MRS. WALSINGHAM AT HOME
It was one of the characteristic features of the daily life at Leverton
& Carsdale’s that only two people in the place kept regular hours. Mr.
Barclay Leverton, when he was living, was a fairly methodical man, and
might be depended upon in the matter of finding him at his desk by
ten and still there at five, and when he made appointments he usually
kept them. But Carsdale was uncertain, erratic, irresponsible, a very
_ignis fatuus_ of a man upon occasion. He would sometimes startle the
charwoman by walking, or, rather, rushing, in before eight o’clock; he
would sometimes remain at his desk until midnight; sometimes he would
stay away from Abbotsbury House for days together; he was utterly
undependable as regards anything but appointments which particularly
appealed to him, and it was quite in accordance with his way of doing
things to bring an unprofitable caller into his room, bid him be
seated, and then go out, to return hours later, or not at all. And just
as independent in the matter of hours was Mrs. Walsingham. She was
supposed to come at ten and to leave at six; she arrived when she liked
and departed when she pleased, and Miss Rousby, typist, and Master
Griffkin, office-boy, envied and hated her because of her liberty.
For they were required to be in attendance at nine-thirty and to
remain until six, and it not seldom happened that Griffkin was further
subjected to the indignity of having to carry urgent messages somewhere
just when he should have been exchanging his livery of blue and silver
for the humbler mufti in which he came and went from the parental
roof-tree in Kennington.
“Seems to me,” observed Griffkin, late in the afternoon which witnessed
Richard Shrewsbury’s introduction to London by Mr. John Carsdale,
“seems to me that there’s two, and two only, as runs this here
establishment, and no error!”
He was folding and stamping circulars, which Miss Rousby was wearily
addressing, and he looked at the typist with an expression which gave
and demanded sympathy.
“Who?” inquired Miss Rousby, apathetically. “Who?”
“Who? Why, me and you,” answered Griffkin. “Carsdale, he’s in and out
like one of them figures in a weather-glass--you know, where there’s
an old man one side, and an old woman the other--and he don’t do
nothing but talk, as I can see of, and as for her”--here he jerked a
scornful thumb at the door through which Mrs. Walsingham had departed
at five o’clock--“I should like to know what she does except twist them
shiners round her fingers, and make her silk gown crackle. Yah! As for
Leverton, he was a bit of a grafter, but he’s dead and gone.”
“Yes,” assented Miss Rousby. “Yes--he’s gone. The last place I was in,
there was a principal died while I was there. He left us all ten pounds
each to buy mourning with.”
“Garn!” exclaimed Griffkin. “What, ten quid to buy black with!”
“It’s a fact,” answered Miss Rousby. “Of course, we didn’t lay out the
whole of the ten pounds on mourning. I bought a crêpe gown and a new
hat and a new pair of shoes--two pounds I spent on that lot--and I put
the rest in the Post-Office. P’r’aps Mr. Leverton’ll have left us
something.”
“Oh, yes!” said Griffkin, scornfully. “Yes, I don’t think! Ain’t I been
here a whole year, and never had a rise? ’Tween you and me, now that
Leverton’s dropped out, I shall seriously consider my position. ’Cause
why? ’Cause in my opinion, and if you ask me, Carsdale and Her’ll go
into partnership. And I don’t know about Her--I ain’t so keen about
retaining my post if she’s going to be a principal.”
“She couldn’t be much more of a principal than she is now,” said Miss
Rousby, dismally surveying the pile of circulars at her side, “and she
does more and more as she likes every day. When I first came here she’d
have stopped and helped me to get these prospectuses off, instead of
which she goes peacocking out at five o’clock. I shall be ten minutes
late.”
“Yes, and your young man a-waiting at the top of the street,” remarked
Griffkin. “However, I’ll do yer a good turn, Miss Rousby. I’ll give him
the office, see, when I run to catch the six post.”
