TORWOOD’S TENANT.
The little town of Whitbury was considered by its inhabitants to be the
pleasantest place in the world.
On this bright June morning it certainly did look very bright and
picturesque, with its old-fashioned red-brick houses and its wide,
clean main street, upon which all the best shops opened. Most of
these stood under an old-fashioned arcade, which was a capital place
of resort for the ladies of the place, who could meet there in all
weathers to shop or to gossip, and where everybody was quite sure to
meet everybody else in the course of a few hours, and to hear all the
news of the neighbourhood. Above the arcade, the houses rose more
closely together, for the upper stories overhung the lower ones, and
the quaint frontages were adorned by crossway beams of wood let
into the brickwork, as well as by odd carved figures, little frail
balconies, heavy looking gables and twisted chimneys. Very cheerful
and picturesque was the appearance of the High Street of Whitbury,
and it might be taken as a good type of the characteristics of its
inhabitants, who were for the most part quaint old-fashioned people,
and full of cheerful kindliness.
After the region of shops was passed, the street widened gradually, and
finally lost itself in a great square, in the centre of which stood a
fountain. Opposite to the entrance of the High Street stood the Town
Hall, which occupied one side of the square; and to the right was a
fine old Gothic church, called by the inhabitants of Whitbury the
‘Minster,’ and the square was designated Minster Square.
The two remaining sides were taken up by some solid old-fashioned
red-brick houses, all of them covered with ivy and roses and clematis;
and in these houses dwelt the _élite_ of Whitbury—a ‘set’ who formed
a kind of miniature commune, and ruled with undisputed sway over the
interests of the place.
Next to the church was the Rectory, in which the clergyman and his
wife passed their quiet, useful lives, and were content to be beloved
by their flock without seeking popularity or fame in other quarters.
The doctors’ house came next. Old Mr. Blake and his son divided the
practice, and lived happily together under one roof, whilst the
children of the younger man grew up around them, and were in the eyes
of their grandfather the most remarkable children under the sun.
Mr. Graves, the lawyer and general referee of the place, lived next
to the doctor, and a retired sea-captain of good family next to him.
But the largest house in the square was one which stood opposite the
church, and was surrounded by a large garden, in which it stood, as it
were, aloof from its neighbours, in stately superiority.
This house was occupied by Miss Marjory Descarte, second and only
surviving daughter of the late Thomas Descarte, Esquire, who had been
the most wealthy and respected man in Whitbury so long as he lived, and
whose memory was still held in high repute by the whole community of
the little town.
The two Miss Descartes had been motherless ever since they could
remember, and fatherless for the past ten years. Miss Marjory had
always held the reins of government, and when her elder sister had died
five years ago, it seemed to make marvellously little difference to the
existing order of things, save that Miss Marjory, as she was always
called, complained somewhat of the loneliness of her lot. Even this
trouble was soon cured, for within a year of her sister’s death, she
received into her house the son and daughter of a cousin in India, and
they had remained with her ever since.
The young man had just taken holy orders, and had been ordained curate
to Mr. Longmore, the rector, which arrangement pleased Miss Marjory
very well, and delighted Ethel not a little, as it secured to her the
constant companionship of her brother.
In the pleasant dining-room of Minster House the three were sitting at
breakfast. This room did not overlook the square, it was at the back of
the house, and commanded a wide view of undulating country. The ground
fell away rapidly behind the house, and after sloping lawns, broken by
terrace-walks and bright flower-beds, there came an almost precipitous
fall to the river-bed, and beyond the river low-lying pasture-land
dotted with rustic farmsteads, and cornfields, and wooded hills beyond.
Miss Marjory sat behind the urn and read her letters. Ethel and Horace
sat opposite each other, and chatted of whatever was uppermost in their
minds. Ethel was pretty and fair, not over-wise, easy to please and
hard to put out. Horace was as much like his sister as his faultlessly
clerical costume would permit. It was one of Ethel’s puzzles how her
brother got in and out of his waistcoats. She meant to inquire into
the matter some day, but had not yet had the courage to do so. She was
not the least afraid of Horace, but she did stand in respectful and
respectable awe of ‘the cloth.’
