For Miss Telford had relations, or rather one remaining cousin, a country clergyman, the Rev. Samuel Telford who had a living in Dorsetshire. Mr. Samuel had married late, and was the father of a large and partly immature family that rendered his three hundred pounds a year desperately and sordidly inadequate. The Rev. Samuel Telford had been worrying Mr. Verreker. It was presumed by Mr. Samuel and his wife that Caroline had money.
Presumably! That was one of the problems, and as Mr. Verreker climbed the three steps to the front door of No. 7, he was reflecting upon Miss Telford’s financial position. Actually he did not know what property she possessed, and whether she was as poor as she pretended to be, but on the doorstep he met other realities. A bottle of milk and a loaf of bread had been left outside the door.
Mr. Verreker eyed them. His thin lips uttered one word. “Impossible.”
Yes, the whole situation was impossible, and he had come to No. 7 to do something about it. Either Miss Caroline would admit hygiene and a doctor and domestic servants into her house, or she would have to go into a nursing-home. But that bottle and loaf of bread!
Mr. Verreker tried the door. It opened to him as was usual on the first of January and the first of June. Tradition had it that he was to walk straight up the stairs to Miss Telford’s bedroom on the first floor, but first, with a sort of gingerliness he gathered up the bottle of milk and the loaf of bread, and placed them on the hall table.
Once again he uttered to himself the word “Impossible.”
Yes, everything about the house was impossible, everything was dust. The hall table was grey with it, and Mr. Verreker’s top hat shrank from contact with that table. Dirt, silence, a kind of hush as though the whole place was clogged with dust. It coated the picture frames, and lay in a film on the hand rail of the banisters. The windows were grimed and cobwebbed. The Brussels stair-carpet had had all its colours effaced, as though some grey fabric had been spread over it.
Mr. Verreker paused at the foot of the stairs. He held his top hat shoulder high as he held it when walking up the aisle of St. Jude’s, Notting Hill.
“Impossible.”
He climbed the first flight and hesitated. It was as though the silence and the deadness of the house had suddenly affected him, and had insinuated into his consciousness strange, suggestive alarm. He looked down through the dirty landing window at a garden that was as derelict and dead as the house.
Suddenly he felt moved to break the dusty silence. His own voice startled him. Almost it seemed to disturb that grey film and to set it floating in the air.
“Miss Telford—Miss Telford.”
He stood rigid, head slightly on one side, and then that other voice answered him, deep and resonant, the voice of Caroline Telford the tragedienne.
“Is it Mr. Verreker? Come in.”
He ascended the second flight of stairs, and put his hand to the handle of the door. The word, “Impossible” was painted for him upon that door, and in the act of opening it he reminded himself that the occasion was critical. He would have need of firmness; he would have to play the autocrat.
He opened the door and went in, and instantly he was aware of those two strange black eyes, huge and steady, staring at him from the bed. Miss Telford was wearing a lace cap, and a pale pink dressing jacket. She had hair upon her chin and upon her upper lip. She was gaunt with a formidable gauntness. Yes, formidable was the word. Her eyes were like the eyes of time, yet strangely bright and somehow retaining an impressive beauty. Mr. Verreker smiled his little, neat, silvery smile. It had the gloss of his hat. He was reminding himself of the milk and the bread on the doorstep, and of the dust, and of the amazing fact that Miss Telford had not been outside this house for some twenty years.
He closed the door.
“Good morning. The occasion is—as usual.”
Always, in the presence of Miss Telford he felt a little less like the Mr. Verreker of Lincoln’s Inn. He seemed to lose height and presence, and to become a little stilted, self-consciously formal. He crossed to the bed.
Her dark eyes observed him.
“Sit down.”
She did not offer a hand, and Mr. Verreker selected a chair, and sat down a little way from the bed. He was shy of that bed, and of its atrocious quilt, and its pillows and its primeval stuffiness. He supposed, but no—he did not like to suppose too much. A mahogany bed, Victorian, massive, and that massive yet gaunt woman, who, he imagined, never washed!