Mrs. Walsingham had seen good reason to leave business at five o’clock
that evening, for Carsdale, in spite of his busy adventures in the
neighbourhood of Bond Street, had found time to ring her up on the
telephone, and to warn her that he meant to bring Richard round to
call upon her after dinner, and she desired to have a little time in
which to prepare for the visit. Moreover, she was one of those rare
women who understand the virtues of proper and regular meals, and she
never allowed anything to interfere with her arrangements in that
respect. If, therefore, she was required to give an extra half-hour to
her evening toilette, she must take half an hour out of her working
afternoon. That was a proper adjustment of things--and so she repaired
to her favourite restaurant in Soho, where she was so well known that
a certain table was sacred to her, and she ate and drank calmly and
reflected philosophically, and eventually repaired to her flat to don
her prettiest gown in honour of the young gentleman who possessed three
hundred thousand pounds in solid cash.
Mrs. Walsingham’s flat was situated in one of the vast buildings which
recent years have seen spring into existence in the neighbourhood that
lies between Bloomsbury and the Tottenham Court Road. People who were
privileged to enjoy Mrs. Walsingham’s friendship and acquaintance
considered it the very model of what a flat should be which serves to
house a single lady and her maid, and were apt to wax enthusiastic
over its arrangement and its simple luxury of appointment. For Mrs.
Walsingham possessed considerable ideas in the way of taste and
refinement; she had definite notions about such matters as colour
schemes, about such ordinary things as floor carpets and window
curtains; she knew a good print from a bad one; she was careful never
to overload her walls, and her book-cases were filled with excellent
specimens of the binder’s art; like herself, her surroundings were
dainty and elegant; the light, whether natural or artificial, was
always properly graduated in her rooms, and one came away from them
feeling as if one had spent an hour in an ancient church behind windows
of mellowed glass. And Mr. John Carsdale said as much to Richard
Shrewsbury as they drove away from the quiet restaurant at which they
had dined.
“When I have had a hard day, and want peace, I always go to see Mrs.
Walsingham,” he remarked. “Mrs. Walsingham is one of those clever women
who can entertain a man without talking his head off.”
“She looks clever,” said Richard, who was at loss for words and
accordingly took refuge in a safe observation.
“One of the cleverest women in London,” said Mr. Carsdale, with
conviction. “One of the very few women who understand finance. I would
rather trust Mrs. Walsingham’s judgment on a big money affair, than
that of most men in the City. And I know a good lot of ’em!”
Richard conquered his shyness and made a desperate plunge.
“Is there a--shall we meet a Mr. Walsingham?” he asked.
Carsdale shook his head and assumed an expression of sympathy.
“Ah, no!” he answered. “Mrs. Walsingham is a widow. Hers is a sad
story--most romantic, really. Early marriage--very early, much too
early!--runaway marriage, in fact, with a handsome, fascinating man--a
great traveller and globe-trotter, Walsingham. Got an insane idea into
his head that he could penetrate to some extraordinary place somewhere
between Arabia and Persia--ass enough to try it and to take his young
wife with him. Got into a row with natives--very domineering and
pertinacious man, Walsingham--with sad result--shot, murdered, in fact,
in her presence. She escaped only through friendly offices of powerful
Sheik, who rallied his men round him and got her down to coast on board
British man-of-war in Persian Gulf. Came home naturally distracted, and
turned to business, and especially to financial matters, as a relief,
you know. Five years ago, that is--little more than a girl now, but as
I say, one of the keenest and most astute women in London.”
Richard was still pondering over this romantic story when they arrived
at Mrs. Walsingham’s flat to be admitted by a very smart maid and
received by Mrs. Walsingham herself in a tiny drawing-room, the light
of which was carefully contrived to show off the hostess’s charms and
evening toilette to the best advantage. He looked about him as Carsdale
plunged into voluble accounts of their doings during the afternoon,
and determined that he would ask Mrs. Walsingham’s advice about buying
books and pictures. Much as he trusted Carsdale, he felt instinctively
that the lady’s taste was superior to the gentleman’s, and he began
to understand what Carsdale meant when he said that he visited her in
quest of peace after a hard day’s work.