Miss Marjory’s face was by far the best worth studying of the three. It
was a shrewd, clever, sharp face, not at all unkindly, yet not a face
with whose owner anyone would care to trifle. Her eyes were keen and
penetrating; her words came readily, and very much to the point—rather
too much so, some people thought—and she had no hesitation in speaking
her mind to anyone.
In stature she was rather under than over medium height; her figure was
trim and active, and she always dressed herself with scrupulous care
and excellent taste. She was nearer sixty than fifty, but could ride
and drive as well as anyone in the county, and she could work for hours
in the garden without fatigue. Her garden and her poultry were her
two special hobbies, but she had innumerable interests beyond her own
private concerns, both in the small world of Whitbury and in the large
world beyond. She was a keen politician and a staunch Tory, and was
convinced that if the world went on long at its present pace, it would
shortly come to an end, to which goal, indeed, it was rapidly advancing.
Miss Marjory was reading her letters, and by-and-by she said, in her
sharp, quick way:
‘Bother the man!’
‘What man?’ asked Ethel.
‘Is anything wrong?’ questioned Horace.
‘Everything will be wrong if I am turned out of my house,’ said Miss
Marjory. ‘And, what’s more, I won’t go—no, not for anybody.’
‘Who wants you to?’ questioned Ethel, opening her blue eyes. ‘Nobody
would dare to turn you out, Cousin Marjory.’
Miss Marjory laughed grimly.
‘Landlords and lawyers dare anything; but I’m not going, so there’s an
end of it.’
‘But what has happened?’ asked Horace. ‘How can you be turned out? I
thought you had the house on a long lease.’
‘Long leases come to an end in time, child. I did not know mine had so
nearly expired. Twenty-eight years gone since we came here—how time
flies!’
‘And are you going to be turned out?’ asked Ethel, with interest. ‘Oh,
Cousin Marjory, what a shame!’
‘I’m not gone yet, and I don’t see myself going,’ was Miss Marjory’s
answer, as she nodded her head and looked unutterable things. ‘Besides,
it has not come to that yet; only it looks like the thin end of the
wedge, and I won’t have it.’
‘What have you heard? Has your landlord written?’
‘No; only the agent, Mr. Wetherby, who takes the rent and sees to the
repairs. He writes to remind me that the lease has nearly run out, and
says that it will be his duty to advise his client that matters have
changed a good deal since that lease was drawn up, and that a much
higher rental might now be demanded. Now I call that a crying shame.
Look at all I have done for the place—why, no one would know it for the
same, and then to go and demand more rent! But there is no gratitude
or honour left in the world nowadays, I think. Oh yes, child, I know
I have plenty of money; I could just as well pay £150 as £100 for my
house; but it’s the injustice of the thing that angers me. Here I go
spending time and money and labour unsparingly to improve the place,
and then I am told I must pay a higher rent for it. Oh, it’s infamous!’
‘Well, perhaps the landlord won’t take the agent’s advice. Perhaps he
will go on in the old way. You don’t know yet.’
‘Don’t I know? Don’t I know human nature? In old times things were
different, but this generation is all alike. Do you think he’ll go on
taking £100 a year when he could get £120 or £150? Not likely! And then
this agent wants me to show my hand, and say if I want to stay on—as
if I should be such a simpleton as that—and tells me his client may
possibly wish to live in the house himself, as though I would turn out
of my house for anyone, landlord or no landlord. It is quite disgusting
to be treated so, ordered about by a mere boy.’
‘Who is a boy?’ questioned Horace, as Ethel was too much inclined to
laugh to put in a word. ‘The agent or the landlord?’
‘The landlord, of course; that Wetherby is as old as I am.’
‘How do you know he is a boy?’
‘How do I know that you are a boy?’ snapped Miss Marjory, ‘because
I have eyes and ears, and am not an idiot. Ears, indeed! one need
hardly have had ears to hear that child yell. He was a baby when that
lease was drawn up, as cross and crying a brat as ever tired a nurse’s
patience. His mother died at his birth, and Guy Torwood couldn’t bear
to live in the house after. My father took it—we had been friends for
years—and we have lived here ever since. The poor man took his child
away, and travelled about, trying to forget his trouble. He died eight
or ten years later; so, unless the son is dead too, that screaming baby
is my landlord. Fancy that! What an odd world we do live in! As if I
should turn out of my house for a baby in long-clothes!’