“Well, how are we?”
He wanted to get rid of his hat—but how? That table? Well—he concluded that his hat would have to accept the table. He placed it there, and heard the deep voice addressing him from the bed.
“So—we are going to quarrel?”
Mr. Verreker raised his eyebrows. Quarrel!
“Dear lady—have we ever quarrelled? I have been coming here for nearly twenty years. Surely——”
Meanwhile the professional voice within him was uttering the word “Impossible” and the woman in the bed seemed to have picked up the vibrations of the word from the heavy, dusty stillness.
She said—“Probably you found the milk on the doorstep.”
“I did. And the bread. I brought them in.”
“Sensible man.”
Almost her tone was ironic, and its affect upon Mr. Verreker was provocative. He found his inspiration, and that nice, authoritative manner that could soothe family tempers and chasten domestic differences.
“I’m glad you think so. May I presume that I still have the honour to be both friend and lawyer?”
“But why presume?”
“Then I won’t. I’ll ask you a question. Two months have elapsed since Elizabeth died, and apparently——”
“But—that—is presuming.”
He twiddled his watch chain and smiled. So she was as quick and mordant as ever, the most eccentric woman he had ever had to do with, and the shrewdest.
“Well, may I presume—from appearances—that you are living here absolutely alone?”
“You may.”
“But, my dear Miss Caroline, it is impossible, quite impossible.”
She had expected that word and the attitude it expressed. She was silent, and her silence was like an emptiness which he hurried to fill.
“Really, quite impossible. You might die, you might be robbed. Besides, the house—the whole atmosphere. You may not be a lover of humanity, but after all—this is the twentieth century.”
She observed him unflinchingly.
“Indeed. Is that so? But does it matter?”
“Most certainly it matters. In fact—society——”
He was growing nettled, and she knew that he was a man who could grasp a nettle. She respected Mr. Verreker, though she provoked him. Always, he had kept his promises.
“Society—or sanity, or is it sanitation? Well—you came with an ultimatum in your pocket.”
“No—no—indeed. I really am concerned. It may seem strange—but I do concern myself with my clients.”
The gaunt head made a slight, nodding movement.
“True. But don’t insist. Explain.”
A little humorous gleam came into his eyes.
“You must have somebody here. Also—I should like a doctor to come and see you. I don’t want to insist—but in a sense I’m responsible, very responsible.”
“You think so?”
“My dear lady—I don’t think—I know. How can I—as the friend and adviser of twenty years, acquit myself——?”
The fingers of one hand plucked at the quilt. She might be a very obstinate person, but she did know that there are occasions when compromise is necessary, especially with a quietly determined and responsible person like Mr. Verreker.
“But—supposing—I cannot afford it?”
“Nonsense. You know we hold securities for you that bring in over four hundred a year. It is my absolute duty——”
Her dark old eyes were mischievous.
“I presume you could send in doct
ors and have me certified. Am I sufficiently eccentric? Well—one woman, but not a hag.”
“One woman would not be sufficient.”
“I’ll not have more than one woman in this house.”
“Well, one woman—and a daily help. Do realize, my dear lady—that I am not arguing for my own ends.”
She sat as though considering the inevitable, and then she put an abrupt and unexpected question.
“Has dear Samuel been worrying you?”
Mr. Verreker understood the virtues of frankness.
“He has written me letters.”
“Soapy beast.”
She was incorrigible.
“No—I don’t like Samuel. I don’t like Samuel’s wife, and I’m quite sure I should not like his children. Why should one like the people? Or slimy kisses? I don’t—and I won’t.”
Mr. Verreker did not argue with her.
“I believe two of the children are in London. One is training as a nurse, the other has got a post with Messrs. Spiffin & Winkworth.”
“That’s the eldest boy. What’s his name?”
“Roy—I believe.”
“So—he’s learning to be a draper.”
“No—no, not a draper. Spiffin & Winkworth—the art experts.”