Mrs. Walsingham, it was very evident, knew how to entertain guests who
happened to be of the opposite sex. She had a cabinet of eminently
choice cigarettes, of many brands and all of the most superfine
quality, and as soon as Carsdale and Richard were comfortably seated,
the smart maid (who was almost as pretty as her mistress and nearly
as clever looking) brought in whiskey and soda. And Richard was quick
to see that Carsdale was very much at home, and he began to wonder
if he was aspiring to fill the place of the late adventurous and
much-to-be-pitied Mr. Walsingham, and finally (though he could not for
the life of him have told why) decided that he was not, and he listened
to his rattling tongue and to Mrs. Walsingham’s lazy but shrewd
comments, and came to the conclusion that all this was very pleasant,
and that Mrs. Walsingham was the prettiest woman he had ever seen in
his life. And at the end of half an hour in came the smart maid with
the quiet announcement that somebody was asking for Mr. Carsdale over
the telephone.
Carsdale uttered an anathema with an emphasis which sounded very real,
and went out. He presently returned, making a face expressive of
disgust.
“I’ll have to go,” he said. “That’s Robinson. He’s just come in from
Paris, and he’s waiting for me at the _Charing Cross Hotel_, and,
of course, has been ringing me up all over the place. Sorry Mrs.
Walsingham, but it’s of the highest importance, as you know. All the
same, there’s no need to drag you away, Shrewsbury.”
“Of course not,” said Mrs. Walsingham. “And I think it’s very foolish
of you to let people know where you’re likely to be found.”
Carsdale muttered something about the necessities of business, and with
a hasty adieu and an admonition to Richard to be sure to remember where
he lived, hurried off. And Mrs. Walsingham sighed, as if deprecating
such ridiculous energy at that hour of the evening, and she settled
herself in her cushions and lighted another cigarette, and turned to
her guest with an expression which seemed in some subtle fashion to
suggest that now that the bustling Carsdale was gone they could enjoy a
little peace.
“And how do you like London?” she asked with the indulgence of an
elderly person who asks a child how its new toy pleases it.
“Very much,” answered Richard, quite simply. “But--I don’t realize it
yet. It’s so big. You see, until I came here, I never saw a bigger town
than Port-of-Spain.”
“And that is--where?” asked Mrs. Walsingham.
“It is the capital of Trinidad, where our sugar plantations were,”
answered Richard. “It is a fine town, but I suppose you could put it
into London--oh, I don’t know how many times. And at first, as I knew
nobody here, I thought I should be desperately lonely.”
“And now?” said Mrs. Walsingham.
“I don’t see how one ought to be lonely, when there are so many
people,” said Richard.
“One can be as lonely amongst all these millions as if one were living
in--in the Arctic Regions,” observed Mrs. Walsingham. “Oh, I know
it--I myself, know very few people. I was delighted that Mr. Carsdale
brought you to-night--do come again. Is it really true that you don’t
know anybody in London?”
“Quite true,” replied Richard. “At least, I know a few cricketers
who came out to play in the West Indies--I dare say I shall meet
them somewhere or other. No, I don’t know anybody. But there’s a
man coming home--he’ll be here in another month--whom I know pretty
well. I’m looking forward awfully keenly to seeing him--he’s a fine
chap--Burgoyne, the explorer, you know.”
“Oh, yes!” said Mrs. Walsingham. “I saw something about him in the
evening paper. He’d been lost, and he’s turned up again, hasn’t he? So
you know him?”
“He stopped with us once for a week or two--four years ago,” answered
Richard. “He’s a great man--I saw the paper, too, and I was awfully
glad to hear he was alive: everybody thought he’d never turn up again.
I shall look him up as soon as ever he lands--I don’t think there’ll be
much difficulty about finding him, because he’ll be quite famous.”
“That will very nice for you,” said Mrs. Walsingham.
Then she cleverly turned the conversation to Richard himself and drew
him out to talk of his likes and his wishes, of his life in Trinidad
and of such modest ambitions as he had, and she was so sympathetic
and so understanding, and so subtly clever in saying the right word
and suggesting proper appreciation, that the youngster was drawn to
speak freely and unreservedly, and eventually went away in a seventh
heaven of satisfaction, having already promised to come and see Mrs.
Walsingham whenever he liked, and arranged to take her out to dinner
and to the theatre as soon as ever his tailor had got his dress-clothes
ready. And when he had gone Mrs. Walsingham mixed herself a
whiskey-and-soda and lighted a cigarette and became very thoughtful as
she contemplated herself in the mirror.
“So he knows Burgoyne!” she mused. “And--they’re sure to meet, sure.
And--then? But there’s a whole month yet, and a month is--a month.”