And then Miss Marjory, her explosion of wrath having blown itself off,
laughed heartily at the picture her fancy had drawn.
‘If you knew his father, and were friends, perhaps he will not behave
badly,’ suggested Horace.
‘Pooh! As though young men ever cared for their father’s friends
nowadays! All that is quite a thing of the past, quite old-fashioned.
He will just do what his agent advises.’
‘Write to the agent, and ask him not to say anything,’ suggested
simple-minded Ethel. ‘Tell him what you have spent over the garden, and
explain that it wouldn’t be fair to raise the rent. I should think he
would do as you told him then.’
Horace laughed, and Miss Marjory smiled silently, by which Ethel was
made aware that she had said something foolish.
‘I know what I shall do,’ said Miss Marjory, after a pause. ‘I shall
demand young Torwood’s address, and write direct to him. If he is in
England I shall try to see him. I hate middle-men—they always make
mischief where they can; and that Wetherby and I never were over and
above civil to one another. He has to come over and see about the
outside repairs, and I always do get my way in the end; but he owes
me a grudge for it, and I know he will do me an ill-turn if he can.
I’ll have no more dealings with him. I’ll go straight to headquarters.
I’ll have young Torwood’s address—Torrington Torwood I believe is his
name; his mother was a Torrington—and I’ll lay the matter before him.
His father was a true gentleman, and his mother a gentlewoman. He has
gentle blood in his veins on both sides, and ought to know how to
treat a lady. At any rate, I can but try. I’ll have nothing to do with
Wetherby. If I am to get my own way at all, I must set about things my
own way. I generally find when I do that, I am successful.’
Miss Marjory gathered her papers together and rose from the table,
bidding Ethel go and practise her music in the drawing-room for an
hour. Horace went off to assist at matins in the Minster, and the aunt
retired to her morning-room to write her note. Miss Marjory never let
grass grow under her feet. She liked to act as promptly as she planned.
In five minutes the letter to the agent was written, demanding Mr.
Torrington Torwood’s address; and as she folded and addressed it, the
writer heaved a sigh of satisfaction.
‘There, that is one step taken. I don’t mean to go, and I don’t mean to
pay more rent; and I’ll have no dealings with that Wetherby. I’ll see
young Torwood himself, and put the matter fairly before him. If he’s
his father’s son, he will hear reason.’
Miss Marjory then donned a broad-brimmed garden-hat and made a tour of
her domain, visited all the houses, gave orders to her gardener, and
pointed out with unerring accuracy of observation anything that was
going wrong or that had been carelessly done. Her poultry next claimed
her attention, and were closely inspected; after which the active
little gentlewoman returned to the house, and held an interview with
her cook in the kitchen; and then, having set her household in order,
she put on her outdoor garments, took her letter in her hand, and
sallied forth into the sunshine of the Square and the High Street.
‘I’ll post my letter first,’ quoth Miss Marjory, ‘and then I’ll take
Mr. Graves’s opinion about the matter. I’m determined not to act
through the agent, so if he advises that I should, his advice will come
too late. I don’t mind hearing different opinions, but I always intend
to manage my own affairs my own way.’
So the letter was dropped into the post-box; and then Miss Marjory
intercepted her friend the lawyer on the way to his office, and treated
him to an animated recital of her wrongs.
Mr. Graves was a suave, kindly old man, with a great liking for Miss
Marjory; so he entered with interest into her story, expressing great
concern at the idea of her being in any way disturbed, and denouncing
any attempt at turning her out of her house as a ‘monstrous iniquity.’
‘Oh, you needn’t fear that, Mr. Graves, for I shall not go,’ answered
Miss Marjory, with a derisive laugh. ‘Little Torwood was an infant when
I last saw him; and, as I said to my young cousins to-day, it isn’t
likely I am going to turn out of my house for a baby in long-clothes.