“Excuse my memory. They used to have a silversmith’s shop.”
“Exactly—but now it is a little more than that—plate, pictures, precious stones, anything you please. Now—I am to be permitted to make some arrangements?”
“About Samuel and his family?”
“No—no, for your comfort.”
He might have added the word “cleanliness,” but if her eccentricity had to be washed it was necessary to do it with discretion, also, his preparations had been made, and within an hour of his leaving No. 7, Vigo Terrace he was able to meet Mr. Samuel Telford and reassure him. Mr. Telford had come up to London for three days, and was staying at a cheap hotel in Bloomsbury.
“Yes—I have persuaded Miss Telford that she must have someone with her in the house. I had made arrangements. Two charwomen are to go in and clean the place, but to do it as quietly as possible.”
Mr. Samuel was one of those little men who cannot play a game without cheating, and so he was always afraid of being cheated.
“No undue influence will be used—I presume?”
Mr. Verreker stared at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
Mr. Samuel moistened his thin lips.
“As Miss Telford’s one remaining cousin—one might presume that my interest in her will—— Please understand me, I am thinking of my children and my wife.”
Mr. Verreker looked blandly cynical. On many occasions had the Rev. Samuel Telford attempted to find out just how much money his cousin had to leave and how she had left it, but Mr. Verreker did not part with professional secrets. Also, he did not like Mr. Samuel, a little snuffy fellow with thin lips and mean eyebrows.
“Miss Telford’s affairs are her private affairs, sir.”
Mr. Samuel’s curiosity withdrew itself. He was a little afraid of Mr. Verreker.
But he decided to prolong his stay in town. He even took a bus to Highbury, and walked to Vigo Place, and saw that a change had come over the house. Windows had been cleaned, and Mr. Samuel gathered to himself the significance of those reclaimed windows. Caroline was a very old woman, almost bedridden, and if in the fullness of her years she had surrendered some of her eccentricities to Mr. Verreker’s persuasions, might she not be more persuadable in other respects. Her mood might be more Christian.
Mr. Telford rang the bell. It was answered by an elderly woman. She had a pleasant face, but Mr. Telford eyed her suspiciously. So this was the woman whom that lawyer fellow had thrust into the house to take charge of old Caroline who was in her dotage! Mr. Telford had his own private opinion about lawyers and Mr. Verreker.
He said—“My name is Telford, Mr. Samuel Telford. I have called to inquire for Miss Telford.”
The pleasant woman assured him that Miss Telford was very well.
“I should like to see her. Perhaps you will tell her that her cousin—Mr. Samuel Telford—has called.”
But Miss Caroline was not persuadable. She sat up in bed looking grim. She had compromised upon certain matters with Mr. Verreker, but the compromise was not going to include Mr. Telford.
“So it’s Sam. You can tell him to go away.”
“You don’t wish to see him, miss?”
“I won’t see him,” said Miss Telford.
She didn’t, and Mr. Telford, rebuffed, went away feeling more suspicious. That Verreker fellow had put his minion into the house, and Caroline might no longer be a free agent, and pressure might be brought to bear on her, improper pressure. Mr. Telford thought the whole business rather fishy, but remembering that he had two children in London he discovered in one of them an inspiration. Yes, he would go and see Edith and tell her to visit Miss Caroline; Edith was no fool, and not like Roy who was a source of irritation and perplexity to his father. Mr. Telford had never been able to realize Roy as his son. Impertinent and irresponsible young puppy!
Mr. Telford called at St. Martha’s Hospital, and saw Edith who was training there as a nurse. Edith was very like her father; she had a brown and beady eye and a hard colour and a chin that stuck out. Mr. Samuel explained the situation to her.
“I don’t quite trust this lawyer. I was refused admittance—but how do I know that Caroline was told. You see——?”
He had a way of twitching his eyebrows.
“I consider that Miss Telford should be seen by one of her relatives. I have to get back to duty this afternoon. I think—Edith, you should try to see her.”
Edith understood.
