did not want to witness any disaster to her, and he was troubled by the possibility. For, by some sixth sense, which he trusted implicitly, he felt that, there was something atrocious overshadowing this cottage.
Mrs. Whitestone, with no servant, and very little money, and, he suspected, very little social training, had however an undeniable social talent; she was the sort of woman, he thought, who could have married a man in a far more exalted position and managed well for him. He didn’t like her; he saw her as insincere, vain, and superficial, but he admired her for the valor of that dinner, well-cooked, well-served, if a little over-elaborate. And he pitied her, too, because it was so unsuccessful. She served wine, and that was one thing she did not understand; no one but Delancey drank it. The conversation grew more and more desultory; Mrs. Luff tried in vain to aid her. …
Whitestone laughed abruptly, at nothing.
“I’ve got some whiskey that’s really fit to drink,” he said, and pushing back his chair, went out of the room.
Delancey rose too, and with an inaudible excuse, followed his friend, through a swing-door that led to the pantry. The door fitted badly; from his end of the table, Hugh heard that hearty voice, subdued to an anxious murmur.
“Now, Robert, see here…! Pull yourself together, old man! I mean to say—with guests in your house—”
“I’ll be fine in a little while,” Whitestone answered. “I’m going to get drunk.”
Mrs. Whitestone had taken Mrs. Luff and Elsie into the sitting-room; Luff sat staring at his glass of wine with gloomy intentness. …Hugh’s ethical code was artless as a schoolboy’s, but rigid. He considered eavesdropping a discreditable thing, so, much as he wanted to hear more of that conversation in the pantry, he addressed a remark to Luff. Luff, though, was slow in answering, and in the interval, Hugh heard Delancey speak again.
“Oh, shut up about your plan!” he cried, and there was a note in his voice that disturbed the listener. “I know you’re only talking through your hat. I know it’s simply dam’ nonsense—but I don’t like it.”
“Ah…!” said Luff, at last. “Well, I shouldn’t be inclined to back Weyman too heavily. …Seems to me…”
He went on talking, and presently Whitestone re-entered, followed by his friend. Luff and Hugh accepted his whiskey; they praised it politely, but a curious uneasiness possessed them all. Even Luff was restless.
They went, presently, into the sitting-room, and it was better there.
“Mrs. Luff does that,” thought Hugh.
He had seen her do it before. Once away from the disturbing influence of Whitestone’s moody silence and Delancey’s forced geniality, her own influence had made itself felt, her cool, light gaiety, her effortless good-humor. Mrs. Whitestone was more tranquil now, Elsie less somber, and when the four men entered, they too were changed. Delancey was a little subdued, and Whitestone suddenly became animated. It might have been the whiskey, but whatever the cause, he showed a quick, biting wit that was close to brilliancy. For the first time Hugh could see that Whitestone had a certain charm; he was handsome in his fashion, he was clever, and he was appealing. He had the air of a man who laughs in despair. “That’s what gets women,” thought Hugh, and glanced at Elsie.
Her beauty dazzled him. Her dark eyes were soft and shining, her lips were parted in a half smile as she listened to Whitestone. She was enthralled, rapt. And Mrs. Whitestone was watching her.
“Lord!” thought Hugh. “This won’t do. …”
“Robert, dear,” said Mrs. Whitestone. “Won’t you bring in some of your work? I’m sure—”
“Please!” said Mrs. Luff. “Have you finished that one of the bridge in the twilight, Mr. Whitestone?”
“He hasn’t!” said Rosalind, laughing. “He won’t finish things. I wish you could make him, Mrs. Luff. He’s such a provoking boy. All these—”
“He’ll do something big, one of these days,” Delancey interrupted, so hastily, so loudly as to startle the others. “Thing is, with an artist…You’ve got to let ’em alone. I mean, they’ve got to work things out their own way. One of these days Robert’ll do a picture that’ll surprise all of us. The fellow he used to study with—can’t think of his name just now—I remember he said Robert was the most promising pupil he had. And you’ve got to remember Robert won a scholarship in that art school. I mean, all that shows he’s got it in him.”
It was difficult, even for Anabel Luff, to find anything to say after this vehement outburst; but, after a brief and embarrassed silence, she did speak.
“But we all feel sure of that, Mr. Delancey! You’ve no idea. …I use Mr. Whitestone as a decoy. I ask people down to meet our artist.”
“Please