I’ve settled what I’m going to do. I will see the young man myself.
I don’t like Wetherby, and I hate all middle-men. I’ll settle the
matter with Torrington Torwood himself. I’ve written now to demand his
address.’
‘Ah, my dear lady, that would certainly be a pleasanter way of managing
matters; but young men do not always care about being troubled with
business, and sometimes decline to act except through their agents.’
‘Oh, that is all nonsense!’ quoth Miss Marjory sharply. ‘I mean to see
him myself. He cannot say no to an old woman, his father’s friend—he is
too much of a Torwood, I hope, for that.’
‘Ah well, we will hope for the best. But he may not be in England, you
know; his father became a great traveller, and the son may inherit his
tastes. What then, my dear madam?’
‘Why, then I shall write to him,’ answered Miss Marjory, nothing
daunted. ‘I am determined to deal with him direct.’
‘I wish you all success,’ said the old man, lifting his hat. ‘And if
young Torwood does come over in person, let me see him. I should like
to make acquaintance, for his father’s sake.’
Miss Marjory sped on her way, well-pleased with herself and her
decision. She made a few purchases in the shops under the arcade, and
exchanged greetings with several friends whom she met there. Miss
Marjory’s movements were so brisk that it took her but a short while
to accomplish her errands; and when at length she consulted the little
memorandum she held in her hand, she said half aloud:
‘Now I think I’ve done all my work, so I’ll go and talk to Alfred
Belassis about that iron bar I want for the greenhouse roof.’
Alfred Belassis lived some way down the High Street, and did an
extensive business in ironmongery. He was an honest, upright tradesman
and a good workman; and Miss Marjory had a great deal to say upon the
subject of greenhouses, iron girders, and some small repairs about the
house, to which he listened with respectful attention.
‘And Belassis,’ said Miss Marjory, in conclusion, ‘I wish you would
look in yourself some morning. My lease is nearly out, and before I
renew it I should like to make a note of all that wants doing inside
and out, and consider how much I ought to do, and what I shall demand
of my landlord. I would rather have you with me when I make the tour of
inspection.’
‘Very good, ma’am,’ answered Belassis respectfully; and Miss Marjory
said good-morning, and walked home.
She waited with some impatience for an answer to her letter, and she
had to wait some time; and then, when the reply came, it was anything
but satisfactory.
‘MADAM,’ wrote the agent,
‘In reply to yours of the 10th instant, I beg to state that I have
never had direct dealings with Mr. Torwood, but have merely managed
his house-letting for him, and have paid the money over to his
bankers. I am thus ignorant of his present address; but I have applied
to Messrs. Coutts and Co., and enclose their reply.
‘I am, madam, your obedient servant,
‘J. WETHERBY.’
The enclosed note contained the information that Mr. Torwood was at
present in very bad health, and was quite unable to attend to business.
He was in Germany, but his actual address was unknown to his bankers.
He had, however, entrusted the management of his affairs to Mr. Philip
Debenham, whose address was ‘Ladywell Manor, Ladywell, Devonshire.’ Any
business might be referred to him, as he was authorised to act for Mr.
Torwood.
‘Bother!’ said Miss Marjory sharply. ‘What business had he to fall ill
just as my lease was running out? I don’t want his friend; I want him.
However, if I can’t get what I want, I must take the next best. I shall
ask Mr. Debenham to come and see me, if he can, and explain to him how
matters stand.’
‘Perhaps he won’t like to be bothered about Mr. Torwood’s affairs,’
suggested Ethel. ‘Perhaps he won’t come.’
‘He should not have undertaken to manage them, then,’ said Miss Marjory
quickly. ‘He must abide by his own undertaking.’
‘Shall you write to him now? I wonder what he will say? Perhaps he will
be easier to deal with than Mr. Torwood.’
‘I generally find men pretty easy to deal with,’ answered Miss Marjory.
‘They mostly see sense after a bit. Yes, I will ask him to run down.
Devonshire is a good way off, to be sure. Still, there is no particular
hurry. He can take his time. In fact, I won’t write immediately. I will
think matters over again first.’