“I have half a day to-morrow, dad. I’ll go.”
She was a decisive young woman. She was learning very quickly to deal with patients, and she liked dealing with them. Neither she nor her father thought of co-opting Roy into the conspiracy, for Roy was such a flamboyant young fool. He was not Telford as Edith and Mr. Samuel understood Telford. He was always falling in love or out of it; there had been trouble down at Weybourne, almost a scandal. Yes, Roy was a flashy, irresponsible sort of idiot, and much too good-looking. He was not like a Telford, or—at least—like a Weybourne Telford.
Edith went to Canonbury. When the pleasant person opened the door of No. 7, Vigo Place Edith walked in. She was decisive.
She said: “I’m Miss Edith Telford. I have come to see Miss Telford. Yes—I’ll wait.”
Now, Miss Caroline had seen Edith Telford but once in her life, and that had been many years ago when Edith had been at the age when children say monstrous and unexpected and impertinent things, and Miss Caroline had not forgotten. She decided to see Edith. Curiosity was by no means dead in her, and she was curious to discover what Samuel had produced in the way of a daughter.
“You can show Miss Edith Telford up.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Leave her with me for ten minutes. Then come back. Ten minutes may be sufficient.”
The ten minutes sufficed, for Edith tried to deal with Miss Caroline Telford as she would have dealt with a patient who had to be humoured, and Edith’s touch was bony, and Miss Telford understood that she was being humoured. To herself she called it “Being fooled,” she the once famous and compelling Caroline who had troubled the hearts of men. That might have happened very long ago, but Edith Telford would trouble no man’s heart. At her zenith she would but trouble his temper.
They parted. Miss Caroline had said, “So you’re a nurse. I don’t like nurses,” and her deep voice had had a finality. She was much too formidable to be fooled. And Edith returned to St. Martha’s and wished that she had Miss Caroline Telford in her ward, with permission to deal completely and decisively with her. She wrote to her father and informed him that she considered Miss Telford a mental case and not fit to conduct her own affairs.
No one had thought of Roy.
Whereas Mr. Roy T
elford had a problem of his own. He was being made to think very seriously upon certain matters. He was an opera-hat young man, a fellow with a remarkable flair for doing things as they should be done within a mile of Berkeley Square. But complications had arisen, for Messrs. Spiffin & Winkworth provided this exquisite young man with a miserable salary of one hundred and fifty pounds a year, and since Roy had not cut the colour out of life his situation had became a little sombre. He had éclat. He could wear an opera hat. He had taken Jean Polliser out to dinner, and among the bright young things Jean was held to be the most marvellous vamp on the London stage.
In fact, Roy was in a mess.
And being in extremes he thought of Miss Caroline Telford. She might have been so opportune, but judging by the family report she was a most horrible old woman, yet Roy had discovered that the family’s views upon things feminine were thoroughly provincial. The occasion was desperate, but in Roy there was a laddishness, an irresponsible—youthful gaiety.
He took a taxi to Vigo Place. He rang the bell. It was half-past six on a summer evening, and the pleasant person who opened the door was surprised by the pleasant vision upon the doorstep. A lad in evening-dress, coated, white-scarved, with his hat just at the right angle! Inwardly the pleasant person catalogued him as a “Lamb.” Women are so prejudiced.
Roy hatted her.
“Is Miss Telford in?”
Yes, Miss Telford was in, and he smiled.
“I’m Mr. Roy Telford. I ought to have been here before. I wonder if Miss Telford will see me?”
The pleasant person said that she would go and inquire, and would Mr. Telford wait in the dining-room. It did not occur to her that Roy might be a clever young crook, and that she should not have admitted him without some evidence of his identity. The pleasant person was quite sure the Lamb was all that he appeared.
She went up to Miss Caroline.
“A Mr. Telford has called.”
“Mr. Samuel again?”
“Oh, no, a young gentleman. Such a nice-looking young gentleman.”
“Then it can’t be Sam’s son. What’s he want?”
Two in a Train Page 42
